Sunrise found Fillip and Sot present and accounted for as promised. They were standing a good twenty yards away when Ben came awake, a pair of motionless, squat shadows in the fading dark, their travel packs strapped to their backs, their caps with solitary red feathers set firmly in place. They appeared bushes at first glance; but after Ben rose to stretch muscles cramped from the chill and the hard earth, they came forward a few tentative steps and gave anxious greetings. They seemed more nervous than usual and kept peering past him as if they expected an onslaught of Crag Trolls at any moment.
It took Ben a moment to realize that they were not on guard against Trolls, but against Edgewood Dirk.
Dirk, for his part, ignored them. He was sitting on the tree stump washing when Ben thought to look for him, his silky coat smooth and glistening as if damp from morning dew. He did not glance up or respond to Ben's good morning. He went on about the business of cleaning himself until he was satisfied that the job was properly completed, then settled down to the contents of a bowl of spring water that Ben had provided. Ben hadn't thought about it before, but Dirk never seemed to eat much. What he survived on was something of a mystery, but it was a mystery that Ben chose to leave unsolved. He had enough puzzles to deal with without adding another.
They departed shortly after waking, Ben and Dirk leading — depending on how you defined the word "leading," for once again Dirk seemed to know where Ben was going almost before he did. The gnomes trailed. Fillip and Sot clearly wanted no part of Edgewood Dirk. They stayed well back of the cat and watched him the way you would a snake. Fillip was limping noticeably and Sot appeared to have burned a good portion of the fur off his wrists and the backs of his hands. Neither had anything to say about their injuries, and Ben let them be.
They traveled through the morning at a steady pace, the sun shining brightly from out of a cloudless sky, the smell of wild flowers and fruit trees scenting the air. Signs of the wilt prevailed. They remained small but noticeable, and Ben thought again of Meeks in his guise, of the demons come back out of Abaddon at his bidding, of the lessening of magic in the land, and the stealing of its life. There was a renewed urgency tugging him along, a sense that time was slipping from him too quickly. He was no closer than he had ever been to discovering what had been done to him. He still had no idea why the black unicorn had come back into Landover or what its importance was to Meeks. He knew only that there was a tie connecting all that had happened and he had to unknot it if he were ever to straighten this mess out.
Thinking of that led him to think once again about Edgewood Dirk. It continued to grate on him that the cat chose to remain such an enigma when he could obviously explain himself. Ben was reasonably sure by now that Dirk had not simply stumbled across him that first night in the lake country, but had deliberately sought him out. He was also reasonably sure that Dirk was staying with him for a reason and not simply out of curiosity. But Dirk was not about to explain himself to Ben until he felt like it; and given the cat's peculiar nature, that explanation was likely to be offered along about the twelfth of never. Still, it seemed abhorrent to Ben simply to accept the beast's presence without making any further effort whatsoever to learn something of what had brought it to him in the first place.
As morning lengthened toward noon and the shadow of the Deep Fell began to grow visible, he decided to take another crack at the cat. He had been busy during the trek, mulling over the possibility of a common link between the various unicorns he had encountered since his dream. There were, after all, quite a number of them. There was the black unicorn. There were the sketched unicorns contained in the missing books of magic — correction, one of the missing books of magic; the other was burned-out shell. And there were the fairy unicorns that had disappeared centuries ago on their journey through Landover to the mortal worlds. It was the legend of the fairy unicorns that concerned him just now. He already believed that there must be a link between the black unicorn and the drawings contained in the books of magic. Otherwise, why had Meeks sent dreams of both? Why did he want them both so badly? The real question was whether they also had some connection with the missing fairy unicorns. He realized that it would be something of a coincidence if there actually were a connection among the three, but he was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't be an even bigger coincidence if there weren't. Magic tied all three in a single bond, and he would have bet his life that it was some sort of control over the magic that Meeks was after.
So. Enough debate. Maybe solving one of the little puzzles would aid in solving the big one. And maybe — just maybe — Edgewood Dirk would be less reticent to help...
"Dirk, you've been a lot of places and seen a lot of things." He opened the conversation as casually as he could manage, not giving himself a chance to dwell further on it. "What do you think about this legend of the missing fairy unicorns?"
The cat didn't even look at him. "I don't think about it at all."
"No? Well what if you did think about it? You said you knew something of the missing, white unicorns when we first met, didn't you?"
"I did."
"About the unicorns the fairy people sent into the other worlds? The ones who somehow disappeared?"
"The very same." Dirk sounded bored.
"So what do you think happened to them? How did they disappear?"
"How?" The cat sniffed. "They were stolen, of course."
Ben was so astonished at getting a straight answer for a change that he failed to follow up on it for a moment. "But... stolen by whom?" he managed finally.
"By someone who wanted them, High Lord — who else? By someone who had the ability and means to capture them and hold them fast."
"And who would that have been?"
Dirk sounded irritated. "Now who do you think that would have been?"
Ben hesitated, considering. "A wizard?"
"Not a wizard — wizards. There were many in those days, not simply one or two as there are now. They had their own guild, their own association — loosely formed. but effective when it chose to be. The magic was stronger then in Landover, and the wizards hired out to anyone who needed their skills most and could best afford it. They were powerful men for a time — until they chose to challenge the King himself."
"What happened?"
"The King summoned the Paladin, and the Paladin destroyed them. After that, there was only one real wizard permitted — and he served the King."
Ben frowned. "But if the unicorns were stolen by the wizards, what happened to them after the wizards were... disposed of? Why weren't they set free?"
"No one knew where they were."
"But shouldn't someone have looked for them? Shouldn't they have been found?"
"Yes and yes."
"Then why weren't they?"
Dirk slowed, stopped, and blinked sleepily. "The question no one asked then is the one you fail to ask now, High Lord. Why were the unicorns stolen in the first place?"
Ben stopped as well, thought momentarily, and shrugged. "They were beautiful creatures. The wizards wanted them for themselves, I suppose."
"Yes, yes, yes! Is that the best you can do?"
"Well, uh..." He paused again, feeling very much a fool. "Why can't you just explain it to me, damn it?" he demanded, exasperated.
Dirk eyed him steadily. "Because I don't choose to," he said softly. "Because you have to learn how to see things clearly again."
Ben stared at him momentarily, glanced back at the G'home Gnomes who were watching from a safe distance back, and folded his arms across his chest wearily. He had no idea what Dirk was talking about, but it didn't do any good to argue with the cat.
"All right," he said finally. "Let me try again. The wizards discovered that the fairies were sending unicorns through Landover into the mortal worlds. They stole the unicorns for themselves instead. They stole them because ..." He stopped, remembering suddenly the missing books and the drawings. "They stole the unicorns because they wanted their magic! That's what the drawings in that book mean! They have something to do with the missing unicorns!"
Edgewood Dirk cocked his head. "Do you really think so, High Lord?"
He was so genuinely curious that Ben was left not knowing what to think. He had expected the cat to agree with him, but the cat looked as surprised as he!
"Yes, I really think so," he declared at last, wondering nevertheless. "I think the missing unicorns and the missing books are tied together and the black unicorn has something to do with both."
"That does stand to reason," Dirk agreed.
"But how were the unicorns stolen? And how could the wizards steal their magic? Weren't the unicorns as powerful as the wizards?"
"I am told so," Dirk agreed once more.
"Then what happened to them? Where are they hidden?"
"Perhaps they wear masks."
"Masks?" Ben was confused.
"Like your own. Perhaps they wear masks, and we cannot see them."
"Like my own?"
"Would you mind not repeating everything I say?"
"But what are you talking about, for Pete's sake?"
Dirk gave him a "Why bother asking me?" look and sniffed the late morning air as if the answers he sought might be found there. The black tail twitched. "I find am quite thirsty. High Lord. Would you care to join me for a drink?"
Without waiting for a response, he stood and trotted off into the trees to one side. Ben stared after him a moment, then followed. They walked a short distance to a pool fed from a small rapids and bent to drink. Ben drank rapidly, more thirsty than he had expected. Dirk took his time, dainty to the point of annoyance — lapping gently pausing frequently, carefully keeping the water from his paws. Ben was conscious of Fillip and Sot in the background watching, but paid them no mind. His attention was given over entirely to the cat and to what Dirk was going to say next — because he most certainly was going to say something or Ben was as mistaken as he had ever been in his life!
Ben was not mistaken. A moment later, Dirk sat back on his haunches and glanced over. "Look at yourself in the water, High Lord," he ordered. Ben did and saw a dilapidated version of himself, but himself nevertheless. "Now look at yourself out of the water," Dirk continued. Ben did and saw ragged clothes and cracked boots, dirt and grime, an unshaved, unkempt, unwashed body. He could see nothing of his face. "Now look at yourself in the water again — look closely."
Ben did, and this time he saw the image of himself shimmer and change into the image of someone he did not recognize, a stranger whose clothes were the same ones he wore.
He looked up sharply. "I don't look like me anymore — not even to myself!" There was a hint of fear in his voice that he could not disguise, even though he tried.
"And that, my dear High Lord, is because you are beginning to lose yourself," Edgewood Dirk said softly. "The mask you wear is becoming you!" The black face dipped closer. "Find yourself, Ben Holiday, before that happens. Take off your mask, and perhaps then you can find a way to unmask the unicorns as well."
Ben looked back hurriedly at the pool of water and to his relief found his old face back again in the reflection of the waters. But the definition of his features seemed weak. It was almost as if he were fading away.
He looked up again for Dirk, but the cat was already trotting away, scattering the fearful gnomes before him. "Best hurry, High Lord," he called back. "The Deep Fell is no place to be looking for oneself after nightfall."
Ben climbed slowly to his feet, not only more confused than ever but also frightened now as well. "Why do I ask that damn cat anything?" he muttered in frustration. But he already knew the answer to that question, of course. He shook his head at matters in general and hastened after.
By midaftemoon, they had reached the Deep Fell.
It was unchanged and unchanging — a dark, impenetrable smudge on an otherwise brightly sunlit expanse of forestland, hunched down against the earth in the manner of a creature in hiding, tensed to flee or strike. Shadows and mist played hide and seek in its sprawling depths, crawling with slow, irregular movements over trees and swamp and murk. Nothing else could be seen. What life forms there were lay in wait, pawns in a hard and vicious game of survival that rewarded only the quick and the strong. Sounds were muted and colors shaded gray. Only death was at home within the Deep Fell, and only death was immutable. Ben and his companions could sense that truth. Standing at the hollows rim, they stared downward into its darkness and thought their separate thoughts.
"Well, we might as well get at it," Ben muttered finally. He was remembering the last time he had come into the Deep Fell and the terrifying illusions that Nightshade had created to keep him out — the illusions of endless swamp, lizards, and worse. He was thinking of his encounter with the witch — an encounter that had almost cost him his life. He was not looking forward to a repeat performance.
"Well," he said again, the word trailing off into silence.
No one was paying any attention to him. Dirk sat next to him, eyes lidded and sleepy-looking as he basked in a small patch of sunlight and watched the movement of the mists in the Deep Fell. Fillip and Sot stood a good dozen yards left, well away from the cat and the hollows. They were whispering in small, anxious voices.
He shook his head. "Fillip. Sot."
The G'home Gnomes cringed away, pretending not to hear him.
"Get over here!" he snapped irritably, his patience with gnomes and cats in general exhausted.
The gnomes came sheepishly, tentatively, edging forward with uneasy looks at Dirk, who as usual paid them no heed. When they were as close as they were going to get without being dragged, Ben knelt down to face them, his eyes finding theirs.
"Are you certain that Nightshade is down there?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, High Lord."
"She is, High Lord."
Ben nodded. "Then I want you to be careful," he told them quietly. This was no time for impatience or anger, and he suppressed both. "I want you to be very careful, all right? I don't want you to do anything that will place you in any real danger. Just go down there and look around. I need to know if Willow is there — or even if she's been there earlier. That's first. Find out any way you can."
He paused, and the wide brown eyes of the gnomes shifted uneasily. He waited a moment, captured them again with his own. "There is a bridle made out of spun gold," he continued. "Nightshade has it hidden down there somewhere. I need that bridle. I want you to see if you can find it. If you can, I want you to steal it."
The brown eyes widened suddenly to the size of saucers. "No, it's all right, don't be afraid," Ben soothed quickly. "You don't have to steal it if the witch is anywhere about — only if she's not or if you can take it without her knowing. Just do what you can. I'll protect you."
That was probably the worst lie he had told in his entire life; he didn't really have any way to protect them. But he had to do something to reassure them or they would simply bolt at the first opportunity. They might do that anyway, but he was hoping the majesty of his office would hold them in thrall just long enough to get this job done.
"High Lord, the witch will hurt us!" Fillip declared.
"Hurt us badly!" Sot agreed.
"No, she won't," Ben insisted. "If you're careful, she won't even know you're down there. You've been down there before, haven't you?" Two heads nodded as one. "She didn't see you then, did she?" Two heads nodded again. "Then there's no reason she will see you this time either, is there? Just do as I told you and be careful."
Fillip and Sot looked at each other long and hard. There was enough doubt in their eyes to float a battleship. Finally, they looked back again at Ben.
"Just go down once," said Fillip.
"Just once," echoed Sot.
"All right, all right, just once," Ben agreed, casting an anxious glance at the fading afternoon sun. "But hurry, will you?"
The gnomes disappeared reluctantly into the hollows gloom. Ben watched them until they were out of sight, then sat back to wait.
As he waited, he found himself thinking about Edgewood Dirk's repeated references to masks. He wore a mask. The missing unicorns wore masks. That's what the cat had said, but what did the cat mean? He propped himself up against the base of a tree trunk some dozen yards from where Dirk basked in the sunlight and tried to reason it through. It was, after all, about time he reasoned something through. Lawyers were supposed to be able to do that; it was indigenous to their profession. King or no in Landover, he was still a lawyer with a lawyer's habits and a lawyer's way of thinking. So think, he exhorted himself! Think!
He thought. Nothing came. Masks were worn by actors and bandits. You wore them to disguise yourself. You put them on and then you took them off when you were done with the disguise. But what did that have to do with him? Or the unicorns? None of us are trying to disguise ourselves, he thought. Meeks is trying to disguise me. Who's trying to disguise the unicorns?
The wizards who took them, that's who.
The answer came instantly to him. He shifted upright. The wizards stole the unicorns and then hid them by disguising them. He nodded. It made sense. So how did they disguise them? With masks? What, turned them into cows or trees or something? No. He frowned. Start over again. The wizards took the unicorns — how did they do that — so they could steal their magic. The wizards wanted the magic for their own. But what would they do with it? What use would they find for it? Where was the magic now?
His eyes widened. There were no longer any other true wizards besides Meeks. The source of his power was in the missing but now found books of magic, the books that were supposedly a compilation of the magics acquired by wizards down through the years — the books with the drawing of the unicorns! Sure, the unicorns in the books — or the one book, at least — were drawings of the missing unicorns!
But why make drawings?
Or are they the unicorns themselves?
"Yes!" he whispered in surprise.
It was so impossible that he hadn't seen it before — but impossible only in his own world, not in Landover where magic was the norm! The missing unicorns, the unicorns no one had seen for centuries, their magic intact, were trapped in the wizards' books! And the reason that there was nothing else in the books but the drawings of the unicorns was that the magic of the books was entirely that of the unicorns — magic that the wizards had stolen!
And harnessed to their own use?
He didn't know. He started to say something to Dirk, then checked himself. There was no point in asking the cat if he was right; the cat would simply find a way to confuse him all over again. Figure it out for yourself, he admonished! The unicorns had been transformed by wizard magic into the drawings in the missing books — that would explain the disappearance of the unicorns for all these years, the reason that Meeks had sent the dream of the books to Questor, and the need Meeks had for the books. It would even explain Dirk's reference to masks.
Or was he just reaching now?
He paused. There were a few other matters still lacking explanation, he realized. What about the black unicorn? Was it simply a white unicorn that had escaped from the books — the first book, perhaps, the one with the burned-out core? Why was it black now if it had been white before? Ash or soot? Ridiculous! Why had it appeared and then disappeared again at other times over the years if it were a prisoner in the wizards' books? Why was Meeks so desperate to get it back now?
His hands twisted in knots. If one unicorn could break free, why couldn't the rest?
His confusion began to compound. Meeks had hinted that Ben had done something to wreck his plans, but hadn't said what. If that was so, it had to have something to do with the unicorns, black and white. But Ben hadn't the foggiest idea what that something was.
He sat puzzling matters through without success as afternoon stretched toward nightfall and the sun disappeared westward. Shadows lengthened almost imperceptibly across the forest. Slowly, the darkness and mist of the Deep Fell crept out of their daytime confinement to link hands with those shadows and close about Ben and Dirk. The day's warmth faded into evening chill.
Ben ceased his musings and concentrated on the slope of the hollows. Where were Fillip and Sot? Shouldn't they have been back by now? He climbed to his feet and stalked to the edge of the pit. There was nothing to be seen. He walked its rim for several hundred yards in both directions, through patches of scrub and brush, peering into the gloom. No luck. A growing uneasiness settled through him. He hadn't really believed the little gnomes were in any danger or he wouldn't have sent them down alone. Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe that was the way he had wanted to see it and not the way it was.
He stalked back to his starting point and stood staring at the smudge of the Deep Fell helplessly. The dangers of the hollows had never bothered the gnomes before. Had something changed that? Damn it, he should have gone with them!
He glanced over at Dirk. Dirk appeared to be sleeping.
Ben waited some more because he didn't have much choice. The minutes dragged interminably. It was growing darker. It was becoming difficult to distinguish things clearly as the twilight deepened.
Then suddenly there was movement at the hollows rim. Ben straightened, came forward a step, and stopped. A mass of brush parted, and Fillip and Sot pushed their way into view.
"Thank heavens you're all..." Ben started and trailed off.
The G'home Gnomes were rigid with fear. Paralyzed. Their furry faces were twisted into masks of foreboding, their eyes bright and fixed. They looked neither right nor left nor even at Ben. They stared straight ahead and saw nothing. They stood with their backs to the mass of brush and held hands in the manner of small children.
Ben rushed forward, frightened now. Something was dreadfully wrong. "Fillip! Sot!" He knelt down before them, trying to break whatever spell it was that held them fast. "Look at me. What happened?"
"Ihappened, play-King!" an unpleasantly familiar voice whispered.
Ben looked up, past the frozen gnomes, at the tall, black shape that had materialized behind them as if by magic and found himself face to face with Nightshade.
Ben stared voicelessly into the cold green eyes of the witch and, if there had been some place to run, he would have been halfway there already. But there was no running away from Nightshade. She held him fast simply by the force of her presence. She was a wall that he could neither scale nor get around. She was his prison.
Her voice was a whisper. "I never believed it possible that you would be so foolish as to come back here."
Foolish, indeed, he agreed silently. He forced himself to reach out to the terrified gnomes and draw them to him, away from the witch. They fell into him like rag dolls, shaking with relief, burying their furry faces in his tunic.
"Please help us. High Lord!" was the best Fillip could manage, his own voice a whisper.
"Yes, please!" echoed Sot.
"It's all right," Ben lied.
Nightshade laughed softly. She was just as Ben remembered her — tall and sharp-featured, her skin as pale and smooth as marble, her hair jet black, save for a single streak of white down its center, her lean, angular frame cloaked all in black. She was beautiful in her way, ageless in appearance, a creature who had somehow come to terms with her mortality. Yet her face failed to reflect the emotions that would have made her complete. Her eyes were depthless and empty. They looked ready to swallow him.
Well, I asked for this, he thought.
Nightshade's laughter died away then, and there was the barest hint of uncertainty in her eyes. She came forward a step, peering at him. "What is this?" she asked softly. "You are not the same..." She trailed off, confused. "But you must be; the gnomes have named you High Lord... Here, let me see your face in the light."
She reached out. Ben was powerless to resist. Fingers as cold as icicles fastened on his chin and tilted his head to the moonlight. She held him there a moment, muttering. "You are different — yet the same, too. What has been done to you, play-King? Or is this some new game you seek to play with me? Are you not Holiday?" Ben could feel Fillip and Sot shivering against his body, tiny hands digging into him. "Ah, there is magic at work here," Nightshade whispered harshly, fingers releasing his face with a twist. "Whose magic is it? Tell me, now — quickly!"
Ben fought back an urge to scream, fought to keep his voice steady. "Meeks. He's come back. He's made himself King and changed me into... this."
"Meeks?" The green eyes narrowed. "That pathetic charlatan? How has he found magic enough to accomplish this?" Her mouth twisted with disdain. "He lacks the means to tie his own shoes! How could he manage to do this to you?"
Ben said nothing. He didn't have an answer to give her.
There was a long moment of silence as the witch studied him. Finally, she said, "Where is the medallion? Let me see it!"
When he didn't immediately respond, she made a quick motion with her fingers. Despite his resolve, he found himself withdrawing the tarnished emblem from his tunic for her inspection. She stared at it a moment, then stared again at his face, then slowly smiled the smile of a predator eyeing dinner.
"So," she whispered.
That was all she said. It was enough. Ben knew instantly that she had figured out what had been done to him. He knew that she understood the nature of the magic that had changed him. Her realization of it was infuriating to him. It was worse than being held like this. He wanted to scream. He had to know what she had learned, and there was no way in the world that she was going to tell him.
"You are pathetic, play-King," she went on, her voice still soft but insinuating now as well. "You have always been lucky, but never smart. Your luck has run out. I am almost tempted to leave you as you are. Almost. But I cannot forget what you did to me. I want to be the one to make you suffer for that! Are you surprised to see me again? I think perhaps you are. You thought me gone forever, I imagine — gone into the world of fairy to perish. How foolish of you."
She knelt down before him so that her eyes were level with his. There was such hate that he flinched from it. "I flew into the mists, play-King — just as you commanded that I must, just as I was bidden. The Io Dust held me bound to your command, and I could not refuse. How I despised you then! But I could do nothing. So I flew into the mists — but I flew slowly, play-King, slowly! I fought to break the spell of the Io Dust as I flew; I fought with all the power that I could summon!"
The smile returned again, slow and hard. "And I did break the spell finally. I shattered it and turned back again. Too late, though, play-King, much too late — for I was already within the fairy mists and there was damage done to me! I hurt as never before; I was scarred by the pain of it! I escaped with my life and little else. It took me months to regain even the smallest part of my magic, I lay within the swamp, a creature in hiding, as helpless as the smallest reptile! I was broken! But I would not give in to the pain and the fear; I thought only of you. I thought only of what I would do to you once I had you in my hands again. And I knew that one day I would find a way to bring you back to me..."
She paused. "But I never dreamed it would happen so soon, my foolish High Lord. What great good fortune! It was the change that brought you to me, wasn't it? Something about the change — but what? Tell me, play-King. I will have it from you anyway."
Ben knew this was so. There was no sense in trying to keep anything from the witch. He could see in the empty green eyes what was in store for him. Talking was the only thing that was keeping him alive, and as long as he was alive he had a chance. Chances at this point were not to be tossed aside lightly.
"I came looking for Willow," he answered, pushing the gnomes behind him now. He wanted them out of the way — just in case. He had to keep his eyes open for the right opportunity. The gnomes, however, continued to cling to him like Velcro.
"The River Master's daughter? The sylph?" Nightshade's look was questioning. "Why would she come here?"
"You haven't seen her?" Ben asked, surprised.
Nightshade smiled unpleasantly. "No, play-King. I have seen no one but you — you and your foolish burrow people. What would the sylph want with me?"
He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "The golden bridle."
There, it was out. Better to tell her and see if he could learn anything than to play it cute. Fencing with Nightshade was too dangerous.
Nightshade looked genuinely surprised. "The bridle? But why?"
"Because Meeks wants it. Because he sent Willow a dream about the bridle and a black unicorn." Quickly he told the witch the story of Willow's dream and of the sylph's decision to try to learn what she could of the bridle. "She was told that the bridle was here in the Deep Fell." He paused. "She should have arrived here ahead of me."
"A pity she didn't," Nightshade replied. "I like her little better than I like you. Destroying her would have given me almost as much satisfaction as destroying you." She paused, thinking. "The black unicorn, is it? Back again? How interesting. And the bridle can hold it fast, the dream says? Yes, that could be possible. After all, it was created by wizard magic. And it was a wizard I stole it from years back..."
Nightshade laughed. She studied him, a cunning look creeping into her eyes. "These pathetic burrow people who belong to you — were they sent to steal the bridle from me?"
Fillip and Sot were trying to crawl inside Ben's skin, but Ben was barely aware of them. He was thinking of something else altogether. If Meeks had once possessed the bridle, then that meant the wizard probably once used it — might even have used it to hold captive the black unicorn. Had the unicorn somehow escaped then? Was the dream Meeks had sent to Willow designed to regain possession of the bridle so that the unicorn could be recaptured? If so, what did the unicorns in the missing books of magic have to do with...
"Do not bother answering, play-King," Nightshade interrupted his thoughts. "The answer is in your eyes. These foolish rodents crept into the Deep Fell for just that reason, didn't they? Crept into my home like the thieves they are? Crept down on their little cat's paws?"
The mention of cat's paws reminded him suddenly of Edgewood Dirk. Where was the prism cat? He glanced around before he could think better of it, but Dirk was nowhere to be seen.
"Looking for someone?" Nightshade demanded at once. Her eyes swept the darkened forest behind Ben like knives. "I see no one," she muttered after a moment. "Whoever it is you look for must have abandoned you."
Nevertheless, she took a moment to make certain that she was right before turning back to him. "Your thieves are as pathetic as you, play-King," she resumed her attack. "They think themselves invisible, but they remain unseen only when I do not wish to see them. They were so obvious in their efforts on this misadventure that I could not fail to see them. The minute they were mine, they called for you. 'Great High Lord; mighty High Lord!' How foolish! They gave you up without my even having to ask!"
Fillip and Sot were shaking so hard Ben was in danger of being toppled. He put a hand on each to try to offer some sort of reassurance. He felt genuinely sorry for the little fellows. After all, they were in this mess because of him.
"Since you have me, why not let the gnomes go?" he asked the witch suddenly. "They're foolish creatures, as you say. I tricked them into helping me. They really didn't have a choice. They don't even know why they're here."
"Worse luck for them." Nightshade dismissed the plea out of hand. "No one goes free who stands with you, play-King." Her face lifted, black hair sweeping back. Her eyes scanned the darkness once more. "I no longer like it here. Come."
She rose, a black shadow that gained in size as she spread her arms. Her robes billowed out like sailcloth. There was a sudden wind through the trees, cold and sharp, and mist from the Deep Fell lifted to wrap them all. Moons and stars vanished into its murk, and there was a sudden sense of lifting free, of floating. The G'home Gnomes clutched Ben tighter than ever, and he in turn held them for lack of something better to hold. There was a whooshing sound and then silence.
Ben blinked against the cold and the mist, and slowly the light returned. Nightshade stood before him, smiling coldly. The smells of swamp and mist hung thick on the air. Torchlight revealed a row of stanchions and the bones of tables and benches scattered across an empty court.
They were somewhere within the Deep Fell, down in Nightshade's home.
"Do you know what is to happen to you now, play-King?" she asked softly.
He had a pretty good idea. His imagination was working overtime on the possibilities despite his efforts to restrain it. His chances appeared to have run out. He wondered fleetingly why it was that Willow hadn't gotten here before him. Wasn't this where the Earth Mother had told her to go? If she wasn't here, where was she?
He wondered what had become of Edgewood Dirk.
Nightshade's sudden hiss jarred him free of his thoughts. "Shall I hang you to dry like a piece of old meat? Or shall I play games with you awhile first? We must take our time with this, mustn't we?"
She started to say something more, then paused as a new thought struck her. "But, no — I have a much better idea! I have a much grander and more fitting demise in mind for you!"
She bent into him. "Do you know that I no longer have the golden bridle, play-King? No? I thought not. It was stolen from me. It was stolen while I was too weak to prevent it, still recovering from the hurt that you caused me! Do you know who has the bridle now? Strabo, play-King! The dragon has the fairy bridle, the bridle that rightfully belongs to me. How ironic! You come to the Deep Fell in search of something that isn't even here! You come to your doom pointlessly!"
Her face was only inches from his own, skin drawn tight against the bones, the streak in her black hair a silver slash. "Ah, but you give me a chance to do something I could not otherwise do! Strabo dotes on things made of gold, though he has no use for them except as baubles! He has no true appreciation of their worth — especially the bridle with its magic! He would never give it back to me, and I cannot take it from him while he keeps it hidden within the Fire Springs. But he would trade it, play-King. He most certainly would trade it for something he values more."
Her smile was ferocious. "And what does he value more in all the world than a chance to gain his revenge against you?"
Ben couldn't imagine. Strabo had been a victim of the Io Dust as well, and he had left Ben with the promise that one day he would repay him. Ben felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. This was like being pushed from the frying pan into the fire. He tried to keep the witch from seeing what he was feeling and failed.
Nightshade's smile broadened in satisfaction. "Yes, play-King — I will be most content to leave the means of your destruction to the dragon!"
She brought her hands up in a sharp swirl of motion, mists rising as if bidden, chill wind returning in a rush. "Let us see what fun Strabo will have with you!" she cried, and her voice was a hiss.
The G'home Gnomes whimpered and fastened once again on his pant legs. Ben felt himself floating and watched the hollows begin to disappear...
* * *
The eastern wastelands lay empty and desolate in the fading afternoon light as Questor Thews, Abernathy, and Bunion worked their way steadily ahead through tangled brush and deadwood, over ridgelines and down ravines, across brief stretches of desert, and around swamp and bog. They had walked all day, pushing aside fatigue and uneasiness in equal measure, determined to reach the home of the dragon by nightfall.
It was going to be close.
Nothing lived in the wastelands of Landover — nothing but the dragon. He had adopted the wastelands as his home when driven from the mists of fairy centuries ago. The wastelands suited the dragon fine. He liked it there. His disposition found proper solace in the devastation wrought by nature's whims, and he kept the whole of the vast expanse his own. Shunned by the other inhabitants of the valley, he was an entirely solitary being. He was the only creature in the valley — with the exception of Ben Holiday — who could cross back and forth between Landover and the mortal worlds. He could even venture a short distance into the fairy mists. He was unique — the last of his kind and quite proud to be so.
He was not particularly fond of company — a fact not lost on Questor, Abernathy, and Bunion as they hurried now to reach the beast before it got any darker.
It was dusk nevertheless by the time they finally arrived at their destination. They climbed to the crest of a ridge-line that was silhouetted against the coming night by a brightness that flickered and danced as if alive and found themselves staring down into the Fire Springs. The Springs were the dragon's lair. They were settled within a deep, misshapen ravine, a cluster of craters that burned steadily with blue and yellow fire amid tangled thickets and mounds of rock and earth. Fed by a liquid pooled within the craters, their flames filled the air with smoke, ash, and the raw stench of burning fuel. A constant haze hung across the ravine and the hills surrounding, and geysers lifted periodically against the darkness with booming coughs.
They saw the dragon right off. It slouched down within the center of the ravine, head resting on a crater's edge, long tongue licking placidly at a scattering of flames.
Strabo didn't move. He lay sprawled across a mound of earth, his monstrous body a mass of scales, spikes, and plates that seemed almost a part of the landscape. When he breathed, small jets of steam exhaled into the night His tail was wrapped around a rock formation that rose behind him, and his wings lay back against his body. His claws and teeth were blackened and bent, grown from leathered skin and gums at odd angles and twists. Dust and grime covered him like a blanket.
One red eye swiveled in its socket. "What do you want?" the dragon asked irritably.
It had always amazed Ben Holiday that a dragon could talk, but Ben was an outlander and didn't understand the nature of these things. It seemed perfectly normal to Questor and Bunion that the dragon should talk, and even more so to Abernathy, being a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier who himself talked.
"We wish to speak with you a moment," Questor advised. Abernathy managed an affirming nod, but found himself wondering at the same time why anyone in his right mind would wish to speak with something as awful as Strabo.
"I care nothing for what you wish," the dragon said with a huff of steam from both nostrils. "I care only for what I wish. Go away."
"This will only take a moment," Questor persisted.
"I don't have a moment. Go away before I eat you."
Questor flushed. "I would remind you to whom you are speaking! There is some courtesy owed me, given our long association! Now, please be civil!"
As if to emphasize his demand, he took a meaningful step forward, a scarecrow figure in tattered sashes that looked like nothing so much as a bundle of loosely joined sticks silhouetted against the light. Bunion showed all his teeth in a frightening grin. Abernathy pushed his glasses further up on his nose and tried to calculate how quickly he could reach the safety of the darkened brush at the base of the ravine behind him.
Strabo blinked and lifted his head from the crater fire. "Questor Thews, is that you?"
Questor puffed out. "It most certainly is."
Strabo sighed. "How boring. If you were someone of consequence, you might at least prove a brief source of entertainment. But you are not worth the effort it would take me to rise and devour you. Go away."
Questor stiffened. Ignoring Abernathy's paw on his shoulder, he came forward another step. "My friends and I have journeyed a long way to speak with you — and speak with you we will. If you choose to ignore the long and honorable association between wizards and dragons, that is your loss! But you'll do us both a great disservice!"
"You seem rather ill-tempered tonight," the dragon replied. His voice reverberated in a long hiss, and the serpentine body shifted lazily against the rocks and craters, tail splashing liquid fires from a pool. "I might point out that you wizards have done nothing for dragons in centuries, so I see little reason to dwell on any association that might once have existed. Such nonsense! I might also point out that while there is no question about my status as a dragon, there is certainly some question about yours as a wizard."
"I will not be drawn into an argument!" Questor snapped, rather too irritably. "Nor will I depart until you have heard me out!"
Strabo spit at the sulfurous air. "I ought simply to eat you, Questor Thews — you and the dog and that other thing, whatever it is. A kobold, isn't it? I ought to breath a bit of fire on you, cook you up nicely, and eat you. But I am in a charitable mood tonight. Leave me and I will forgive your unwelcome intrusion into my home."
"Perhaps we should reconsider..." Abernathy began, but Questor shushed him at once.
"Did the dog say something?" the dragon asked softly.
"No — and no one is leaving!" Questor announced, planting his feet firmly.
Strabo blinked. "No?"
His crusted head swung abruptly about and flame jetted from his maw. The fire exploded directly beneath Questor Thews and sent him flying skyward with a yelp. Bunion and Abernathy sprang aside, scrambling to get clear of flying rocks, earth, and bits of flame. Questor came down again in a tangled heap of robes and sashes, his bones jarred with the impact.
Strabo chuckled, crooked tongue licking the air. "Very entertaining, wizard. Very amusing."
Questor climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, spit out a mouthful of dirt, and faced the dragon once more. "That was entirely uncalled for!" he declared, struggling to regain his lost dignity. "I can play such games, too!"
His hands clapped sharply, pointed and spread. He tried to do something with his feet as well, but he lost his footing on the loose rock, slipped, and sat down with a grunt. Light exploded above the craters and a shower of dry leaves tumbled down over Strabo, bursting instantly into flames from the heat.
The dragon was in stitches. "Am I to be smothered in leaves?" he roared, shaking with mirth. "Please, wizard — spare me!"
Questor went rigid, owlish face flushed with anger.
"Maybe we should come back another time," Abernathy ventured in a low growl from his position behind a protective mound of earth.
But Questor Thews was having none of it. Again, he brushed himself off and got back to his feet. "Laugh at me, will you, dragon?" he snapped. "Laugh at a master practitioner of the magic arts? Very well then — laugh this off!"
Both hands lifted and wove rapidly through the air. Strabo was preparing to send forth another jet of flame when a cloudburst broke immediately overhead and torrents of rain cascaded over him. "Now, stop that!" he howled, but in seconds he was drenched snout to tail. His flame fizzled into steam, and he ducked his head into one of the pools of fire to escape the downpour. When he came up again for air, Questor made a second gesture and the rain ceased.
"There, you see?" the wizard said to Abernathy, nodding in satisfaction. "He won't be quite so quick to laugh next time!" Then he turned back once more to the dragon. "Rather amusing yourself!" he called over.
Strabo flapped his leathered wings, shook himself off and glared. "It appears that you will continue to make a nuisance of yourself, Questor Thews, until I either put an end to you or listen to whatever it is that you feel compelled to say. I repeat, I am in a charitable mood tonight. So say what it is you feel you must and be done with it."
"Thank you very much!" Questor replied. "May we come down?"
The dragon plopped his head back on the edge of the crater and stretched out again. "Do what you please."
Questor beckoned to his companions. Slowly, they made their way down the side of the ravine and through the maze of craters and rocks until they were twenty yards or so from where the dragon reposed. Strabo ignored them, eyes lidded, snout inhaling the fumes and fires of the crater on which he rested.
"You know I hate water, Questor Thews," he muttered.
"We have come here to learn something about unicorns," Questor announced, ignoring him.
Strabo belched. "Read a book."
"As a matter of fact, I did. Several. But they lack the information about unicorns that you possess. Everyone knows that unicorns and dragons are the oldest of fairy creatures and the oldest of enemies. Each of you know more of the other than anyone else, fairy or human. I need to know something of unicorns that no one else would,"
"Whatever for?" Strabo sounded bored again. "Besides, why should I help you? You serve that detestable human who tricked me into inhaling Io Dust and then made me pledge never to hunt the valley or its people so long as he remained King! He is still King, isn't he? Bah! Of course he is — I would have heard otherwise! Ben Holiday, Landover's High Lord! I would make a quick meal of him, if he were ever to set foot in the springs again!"
"Well, it is highly unlikely that he will. Besides, we are here about unicorns, not about the High Lord." Questor thought it prudent not to dwell on the subject of Ben Holiday. Strabo had taken great pleasure in ravaging the crops and livestock of the valley before the High Lord had put a stop to it. It was a pleasure the dragon would dearly love to enjoy again — and well might one day the way Holiday was behaving lately. But there was no reason to give the dragon any encouragement.
He cleared his throat officiously. "I assume that you have heard about the black unicorn?"
The dragon's eyes snapped open and his head lifted. "The black unicorn? Of course. Is it back again, wizard?"
Questor nodded sagely. "For some time now. I am surprised that you didn't know. There was quite an effort put forth to capture it."
"Capture it? A unicorn?" Strabo laughed, a series of rough coughs and hisses. His massive body shook with mirth. "The humans would capture a unicorn? How pitiful! No one captures a unicorn, wizard — even you must know that! Unicorns are untouchable!"
"Some think not."
The dragon's lip curled. "Some are fools!"
"Then the unicorn is safe? There is nothing that can ensnare it, nothing that can cause it to be held?"
"Nothing!"
"Not maidens of certain virtue nor silver moonlight captured in a fairy net?"
"Old wives' tales!"
"Not magic of any sort?"
"Magic? Well..." Strabo seemed to hesitate.
Questor took a chance. "Not bridles of spun gold?"
The dragon stared at the wizard voicelessly. There was, Questor Thews realized in surprise, a look of disbelief on the creature's face.
He cleared his throat. "I said, 'Not bridles of spun gold?'"
And it was at that moment that Nightshade, the stranger who believed himself Ben Holiday, and two sorry-looking G'home Gnomes appeared abruptly out of a swirl of mist not a dozen feet away.
There was an endlessly long moment in which everyone stared at everyone else. It was impossible to tell who was most surprised. Eyes shifted, fixed, and shifted again. Tall forms crouched and robes billowed. The dragon's hiss of warning mingled with that of the witch. Abernathy growled in spite of himself. Night had closed down upon the little still life in a black mantle that threatened to engulf them all. In the silence, there was only the crackle and spit of the flames as they danced across the cratered pools of blue liquid.
"You are not welcome here, Nightshade," Strabo whispered finally, his rough voice a rasp of iron. He rose up from the edge of the crater on which he had been resting in a guarded crouch, claws digging into the stone until it cracked and broke. "You are never welcome."
Nightshade laughed mirthlessly, her pale face streaked with shadow. "I might be welcome this time, dragon," she replied. "I have brought you something."
Questor Thews realized suddenly that the two G'home Gnomes standing next to the witch and the stranger who thought himself Ben Holiday were none other than Fillip and Sot! "Abernathy...!" he exclaimed softly, but the dog was already saying, "I know, wizard! But what are they doing here?"
Questor had no idea at all. Questor had no idea about any of what was happening.
Strabo's massive head lifted and the long tongue licked out. "Why would you bother to bring me anything, witch?"
Nightshade straightened gracefully, her arms folding in about her once more. "Ask me first what it is that I bring," she whispered.
"There is nothing you could bring me that I would wish. There is no point in asking."
"Ah, even if what I bring is that which you most desire in all the world? Even if it is that dear to you?"
Ben Holiday was frantically trying to decide how he was going to get out of this mess. There were no friends to be found in this bunch. Questor, Abernathy, and Bunion believed him an impostor and a fool. Fillip and Sot, if they still believed anything about him at all, were interested by this time only in escaping with their hides intact. Nightshade had kept him alive this long strictly for the purpose of striking a bargain with Strabo, who would be only too happy to do away with him for her. He cast about desperately, looking for a way out that apparently didn't exist.
Strabo's tail thrashed within a pool of fire and sent a shower of liquid flames skyward against the dark. Ben flinched. "I tire of games this night," the dragon snapped. "Get to the point!"
Nightshade's eyes glimmered crimson. "What if I were to offer you Landover's High Lord, the one they call Holiday? What if I were to offer you that, dragon?"
Strabo's snout curled and the crusted face tightened. "I would accept that gift gladly!" the dragon hissed.
Ben took a tentative step backward and found he could not. The G'home Gnomes were still fastened to him like leg irons. They were shaking and mumbling incoherently and preventing him quite effectively from making any quick moves. When he tried surreptitiously to pry them free, they just clung to him all the tighter.
"The High Lord is at Sterling Silver!" Questor Thews declared suddenly, anger showing in his owlish face. "You have no power over him there, Nightshade! Besides, he would rid the valley of you in a moment if you were to show yourself!"
"Really?" Nightshade drew the word out lovingly, teasingly. Then she came forward a step, one long finger impaling Questor on its shadow. "When I have finished my business here, wizard — when your precious High Lord is no more — then will I deal with you!"
Ben fixed a pleading gaze on his friends. Get out of here! he tried to tell them.
Nightshade swung back again to Strabo. One clawed hand fastened on Ben's arm and dragged him forward. "Here is the one the foolish wizard believes so safe from me, Strabo! Ben Holiday, High Lord of Landover! Look closely now! Magic has been used! Look beneath the exterior of what you first see!"
Strabo snorted derisively, belched a quick burst of flame, and laughed. "This one? This is Holiday? Nightshade, you are mad!" He leaned closer, the ooze dripping from his snout. "This one doesn't even begin to look like... No, wait — you are right, there is magic at work here. What has been done..." The massive head dipped and raised, and the eyes blinked. "Can this be so?"
"Look closely!" Nightshade repeated once again, thrusting Ben before her so hard his head snapped back.
Everyone was looking at Ben now, but only Strabo saw the truth. "Yes!" he hissed, and the massive tail thrashed once more in satisfaction. "Yes, it is Holiday!" The jaws parted and the blackened teeth snapped. "But why is it that only you and I...?"
"Because only we are older than the magic that does this!" Nightshade anticipated and answered the question before the dragon could complete it. "Do you understand how it has been done?"
Ben, prize exhibit that he was, wanted nothing more than to hear the answer to that question. He had accepted the fact that he was not going to get out of this in one piece, but he hated to think he was going to die without ever knowing how he had been undone.
"But... but that's not the High Lord!" Questor Thews declared angrily, sounding suddenly as if he were trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "That cannot be the High Lord! If this is... is... then, the High Lord is..."
He trailed off, a strange look of understanding crossing his face, a look of disbelief shredded by horror, a look that screamed soundlessly a single name — Meeks! Bunion was hissing and pulling at his arm, and Abernathy was muttering frantically about how all this could explain someone-or-other's odd behavior.
All three were pointedly ignored by the dragon and the witch.
"Why would you give him to me?" Strabo was demanding of Nightshade, wary now of what was being offered.
"I said nothing of 'giving' you anything, dragon," Nightshade replied softly. "I wish to trade him."
"Trade him, witch? You hate him more than I! He sent you into the fairy world and almost destroyed you. He marked you with the magic! Why would you trade him? What could I possess that you would want more than Holiday?"
Nightshade smiled coldly. "Oh, yes, I hate him. And I wish him destroyed. But the pleasure shall be yours, Strabo. You need only give me one thing. Give me back the bridle of spun gold."
"The bridle?" Strabo's response came with a hiss of disbelief. He coughed. "What bridle?"
"The bridle!" Nightshade snapped. "The bridle that you stole from me while I was helpless to prevent it. The bridle that is rightfully mine!"
"Bah! Nothing you possess is rightfully yours — least of all the bridle! You yourself stole it from that old wizard!"
"Be that as it may, dragon, the bridle is what I wish!"
"Ah, well, of course, if that is what you wish..." The dragon seemed to be hedging. "But surely, Nightshade, there are other treasures that I possess that would serve you better than such a simple toy! Suggest something else, something of greater worth!"
The witch's eyes narrowed. "Now who is it that plays games? I have decided on the bridle and it is the bridle that I shall have!"
Ben had been momentarily forgotten. Nightshade had released him and he had slipped back behind her again, the gnomes still clinging to his legs. As he listened to the bartering, he caught Questor Thews studying him with renewed interest. Abernathy peered over the magician's shoulder through smoke-streaked glasses, and Bunion peered from behind a fold of robe. All were clearly trying to decide how he could be someone other than what he appeared. Ben gritted his teeth and motioned them frantically away with a shake of his head. For crying out loud, they were all going to end up fried!
"It is simply that I fail to see why the bridle is of such interest to you," Strabo was saying, neck curving upward into the dark so that he loomed over the witch.
"And I fail to see what difference it makes!" Nightshade snapped, straightening up a bit further herself. Fire-light danced across her marble face. "I fail to see why you make such an issue of returning what is mine to begin with!"
Strabo sniffed. "I need explain nothing to you!"
"Indeed, you need not! Just give me the bridle!"
"I think not. You wish it too badly."
"And you wish Holiday not enough!"
"Oh, but I do! Why not accept a chest of gold or a fairy scepter that changes moonbeams into silver coins? Why not take a gemstone marked with runes that belonged to the Trolls when the power of magic was theirs as well — a gemstone that can give truth to the holder?"
"I don't want truth! I don't want gold or scepters or anything else you hold, you fat lizard!" Nightshade was genuinely mad now, her voice rising to a near scream. "I want the bridle! Give it to me or Holiday will never be yours!"
She edged forward threateningly, leaving Holiday and the G'home Gnomes half-a-dozen paces behind her. It was the closest to freedom that Ben had been since his capture at the Deep Fell. As the voices of the witch and dragon grew more strident, he began to think that maybe — just maybe — there might be a way out of this yet.
He pried Fillip forcibly from his right leg, held him dangling from the crook of his arm, and began to work Sot free from his left.
"One last time, dragon," Nightshade was saying. "Will you trade me the bridle for Holiday or not?"
Strabo gave a long sigh of disappointment. "I am afraid, dear witch, that I cannot."
Nightshade stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. "You don't have the bridle anymore, do you? That is why you won't trade it to me! You don't have it!"
Strabo sniffed. "Alas, quite true."
"You bloated mass of scales!" The witch was shaking with fury. "What have you done with it?"
"What I have done with it is my concern!" Strabo snapped in reply, looking more than a bit put upon. He sighed again. "Well, if you must know, I gave it away."
"You gave it away?" The witch was aghast.
Strabo breathed a long, delicate stream of fire into the night air and followed it with a trail of ashy vapor. The lidded eyes blinked and seemed momentarily distant. "I gave it to a fairy girl who sang to me of beauty and light and things a dragon longs to hear. No maiden has sung to me in many centuries, you know, and I would have given much more than the bridle for a chance to become lost again in such sweet music."
"You gave the bridle away for a song?" Nightshade spoke the words as if trying to convince herself that they had meaning.
"A memory means more than any tangible treasure." The dragon sighed once more. "Dragons have always had a weakness for beautiful women, maidens of certain virtue, girls of grace and sweet smiles. There is a bond that joins us. A bond stronger than that of dragons and wizards, I might add," he addressed Questor Thews in a quick aside. "She sang to me, this girl, and asked me in return for the bridle of spun gold. I gave it to her gladly." He actually seemed to smile. "She was quite beautiful, this sylph."
Ben started. A sylph? Willow!
The dragon's head dipped solemnly toward Ben. "I helped give her back her life once," he intoned. "Remember? You commanded it, Holiday. I flew her out of Abaddon to her home in the lake country where she could be healed. I didn't mind that so much — the saving of her life. I hated you, of course — you forced me to submit to you. But I rather enjoyed saving the sylph. It reminded me of the old days when saving maidens was routine work for a dragon."
He paused. "Or was it devouring them? I can never remember which."
"You are a fool!" Nightshade spat.
Strabo cocked his head as if thinking it over. Then his snout split wide to reveal all of his considerable teeth. "Do you really think so? A fool? Me? A bigger fool than you, witch? So big a fool as to venture unprotected into the lair of my worst enemy?"
The silence was palpable. Nightshade was a statue. "I am never unprotected, dragon. Beware."
"Beware? How quaint." Strabo suddenly coiled like a spring. "I have endured patiently your venomous assault on my character; I have allowed you to speak what you wished. Now it is my turn. You are a skinny, pathetic excuse for witchhood who believes herself far more powerful than she is. You come into my home as if you belong here, order me about, call me names, demand things you have no right to demand, and think you can go right out again. You mistake yourself, Nightshade. I might, had I the chance to do it over again, keep the bridle of spun gold so that I could trade it to you for Holiday. I might. But I regret nothing that I have ever done, and this least of all. The bridle is gone, and I do not wish it back again."
He bent forward slowly. The rough voice changed to a slow hiss. "But look — Holiday is still here, witch! And since you brought him expressly for me, I rather think I ought to keep him! Don't you?"
Nightshade's fingers were like claws as they lifted be fore her lean face. "You will take nothing more from me, dragon — not now, not ever!"
"Ah, but you have only yourself to blame. You have made the prospect of destroying Holiday so tempting that I cannot resist your lure! I must have him! He is mine to destroy, bridle or no! I think you had best give him to me — now!"
Flames burst from the maw of the dragon and engulfed Nightshade. At the same moment, Ben ripped Sot free at last of his left leg and flung himself sideways to escape the backlash of heat and fire. Questor Thews was moving as well, all arms and legs as he galloped toward Ben. Bunion sprinted past him, ears flattened back. Abernathy went down on all fours and scurried for the safety of the bushes.
Ben surged back to his feet, still carrying the wailing gnomes. Strabo's fire exploded skyward into the black, filling the air with a shower of sparks and rock. Nightshade stood unharmed in their center, black robes flying like drying bedclothes caught in the wind, pale face lifted, arms gesturing. Fire burst from her fingers and hammered into a surprised Strabo. The dragon flew backward, tumbling into a cratered pool.
"High Lord!" Questor Thews cried out in warning.
Nightshade whirled just in time to be caught by the full force of a magical gesture from the magician that swept the witch up in a blinding flurry of snowflakes. Nightshade swatted at them angrily, screamed, and threw fire back at him. Shards of flame hissed past Ben as he flung himself down again, smothering the gnomes. The fur on Abernathy's hind end caught fire, and the scribe disappeared up the slope of the Fire Springs with a yelp.
Then Strabo surfaced once more from the crater into which he had fallen, roaring in fury. Uncoiling his serpentine body with a lunge, he sprayed the whole of the Springs with fire. Nightshade swung back on him, shrieking with equal fury, spraying fire of her own. Ben was on his feet and running for his life. The fire swept over him, a wall of heat and red pain. But Questor was there now, hands gesturing desperately, and a shield of some impenetrable plastic substance appeared out of nowhere to slow the fire down. Ben kept his arms locked about the struggling, whimpering G'home Gnomes and scrambled desperately to escape the pursuing flames. Bunion's tough arms closed about his waist and helped haul all three toward the lip of the cratered valley. Questor followed, calling out in encouragement.
Moments later, they reached the rim of the Fire Springs and stumbled from the heat and smoke into the cooling scrub. Coughing and gasping, they collapsed in a tangled knot. Abernathy joined them from out of the dark.
Behind them, the witch and the dragon continued their private battle uninterrupted, their shrieks and roars filling the night. They hadn't even realized yet that the object of their struggle had escaped.
Ben glanced hurriedly at his companions. White eyes blinked back at him through the dark. No sense in resting now, they all seemed to agree. It wouldn't take long for the witch and the dragon to realize what had happened.
Stumbling to their feet once again, they disappeared swiftly into the night.
It was sometime after midnight when Ben and his companions finally broke off their flight. The skies had gone black with thunderheads that rolled eastward out of the grasslands. Moons and stars disappeared as if blown from the heavens by the sudden winds, thunder rumbled in long booming peals, and lightning laced the skies. The rains came swiftly, hard and chill, sweeping broomlike across the wastelands. There was barely time to find shelter in a thick copse of fir before the whole of the land surrounding had turned invisible in a wash of impenetrable mist and damp.
The company sat beneath the massive boughs of the centermost fir and peered out through the curtain of needles at the downpour. Wind rushed in stinging swipes through the trees and scrub, and water cascaded down. Everything faded away amid the steady sounds, and the stand of trees became an island in the gloom.
Ben sat back against the fir's massive trunk after a while and stared at the others, eyes shifting from one face to the next. "I am Ben Holiday, you know," he said finally. "I really am."
They looked questioningly at one another and back again at him.
"Save us, mighty High Lord," said Fillip after a moment, the words a toneless whimper.
"Yes, save us," begged Sot.
They looked like drowned rats, fur grimy and matted down by the rain, clothing ragged and torn. Their fingers reached tentatively for his legs.
"Stop that," he admonished w'earily. "There is nothing to save you from. You're all right now."
"The dragon..." began Fillip.
"The witch..." began Sot.
"Far back and not about to go hunting for us in this. By the time they finish trying to set fire to each other and think to wonder what happened to us, the rain will have washed away any trace of where we went." He tried to sound more confident than he felt. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."
Bunion showed all his teeth and hissed. He looked at Ben as he might an errant bog wump. Abernathy didn't seem to want to look at Ben at all.
Questor Thews cleared his throat. Ben glanced expectantly at him, and the wizard seemed suddenly uncertain of what to say. "This is rather difficult," he said finally. He squinted at Ben. "You say you are indeed the High Lord? The witch and the dragon were correct in believing you so?"
Ben nodded slowly.
"And the story you told us at Sterling Silver — that was all true? You were changed somehow by magic? You have lost the protection of the medallion?"
Ben nodded a second time.
"And Meeks has returned and taken your place — and made himself appear as you?"
Ben nodded a third time.
Questor's lean features squinched down so hard against each other he appeared to be in danger of causing per manentdamage, "But how?" he demanded finally. "How did all this happen?"
Ben sighed. "That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, I'm afraid."
Briefly he recounted again his confrontation with Meeks in his bedchamber and his transformation into the stranger he appeared to them to be. He took them to the moment of his decision to travel south in search of Willow. "I've been hunting for her ever since," he concluded.
"See — I told you!" Abernathy snapped.
Questor stiffened and he peered down his long nose at the scribe. "Told me what?" he demanded, owlish face tightening even further.
"That the High Lord wasn't acting like the High Lord!" Abernathy fairly barked. "That something was definitely wrong! That nothing was what it should be! In fact, wizard, I told you a good deal more than that, if you would bother taking time enough to remember any of it!" He shoved his rain-streaked glasses back on his nose. "I told you that these dreams would bring nothing but trouble. I told you to forget about chasing after them!" He wheeled suddenly on Ben, a prophet whose visions had come to pass. "I warned you as well, didn't I? I told you to stay in Landover where you belonged! I told you Meeks was too dangerous! But you wouldn't listen, would you? Neither of you would listen! Now look where we are!"
He sneezed, shook himself furiously, and showered everyone with water. "Sorry," he muttered, sounding not the least so.
Questor sniffed. "I trust you feel better now?"
Ben decided to head off any further squabbling. "Abernathy is right. We should have listened to him. But we didn't, and what's done is done. We have to put all that behind us. At least we're back together again."
"A lot of good that's going to do us!" Abernathy snapped, still miffed.
"Well, it might do us some good." Ben tried his best to sound positive. "The six of us together might be able to accomplish something more than I could alone."
"The six of us?" Abernathy eyed the G'home Gnomes with disdain. "You count two more than I, High Lord. In any case, I am still not convinced that you really are the High Lord. Questor Thews is much too quick to believe. We have already been fooled once; it is possible that we are being fooled again. How do we know that this isn't just another charade? How do we know that this isn't another of Meeks' tricks?"
Ben thought about it a moment. "You don't, I guess. You have to take my word for it. You have to trust me — and trust your instincts." He sighed. "Do you think Meeks could fool both Strabo and Nightshade that badly? Do you think I would be hanging about claiming to be High Lord if I really weren't?" He paused. "Do you think I would still be wearing this?"
He reached down inside his tunic front and produced the tarnished medallion. The image of Meeks gleamed wetly, caught in a flash of distant lightning.
"Why are you still wearing it?" Questor asked quietly.
Ben shook his head. "I'm afraid to get rid of it. If Meeks is right and throwing off the medallion will finish me, then who would be left to warn Willow? She doesn't know any of what's happened. She doesn't know that the dreams were sent by Meeks or the danger she's in. I care too much for her, Questor. I can't abandon her. I can't take the chance that she'll fall into the same trap I did and have no one to help her out."
They were all silent for a moment, studying him.
"No, High Lord — you can't," Questor agreed finally. The wizard looked over at Abernathy. "The real Ben Holiday wouldn't even think of such a thing, would he?" he asked pointedly. "Not the real Ben Holiday."
Abernathy considered the possibility silently for a moment, then sighed. "No, I suppose he wouldn't." He glanced at Bunion, who nodded his monkey face approvingly. "Very well. The others accept you as High Lord; I shall do so as well."
"I appreciate that," Ben assured his scribe.
"But I still think that you are no better off with four of us..." He glanced once more at the G'home Gnomes. "...or six of us — or however many of us can be counted on — than you were by yourself! What is it that six of us are supposed to do that you could not do alone?"
The others looked at him expectantly. He stared past them into the haze of rain and darkness, drew his legs up to his chest to ward off the growing chill, and tried to come up with something. "Find Willow," he said finally. "Protect her."
They stared at him voicelessly.
"Look. The third dream is the key to everything that's happened, and the bridle is the key to the dream. Willow has the bridle now — we know that. Strabo gave it to her. She has it, but what will she do with it?"
"What, Mighty High Lord?" asked Fillip eagerly.
"Yes, what?" echoed Sot.
"She will take it to you, High Lord," Questor answered quickly. Then he paused. "Or at least to the one she believes to be you."
"That's right, Questor," Ben whispered. "That's what the dream told her she must do and that's what she'll do. She'll take the bridle to me. But I won't be me. I'll be Meeks. Or he'll be Meeks — the one she'll run to. And then what happens to her?"
"We have to reach her first," Questor insisted quietly.
"As soon as it stops raining," Abernathy added.
Ben nodded. "Six of us will have a better chance than one."
"Bunion will have a better chance than ten times six," Abernathy interjected, sneezing again. "I think I am catching cold," he muttered.
"For once, Abernathy is right!" Questor exclaimed, ignoring the reproving look the dog gave him. "A kobold can track faster and farther than any human. If there is any sign of the girl. Bunion will find it." He looked over at the kobold, who showed all of his teeth in response, "Indeed, Bunion will find her for us — you may depend upon it." He shrugged. "As soon as it stops raining, of course".
Ben shook his head. "We can'twait that long. We don't have..."
"But we have to," the wizard interrupted gently.
"But we can't..."
"We must." Questor took his arm and held it. "There can be no tracking done in a storm such as this one, High Lord. There would be no signs to follow." His owlish face bent close and there was sudden warmth in his eyes. "High Lord, you have come a long way since Sterling Silver. You have clearly suffered much. Your physical appearance, however distorted it might be, does not lie. Look at yourself. You are worn to the bone. You are exhausted. I have seen beggars who looked healthier than you. Abernathy?"
"You look a wreck," the dog agreed.
"Well, bad enough, at any rate." The wizard tempered the other's assessment with a smile. "You need to rest. Sleep now. There will be time enough later to begin the hunt."
Ben shook his head vigorously. "Questor, I'm not tired. I can't..."
"I think you must," the wizard said softly. A boney hand passed briefly before Ben's face, and his eyes grew suddenly heavy. He could barely keep them open. He felt a pervasive weariness slip within his body and weigh him down. "Rest, High Lord," Questor whispered.
Ben fought the command, struggled to rise, and found he could not. For once, the wizard's magic was working right on the first try. Ben was slipping back against the rough trunk of the fir, downward into a bed of needles His companions drew close. Abernathy's furry, bespeckled face peered at him through a gathering of shadows. Bunion's teeth gleamed like daggers. Fillip and Sot were vague images that wavered and voices that murmured and seemed to draw steadily farther away. He found comfort in their presence, strength, and reassurance — his friends, all there with him except Parsnip — and Willow!
"Willow," he whispered.
He spoke her name once and was asleep.
He dreamed of Willow while he slept, and the dream was a revelation that shocked him, even in his slumber. He searched for the sylph through the forests, hills, and plains of Landover, a solitary quest that drew him on as a magnet would iron. The country through which he traveled was familiar and yet foreign, too, a mix of sunshine and shadows that shimmered with the inconsistency of an image reflected on water. There were things that moved all about him, but they lacked face and form. He hunted alone, his search a seemingly endless one that took him from one end of the valley and back again, swift and certain in its pace but fruitless nevertheless.
He was driven by an urgency that surprised him. There was a need to find the sylph that defied explanation. He was frightened for her without understanding the reason for his fear. He was desperate to be with her, yet his desperation lacked cause. It was as if he were captive to his emotions and they determined his course where reason could not. He could sense Willow's presence as he searched, a closeness that teased him. It was as if she waited behind each tree and beyond each hill, and he need only journey a bit further to find her. Weariness did not slow him as he traveled; strength of purpose carried him on.
After a time, he began to hear voices. They whispered to him from all about, some in warning, some in admonishment. He heard the River Master, distrustful yet of who Ben was, strangely anxious that the daughter he could not quite love and who could not quite love him be found. He heard the Earth Mother, asking him to repeat again the promise he had made to her to find and protect Willow, insistent that he honor it. He heard that solitary, defeated hunter speak once more in hollow tones of the black unicorn, of the touch that had stolen away his soul. He heard Meeks, his voice a dark and vengeful hiss that promised ruin if the girl and the golden bridle should escape him.
Still he went on.
And then he heard Edgewood Dirk.
It was the voice of the prism cat that slowed him, aware suddenly of how frantic his search for Willow had be come. He stopped, his breath ragged in his ears, his chest pounding. He stood within a forest glade that was cool and solitary, a mix of shadows and light, of boughs canopied overhead and moss grown thick underfoot. Dirk sat upon a knoll within that glade, prim and sleek and inscrutable.
"Why do you run so, High Lord Ben Holiday?" Dirk asked quietly.
"I must find Willow," he replied.
"Why must you find her?" Dirk pressed.
"Because danger threatens her," he answered.
"And is that all?"
He paused. "Because she needs me."
"And is that all?"
"Because there is no one else."
"And is that all?"
"Because..."
But the words he searched for would not come, as elusive as the sylph herself. There were words to be spoken, he sensed. What were those words?
"You work so hard to orchestrate your life," Dirk declared almost sadly. "You work so hard to fit all the pieces together, a vast puzzle you must master. But you fail to understand the reason for your need to do so. Life is not simply form, High Lord; life is feeling, too."
"I feel," he said.
"You govern," Dirk corrected. "You govern your kingdom, your subjects, your work, and your life. You organize here as you once organized there. You command. You command as King as you commanded as lawyer. Court-of-law stagecraft or royal-court politics — you are no different now than you were then. You act and you react with quickness and skill. But you do not feel."
"I try."
"The heart of the magic lies in feeling, High Lord. Life is born of feeling, and the magic is born of life. How can you understand either life or magic if you do not feel? You search for Willow, but how can you recognize her when you fail to understand what she is? You search with your eyes for something they cannot see. You search with your senses and your body for what they cannot find. You must search instead with your heart. Try now. Try, and tell me what you see."
He did, but there was a darkness all about him that would not let him see. He drew deep inside himself and found passages through which he could not travel. Obstructions blocked his way, shapeless things that lacked clear definition. He tried furiously to push past them, groping, reaching...
Then Willow was before him, a misty vision suddenly remembered. She was lithe and quicksilver as she passed, her face stunning in its beauty, her body a whisper of his need. Forest green hair tumbled down about her slender shoulders and fell to her waist. White silk draped and clung like a second skin. Her eyes met his, and he found his breath drawn from him with a sharpness that hurt. She smiled, warm and tender, and her whisper was soundless in his mind. There was no danger that threatened her, no sense of urgency about her. She was at peace with herself. She was at rest.
"Why do you run so, High Lord Ben Holiday?" Dirk repeated from somewhere within the shadows.
"I must find Willow," he answered again.
"Why must you find her?"
"Because..."
Again, he could not find the words. The shadows began to tighten. Willow began to fade back into them.
"Because..."
She faded further, a memory disappearing. He struggled frantically to find the words he needed to say, but they eluded him still. The sense of urgency returned, quick and hard. The danger to the sylph became real once more, as if somehow resurrected by his indecision. He tried to reach out to her with his hands, but she was too far away, and he was too rooted in place.
"Because..."
The shadows were all about, cloaking him now in their blackness, smothering him in their endless dark. He was drawing back out of himself. Dirk was gone. Willow was little more than a patch of light and color against the black, fading, fading...
"Because..."
Willow!
He came awake with a start, jerking upright from his place of rest, his underarms and back damp with sweat. Night shrouded the eastern wastelands in silence. Clouds masked the skies, though the rain had ceased to fall. Ben's companions slept undisturbed all about him — all except Bunion. Bunion was already gone, his search for Willow begun.
Ben took a deep breath to steady himself. His dream of Willow was still sharp and certain in his mind. He exhaled.
"Because... I love her," he finished.
Those were the words he had searched for. And he knew with frightening certainty that the words were true.
He was awake for a time after that, alone with his thoughts in the dark silence of the night. After a while, though, he tired and dropped back off to sleep. When he awoke again, it was nearing dawn, the eastern sky behind the valley rim brightening with faint streaks of gray and gold. Bunion had not returned. The others still slept.
He rolled over on his back, glanced about the storm-dampened campsite, and then blinked in surprise. Edgewood Dirk rested comfortably on a thick bough of the fir just a few feet above his head, paws tucked under his sleek body, eyes squinched closed against the light.
The eyes slipped open as Ben stared. "Good morning, High Lord," the cat offered.
Ben pushed himself up on his elbows. "Good morning, nothing. Where have you been?"
"Oh, here and there."
"More there than here, it seems!" Ben snapped, a great deal of pent-up anger coming quickly to the fore. "I could have used a little help back there in the Deep Fell when you so conveniently disappeared! I was lucky the witch didn't do away with me on the spot! And then I was dragged off to Strabo's den and offered to him as a snack! But all that made precious little difference to you, did it? Thanks for nothing!"
"You are quite welcome," Dirk replied calmly. "I would remind you once again, however, that I signed on as a companion, not as a protector. Besides, it appears you have suffered no harm in my absence."
"But I might have, damn it!" Ben couldn't help himself. He was sick of the cat appearing and disappearing like some wraith. "I might have been fried in dragon oil for all the good you'd have done me!"
"Might have, could have, may have, should have — the haves and the have nots reduced to pointless possibilities." Dirk yawned. "You would do better to forget flogging dead horses and try rounding up a few live ones."
Ben glared. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you have something more important on your mind than chastising me for imagined wrongs."
Ben paused, remembering suddenly his dream, the search he had undertaken, the golden bridle, the black unicorn, Meeks, and all the rest of the puzzle he still didn't understand. Ah, and Willow! Thoughts of the sylph pushed all others aside. I love her, he told himself, trying the words on for size. He found them unexpectedly comfortable.
"There are those who theorize that our dreams are simply manifestations of our subconscious thoughts and desires," Dirk mused, as if delivering an offhand dissertation. "Dreams do not often portray accurately the events upon which those thoughts and desires are formed, but they do demonstrate quite vividly the emotions behind them. We find ourselves involved in bizarre situations and disjointed events, and our tendency is often to dismiss the dream out-of-hand — a self-conscious response. But hidden within the thrashings of our subconscious is a kernel of truth about ourselves that needs to be understood — truth that sometimes we have refused to recognize while awake and now demands recognition while we sleep."
He paused for dramatic effect. "Love is sometimes such a truth."
Ben pushed himself upright, stared at this cat turned philosopher a moment, and then shook his head. "Is all this in reference to Willow?" he asked.
Dirk blinked. "Of course, sometimes dreams lie and the truth can be found only in waking."
"Like with my dream of Miles?" Ben found the cat's conversation needlessly convoluted. "Why don't you just say what you mean for once?"
Dirk blinked again. "Because I am a cat."
"Oh. Sure." The standard answer again.
"Because some things you simply have to figure out for yourself."
"Right."
"Something you have not proven very adept at doing, I'm afraid."
"Certainly not."
"Despite my continuing efforts."
"Hmmmmm." Ben experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to throttle the beast. To suppress the feeling, he glanced about instead at his still sleeping companions. "Why isn't anyone but me awake yet?" he demanded.
Dirk glanced about with him. "Perhaps they are simply very tired," the cat suggested amiably.
Ben gave him a hard look. "What did you do — employ a bit of magic? Fairy magic? As Questor did with me? You did, didn't you?"
"A bit."
"But why? I mean, why bother?"
Dirk rose, stretched, and jumped down next to Ben, pointedly ignoring him. He began to wash himself and continued to do so until he had cleaned himself thoroughly, fur carefully ruffled and smoothed back in place again.
Then he faced Ben, emerald eyes gleaming in the faint dawn light. "The problem is, you do not listen. I tell you everything you need to know, but you do not seem to hear any of it. It really is distressing." He sighed deeply. "I let your companions sleep to demonstrate to you one final lesson about dreams. So much of your understanding of what has happened depends on your understanding of how dreams work. Watch, now, what occurs when your friends awake. And try to pay attention this time, will you? My patience wears exceedingly thin."
Ben grimaced. Edgewood Dirk settled back on his haunches. Together they waited for something to happen. After a moment, Questor Thews stirred, then Abernathy, and finally the gnomes. One by one, they blinked the sleep from their eyes and sat up.
Then they saw Ben, and more especially, Dirk.
"Ah, good morning. High Lord. Good morning. Dirk," Questor greeted brightly. "Slept well the both of you, I hope?"
Abernathy muttered something about all cats being night creatures and not needing sleep anyway, even prism cats, and how it was a waste of time to worry about any of them.
Fillip and Sot eyed Dirk as they would a long-awaited dinner and showed not the slightest trace of fear.
Ben stared in bewilderment, the conversation continuing on about him as if the cat's presence were perfectly normal. No one seemed surprised that the cat was there. Questor and Abernathy were behaving as if his appearance was entirely expected. The gnomes were behaving the way they had at their first encounter with Dirk; neither seemed to remember what their eagerness to make Dirk a meal had cost them.
Ben listened a moment as the others talked and bustled about, then glanced in confusion at the cat. "What...?"
"Their dreams, High Lord," Dirk whispered, interrupting. "I let them discover me in their dreams. I was real to them there, so I am real to them here. Don't you see? Truth is sometimes simply what we perceive it to be — in waking or in dreams."
Ben didn't see. He had paid close attention, he had listened as instructed, and he still didn't see. What was the point of all this and what did it have to do with him?
But there was no more time to consider the matter. A shout from Abernathy — or rather a sort of bark — captured the attention of all. The boughs at the edge of the grove of fir parted and who should appear but Parsnip. Bunion had him in tow, both of them soaked through by the storm, both grimacing ear to ear those wicked, toothy grins. Ben froze. Parsnip was supposed to be guarding Willow! Shaking off his paralysis, he hastened forward with Questor and Abernathy to greet the wiry little creatures, stopped short at the hard, suspicious look directed at him by Parsnip — who, after all, had no idea yet who he was — and finally backed off a step at Questor's urging. Questor and Bunion conversed briefly back and forth in the rough, guttural language of the kobolds with occasional interjections by Parsnip, and then Questor turned hurriedly to Ben.
"Parsnip has kept watch over Willow since she left Sterling Silver, High Lord — just as you commanded — until yesterday. She dismissed him without reason. When he wouldn't leave her, she used the fairy magic and slipped away. Even a kobold can't stay with a sylph when she doesn't wish it. She has the golden bridle, and... and she searches for the black unicorn." He shook his owlish features at the look on Ben's face and tugged worriedly at his white beard. "I know. I don't understand this last either, High Lord, and neither does Parsnip. Apparently she has decided not to take the bridle to you as her dream instructed!"
Ben fought off the sudden lurch in his stomach. What did this mean, he wondered? "Where is she now?" he asked instead.
Questor shook his head. "Her trail leads north into the Melchor." He hesitated. "Bunion says she appears to be traveling toward Mirwouk!"
Mirwouk? Where the missing books of magic had been hidden? Why would she go there? Ben felt his frustration increase.
"There is more, High Lord," Abernathy interjected solemnly, ignoring the warning tug on his tunic sleeve from Questor. "Strabo and Nightshade are at hunt — presumably for you. Willow, and the bridle. And a demon — a huge, flying thing, a thing that answers to no one, it seems — is rumored to scour the whole of the valley. Bunion saw it last night."
"Meeks' pet," Ben whispered, remembering suddenly the monster that had appeared at the dance of the River Master's nymphs and destroyed them. His face tightened.
Edgewood Dirk and the matter of dreams were forgotten. He thought now only of Willow. "We have to reach her before they do," he announced, his voice sounding hollow in his ears as he fought down the fear that raced through him. "We have to. We're all she has."
Everyone reacted. Abernathy barked sharply at the G'home Gnomes and turned the kobolds about once more. Questor put a reassuring hand on Ben's arm. "We will find her. High Lord. You can depend upon it."
Quickly they departed into the wastelands, the stranger who was High Lord, the wizard and the scribe, the kobolds and the gnomes.
Edgewood Dirk sat quietly and watched them go.
Willow felt the glare of the midday heat on her face through breaks in the forest trees and was suddenly thirsty. She made her way gingerly around an outcropping of rock that jutted from the ever-steepening slope, climbed to a shelf of tall grass and brush that disappeared ahead into a grove of deeply shaded fir, and paused to look back. Landover spread away below, an irregular checkerboard of fields and forests, hills and plains, rivers and lakes, swatches of blues and greens with brush strokes of pastel interspersed like webbing. Sunlight poured down over the valley from a cloudless blue sky and deepened the colors until they blinded with their brilliance.
Willow sighed. It seemed impossible that anything could be wrong on a day such as this.
She was deep within the Melchor now, past the threshold of hardwood forests, past the higher plateau of pine-wooded foothills, a fair distance up into the main peaks. The sun was sharp and hot this day where the shade failed to screen away its light, and the climb was thirsty work. Willow carried no water with her; she relied on her instincts to find what she needed. Her instincts had failed her these past few hours since leaving the foothills, but now she sensed water to be close again.
Nevertheless, she stayed where she was a moment longer and looked out across the valley in silent contemplation. Far, far distant to the south she could just catch a glimpse of the misted island that was Sterling Silver, and she thought of Ben. She wished he were here with her or that she understood why it was that she wasn't there with him. She looked out across the valley and felt as if she were all alone in the world.
What was she doing here?
She felt burdened by the weight of the woolen-bundled harness she wore draped across her right shoulder, and she shrugged it off and let it drop into her hands. A burst of sunlight flashed sharply from a stray bit of trapping that slipped from beneath the covering folds. The bridle of spun gold clinked softly. She covered it over and shifted it to her other shoulder. The bridle was heavy, the woven threads and fastenings more cumbersome than she would have believed. She adjusted it carefully and straightened She had been fortunate that the dragon had agreed to give it to her. All the fairy songs, music, tears, and laughter had been potent magic indeed. Strabo had been charmed She was still surprised that the ploy had been successful She was still mystified that she had known somehow that it would be. Dreams, visions, and hunches — such were the vicissitudes that had driven her these past few days, a stray leaf blown by the wind.
Last night it had been a dream again. She frowned af its memory, her smooth, lovely face lined with worry Last night, the dream had been of Ben.
A breath of wind swept back her waist-length hair and cooled her skin. She remembered her need to drink, but stayed yet another moment to think of her High Lord The dream had been strange again, a mix of real and surreal, a jumble of fears and hopes. She had come upon the black unicorn once more, the creature hidden in woods and shadows, no demon this time but a hunted thing, frightened and alone. She had feared it, but wept at its terror. What frightened it was uncertain, but the look it spared her was unmistakable. Come to me, it had whispered. Put aside your plan to carry back the bridle of spun gold to Sterling Silver and your High Lord. Forego your race from the demon you fear me to be and seek instead the truth of what I am. Willow, come to me.
A single look had said all that, so clear, so certain — a dream, and yet real. So she had come, trusting to her fairy instincts as she had always trusted, believing that they alone of all her senses could not be deceived. She had abandoned the call of the first dream that would have taken her to Ben and gone instead in search of...
Of what? Truth?
"Why are the dreams so different?" she questioned softly. "Why am I made so confused?"
Sunlight sparkled off distant waters and forest leaves rippled in the passing wind, but no answers came. She breathed the air deeply and turned away. The shadows of the forest drew her to them, and she let herself be swallowed. Mirwouk was near, she realized in surprise — not more than several miles distant, just beyond the peak she climbed. The fact registered briefly and was forgotten. The broad swath of midday sunlight faded into a scattering of narrow bands, and the shade was cool on her heated skin. She worked her way back into the forest trees, massive fir and pine, seeking the water she knew was hidden there. She found it quickly, a small stream trickling down out of the rocks into a pool and meandering from there to a series of shallows and runs. She laid the bridle carefully on the ground next to her and bent to drink. The water was sweet and welcome to her dry throat. She knelt a long time in the stillness.
The seconds slipped away into minutes. When she lifted her head again, the black unicorn stood across from her.
Her breath caught in her throat and she froze. The unicorn was no more than a dozen paces off, half within shadow, half within pale, filtered sunlight. It was a vision of grace and wonder, slender body as ephemeral as a reflection of love remembered, presence as glorious as a rainbow's sweep. It did not move, but simply regarded her. Ebony body with goat's feet and lion's tail, eyes of green fire, immortal life — all the songs of all the bards through all the ages of the world could not begin to express what the unicorn truly was.
Willow felt a rush of emotion tear through her, stripping bare her soul. She felt her heart begin to break with the ecstasy of it. She had never seen a unicorn and never thought it would be like this. There were tears in her eyes, and she swallowed uncontrollably against what she was. feeling.
"Oh, you beautiful thing," she whispered.
Her voice was so soft that she believed only she could hear her words. But the unicorn nodded in response, and the ridged horn shone brightly with magic. The green eyes fixed upon her with new intensity and flared from some inner well of being. Willow felt something seize hold within her. Her hand groped blindly the earth next to her and came to rest at last upon the bridle.
Oh, I must have you, she thought. I must make you mine!
But the eyes held her and she could not move to act upon her need. The eyes held her, and they whispered ot something remembered from the dream.
Come to me, they said. Seek me.
She felt herself flush with the heat of that memory and then go cool. She saw the memory reflected in her eyes, in her mind, and in her heart. She looked across the tiny stream of water as it rushed and gurgled over the rocks in the forest stillness, and the stream was a river she could not bridge. She listened to the singing of birds in the trees, a mingling of songs that cheered and heartened, and the sound became the voice of all her secrets revealed.
She felt magic rage within her in waves of insistence she had never known could exist. She no longer belonged to herself; she belonged now to the unicorn. She would have done anything for it. Anything.
Then, in the next instant, it was gone, disappearing so suddenly and so completely that it might never have been. Indeed, she wondered — had it? Willow stared at the space the black unicorn had occupied, an emptiness of mingled light and shadow, and she fought against the sharpness of her pain.
Had she seen the unicorn? Truly seen it? Had it been real?
The questions left her dazed. She could not move.
Then, slowly, purposefully, she rose to her feet, shouldered again the golden bridle, and moved with quiet determination in search of her answers.
She searched all that day. Yet she did not search so much as follow, for there was a sense of being led that she could not explain. She climbed through the tangle of rocks and trees and scrub that carpeted the uneven heights of the Melchor and sought a thing that might not even be. She thought she saw the black unicorn several times more, brief flashes only — an ebony flank, an emerald eye, a ridged horn shining with magic. It did not occur to her that her efforts might be misdirected. She chased quite deliriously and without regret. She knew that the unicorn was there, just beyond her reach. She could feel it waiting for her; she could sense it watching. She did not know its purpose, but she was certain of its need.
Nightfall found her less than a mile west of Mirwouk, exhausted, still alone. She had traversed the forest all about the aging, crumbling fortress. She had retraced her own steps several times. She was no nearer the black unicorn than she had been when she had first spied it, but she was as determined as ever that she would catch up to it. At dawn, she would try again.
She lay down within a sheltering of birch, hugged the bridle of spun gold within its woolen covering close against her breast, and let the cool night air wash over her. Slowly the heat of the day faded, and her exhaustion slipped away. She slept undisturbed and dreamed once more.
Her dream this night was of dozens of white unicorns chained and fettered and begging to be set free. The dream was like a fever that would not break.
From shadows close at hand, eyes of green fire kept watch through the night.
* * *
Ben Holiday and his companions spent that night within the Melchor as well, although they were still some distance from Mirwouk and Willow. They were camped just above the foothills leading into the mountains and lucky to be that far. It had taken them the better part of the day just to get out of the wastelands, and they had trekked on through the late afternoon and evening to reach the base of the mountains. Ben had insisted. The kobolds had found Willow's tracks near sundown, and Ben thought they might catch up to her yet that day. It was only after complete darkness had set in and Questor had pleaded with Ben to be reasonable that the search was temporarily abandoned.
It resumed at daybreak, and the little company found itself less than a mile below Mirwouk by midmorning. It was then that matters began to grow confusing.
The confusion was manifold. In the first place, Willow's trail was leading toward Mirwouk. Since she wasn't carrying the golden bridle to Ben — or Meeks disguised as Ben — it was somewhat uncertain what it was that she was doing with it. Possibly she was searching for the black unicorn, although that didn't make much sense, since in her dream the black unicorn had been a demon creature that threatened her, and she still didn't know that the dream had been sent by Meeks. Whatever she was doing. she was definitely going toward Mirwouk, and Mirwouk was where Questor's dream had taken him in search of the missing books of wizard magic and where, in fact, the missing books had been found.
In the second place, the kobolds had discovered that twice already Willow's tracks had retraced themselves. Sylphs were fairy creatures and not in the habit of getting lost, so that meant either she was searching for something or following something. But there was no indication at all of what that might be.
In the third place, Edgewood Dirk was still among the missing. No one had seen the cat since they had departed their shelter of two nights earlier, following Bunion's return with Parsnip and the news of Willow's tracks. Ben hadn't paid much attention to Dirk's absence until now, too caught up in his search for Willow really to notice. But confronting these other puzzles had led him almost without thinking to look around for Dirk, perhaps in the vain hope of getting a straight answer from the beast for once; but Dirk was nowhere to be found.
Ben took it all in stride. There wasn't much any of them could do to clear up the confusion just now, so he simply ordered them to press on.
They crossed Willow's tracks a third time within a stone's throw of Mirwouk, and this time the kobolds hesitated. The new trail was fresher than the old. Should they follow it?
Ben nodded and they did.
By midday, they had circled Mirwouk almost completely and crossed Willow's tracks yet a fourth time. Now she was moving away from the aged fortress. Bunion studied the tracks for several minutes, his face almost pressed up against the earth in his effort to read the markings. He announced finally that he couldn't tell which tracks were more recent. All seemed quite fresh.
The members of the little company stood staring at each other for a moment, undecided. Sweat lay in a thin sheen across the faces of Ben and Questor, and the G'home Gnomes were whining that they were thirsty. Abernathy was panting. Dust covered all of them like a mist. Eyes squinted against the glaring light of the sun, and faces grimaced and tightened with discomfort. They were all weary and cross and they were all sick and tired of running around in circles.
Though anxious to continue, Ben was nevertheless reluctantly considering the idea of a lunch break and a brief rest when a crashing sound brought him sharply about. The crashing sound was of stone breaking and falling. It was coming from the direction of Mirwouk.
He looked at the others questioningly, but no one seemed anxious to venture an opinion.
"Couldn't hurt to check it out at least," Ben declared and resolutely started off to investigate, the others trailing with various degrees of enthusiasm.
They picked their way upward through the tangle of scrub and trees, watching the crumbling walls and towers of Mirwouk appear through breaks in the branches and rise up before them. Parapets loomed against the skyline, ragged and broken, and shutteriess windows gaped emptily. Bats darted past in shadowy bursts and cried out sharply. Ahead, the crashing sounds continued — almost as if something was trapped and trying to break free. The minutes slipped away. The little company approached the sagging gates of the fortress and drew to a halt, listening.
The crashing sounds had stopped.
"I don't like this one bit," Abernathy announced darkly.
"High Lord, perhaps we ought to..." Questor Thews began, then stopped as he saw a look of disapproval cross Ben's face.
"Perhaps we ought to have a look," Ben finished.
So they did, Ben leading, the kobolds a step behind, the others trailing. They passed through the gates, crossed the broad outer courtyard beyond, and slipped into the passageway that ran from the secondary wall to the inner courtyard and the main buildings. The passageway was long and dark and it smelled of rot. Ben wrinkled his nose in distaste and hurried ahead. There was still only silence.
Ben reached the end of the tunnel a dozen steps ahead of everyone and was thinking to himself that he might have been smarter to send Bunion ahead to look things over when he caught sight of the stone giant. It was huge and ugly, a featureless, rough-hewn monstrosity that looked like the beginning stages of some novice sculptor's efforts at a tribute to Hercules. It appeared to be just a grotesque statue at first, standing there in the middle of the inner courtyard amid a pile of stone rubble. But then the statue moved, turning with a ponderous effort that sounded of rock grating on rock, and it became immediately apparent that this particular statue was very much alive.
Ben stared in bewilderment, not quite certain yet what to do. A sudden tumult rose from the tunnel behind him, and the others of the company emerged in a rush and practically ran over him in their haste to get clear. The G'home Gnomes were no longer whining; they were howling like injured cats. Abernathy and Questor were both yelling at once, and the kobolds were hissing and showing all their teeth in an unmistakable display of hostility. It took Ben a moment to realize that they weren't responding to anything they saw at this end of the tunnel but to something they had seen at the other.
Ben peered hurriedly past the frenzied group, neck craning. A second stone giant had entered the passageway and was lumbering toward them.
Questor grasped his elbow as if he might strangle it. "High Lord, that is a Flynt! It will smash us to dust if we let it get close enough...! Ecchhh!" He saw the second one now, as it, too, lumbered forward. "Two of them! Run, High Lord — this way!"
The kobolds were already moving, leading the pack of them across the courtyard to an entryway that disappeared into the fortress proper. The first Flynt had joined the second and both were in pursuit, shambling giants that moved like bulldozers.
The company burst through the entryway and galloped up a flight of stairs.
"What's a Flynt?" Ben demanded of Questor as they fled. "I don't remember your telling me anything about Flynts!"
"I probably didn't tell you anything, High Lord," Questor acknowledged, breathing hard now. His robes tangled in his feet and he almost went down. "Drat!" He straightened, moving quickly on. "Flynts are aberrations — a creation of old magic, stone monsters brought to life. Very dangerous! They were sentinels of this fortress once, but I thought they were all destroyed centuries ago. Wizards created them. They don't think, they don't eat, they don't sleep, they barely see or smell — but they hear everything. Their intended purpose was to keep intruders out of Mirwouk, but of course that was a long time ago, so who knows what they think their purpose might be now? They seem rather intent on just smashing things. Ugh!" He slowed momentarily and somehow managed to look genuinely thoughtful. "Odd that I didn't come across them when I was here last."
Ben rolled his eyes and pulled the wizard ahead.
They reached the top of the stairwell and emerged on a parapet roof about the size of a tennis court. Rubble littered the playing surface. There were no referees in sight and only one other way out — a second stairwell at the far end. The company broke for it as one.
When they reached it, they found it blocked with enough timber and stone to build a set of bleachers.
"Wonderful!" Ben groaned.
"I told you I didn't like this!" Abernathy declared with a bark that surprised everyone.
The Flynts emerged from the far stairwell, looked slowly about, and began to lumber toward them. Bunion and Parsnip moved protectively in front of the others.
Now it was Ben's turn to grab Questor. "The kobolds can't stop those things, damn it! Dredge up some magic!"
Questor moved hurriedly forward, robes flying, tall figure swaying as if he might topple over. He muttered something unintelligible, lifted his arms skyward, and brought them down in a grand sweep. Funnel clouds sprang up from out of nowhere, picked up the loose rubble, and hurtled it at the approaching stone monsters. Unfortunately, the funnel clouds also hurtled some of it back at Questor. The rubble bounced harmlessly off the Flynts. It did not bounce harmlessly off Questor; the wizard went down in a heap, unconscious and bleeding.
Ben and the kobolds rushed to pull the wizard back from further harm. The Flynts still lumbered forward, stone blocks and rubble cracking like deadwood beneath their massive feet.
Ben knelt anxiously. "Questor! Get up! We need you!" He slapped the fallen wizard's face desperately, rubbed his wrists, and shook him. Questor didn't move. His owlish face was pale beneath the blood.
Ben leaped back to his feet. Individually, perhaps, the members of the little company were swift and agile enough to evade these stone monsters. Perhaps. But that was before Questor's injury. No one would get away trying to carry out the wizard, and they were certainly not about to leave him. Ben seized the medallion frantically and let go just as quickly. Useless. He was Meeks' creation now, his medallion a worthless imitation. There could be no help from the magic; there could be no summons to the Paladin.
But he had to do something!
"Abernathy!"
The dog's cold nose shoved into his ear, and he jerked away. "High Lord?"
"These things can't see, taste, or smell — but they can hear, right? Hear anything? Anything even close to Mirwouk, maybe?"
"I am given to understand that the Flynts can hear a pin drop at fifty paces, though I often..."
"Never mind the editorials!" Ben pulled the dog about to face him, furry features held close, glasses glinting with sunlight. "Can you hit high C?"
Abernathy blinked. "High Lord?"
"High C, damn it — can you howl loud enough to hit high C?" The Flynts were no more than a dozen paces off. "Well, can you?"
"I don't see..."
"Yes or no!"
He was shaking his scribe. Abernathy's muzzle drew back, and he barked right in Ben's face. "Yes!"
"Then do it!" Ben screamed.
The whole roof seemed to be shaking. The G'home Gnomes had fastened themselves to Ben once more, crying, "Great High Lord, mighty High Lord" in chorus and wailing like lost souls. The kobolds were crouched in front of him, ready to spring. The Flynts looked like tanks bearing down.
Then Abernathy began to howl.
He hit high C on the first try, a frightening wail that drowned out the G'home Gnomes and expanded the grimaces on the faces of the kobolds into a whole new dimension. The wail lifted and spread, cutting through everything with the tenacity of gastrically induced stress The Flynts stopped in their tracks and their massive hands came up against the sides of their heads with a crash as they tried in vain to shut out the sound. It came at them relentlessly — Ben would never have believed Abernathy capable of such sustained agony — and all the while, they battered at themselves.
Finally, the pounding proved to be too much, and the Flynts simply shattered and fell apart. Heads, arms, torsos, and legs collapsed into piles of useless rock. The dust rose and settled again, and nothing moved.
Abernathy stopped howling, and there was a moment of strained silence. The scribe straightened and glared at Ben with undisguised fury. "I have never been so humiliated, High Lord!" he snarled. "Howling like a dog, indeed! I have debased myself in a way I would not have thought possible!"
Ben cleared his throat. "You saved our lives," he pointed out simply. "That's what you did."
Abernathy started to say something more, stopped, and simply continued to glare voicelessly. Finally he took a deep breath of air, exhaled, straightened some more, sniffed distastefully, and said, "When we get those books of magic back, the first thing you will do with them is find a way to turn me back into a human being!"
Ben hastily masked the smile that would have been his undoing. "Agreed. The first thing."
Hurriedly they picked up Questor Thews and carried him back down the stairway and out of Mirwouk. They encountered no further Flynts. Perhaps the two they had escaped had been the last, Ben thought as they hastened back into the trees.
"Still, it is odd that Questor didn't see them the first time," he repeated the wizard's observation to no one in particular.
"Odd? Not so odd if you consider the possibility that Meeks put them there after he had the books, expressly to prevent anyone from coming back into the fortress!" Abernathy huffed. He would not look at Ben. "Really, High Lord — I would have thought you could figure that one out by yourself!"
Ben endured the admonishment silently. He could have figured it out by himself, but he hadn't, so what was there to say? What he couldn't figure out now was why Meeks would bother placing guards at Mirwouk. After all, the missing books of magic were already in his possession!
He dropped that question into the hopper with all the other unanswered questions and concentrated on helping the others lay Questor on a patch of shaded grass. Parsnip wiped away the dust and blood from the wizard's face and brought him out of his stupor. Questor recovered after a brief period of treatment, Parsnip patched up his injuries and the little company was back on its feet, once more.
"This time we follow Willow's tracks — however many of them there are — until we find her!" Ben declared resolutely.
"Ifwe find her," Abernathy muttered.
But no one heard him and off they went again.
The heat of the midday sun settled down across the forests of the Melchor in a suffocating blanket and turned its cooling shadows tepid and dank. Morning breezes died away and the air grew thick and still. Insects hummed their toneless songs, leaves hung limp from their branches, and the warm-blooded life of the woodland lay patient and quiet. There was a slowing of time and purpose.
Willow paused at the base of a giant white oak, the weight of the spun gold bridle tugging relentlessly downward on her shoulders where it lay draped across them. A bright sheen of sweat coated the pale green skin of her face and hands, and her lips parted slightly as she worked harder to catch her breath. She had been walking since sunrise, following the black unicorn as it came and went in wisps of dream and shadow, trailing after as if she were a stray bit of dust drawn on in the wake of its passing. She had traveled the whole of the Melchor about Mirwouk half-a-dozen times over, crossing and recrossing her trail time after time, a senseless journey of whim and chance. She was west of Mirwouk now, scarcely a mile from the aged fortress, but she was barely aware of it, and it would have made no difference to her had she taken the time to think about it. She had long since ceased to care about anything but the subject of her search; all else had become irrelevant.
She must find the unicorn. She must know its truth.
She let her eyes glaze slightly with the memory of last night's dream and wondered anew at its meaning.
Then she drew herself upright and continued on, a frail and tiny bit of life amid the giant trees of the mountain forest, a child strayed. She worked her way slowly through a grove of fir and pine clustered so thick that the boughs interlocked, barely glanced at a stand of Bonnie Blues beyond, and pressed upward along a gentle slope that led to a meadow plateau. She picked her way with careful steps, remembering wearily that she had passed this way before — once, twice, more? She wasn't certain It didn't matter. She listened to the sound of her heart pounding through her neck and in her ears. It was very loud. It was almost the only sound in the forest. It became the measure of each step she took.
How much farther? she wondered as the heat pressed down. When am I to stop?
She crested the meadowline, paused in the shadow of a long-limbed crimson maple, and closed her eyes against the uncertainty. When she opened them again, the black unicorn stood facing her.
"Oh!" she breathed softly.
The unicorn stood at the center of the meadow, framed in a splash of unclouded sunlight. It was ink black, so perfectly opaque that it might have been sculpted from midnight's shadows. It faced her, head lifted, mane and tail limp in the breezeless air, a statue carved out of ageless ebony. The green eyes regarded her steadily and within their depths called to her. She breathed the sullen heat into her lungs and felt the scorch of the sun's brightness. She listened. The eyes of the unicorn spoke soundlessly, images caught and reflected from dreams remembered and visions lost. She listened, and she knew.
The chase was over. The black unicorn would run from her no longer. It was to this time and place that she had been brought. It only remained for her to discover why.
She came forward tentatively, still half expecting with every step she took that the unicorn would disappear, that it would bolt and run. It did not. It simply stood there — motionless, dreamlike. She slipped the bridle from her shoulders and held it loosely in her hands before her, letting the unicorn see it clearly. Sunlight danced off the traces and fastenings, brilliant flashes that pierced the forest shadows. The unicorn waited. Willow passed from the shade of the crimson maple into the meadow's sunshine, and the sweltering heat enveloped her. Her sea green eyes blinked away a sudden film of moisture, and she shook back her long hair. The unicorn did not move.
She was only a dozen feet from the creature when abruptly she slowed and then stopped. She could not go on. Waves of fear, suspicion, and doubt washed through her, a mingling of whispers that cried out in sudden warning. What was she doing? What was she thinking? The black unicorn was a creature of such ill fortune that no one who had come close to it had been seen again! It was the demon of her dreams! It was the nightmare that had pursued her in her sleep, hunting her as death would!
She felt the weight of the fairy creature's eyes settle on her. She felt its presence as she would a sickness. She struggled to break and run and could not. Desperately, she fought against the emotions that threatened to consume her and banished them. She took deep, long breaths of the sullen midday air and forced herself to look into the creature's emerald eyes. She kept her gaze fixed. There was no hint of sickness or death in those eyes — no hint of demon evil. There was gentleness and warmth — and need.
She came forward another few steps.
Then something new slowed her. There was a flash of intuition that swept her mind momentarily, quick and certain. Ben was near, come in search of... of what?
"Ben?" she whispered, waiting.
But there was no one. She was alone with the unicorn She did not look away from the creature, but she sensed nevertheless that they were alone. She wet her lips and came forward again.
And again she stopped. Her breast heaved. "I cannot touch you," she murmured to the flawless, impossible wondrous fairy thing. "I cannot. It will be the end of me if I do."
She knew it was so. She knew it instinctively, the way she had always known. No one could touch a unicorn; no one had that right. It belonged to a realm of beauty that no mortal creature should ever attempt to transcend, had wandered into Landover, a bit of some rainbow broken off from its dark storm's end arc, and it should never be held by hands such as hers. Memories of legends and songs whispered in snatches of warning. She felt tears start down her cheeks and her breath catch in her throat.
Beautiful thing, I cannot...
But she did. Almost before she realized what was happening, she was covering those last few paces in quick, mechanical steps, moving without thinking about what she was doing, reaching out to the midnight creature, and placing the bridle of spun gold gently, carefully about its waiting head. She brushed its silken face with her finger as she worked, and the touch was electric. She felt the whisper of its mane against the backs of her hands, and the sensation was rife with wonder. Fresh images sprang unbidden into her thoughts, jumbled and not yet understandable, but irresistible nevertheless. She touched the unicorn freely now, reveling in the sensations it caused within her. She could not seem to help herself. She could not stop. She was crying anew, her emotions all uncovered, brought close to the surface of her being. Tears ran down her cheeks as she began to sob uncontrollably.
"I love you," she cried desperately, her hands falling away at last when the bridle was in place. "Oh, I love you so much, you beautiful, wondrous thing!"
The black unicorn's horn shone white with magic as it held her gaze, and there were tears now in its eyes as well. For a single moment, they were joined.
Then the moment was gone, and the world beyond intruded with a rush. A huge, dark shadow passed overhead and settled earthward at the clearing's far edge. In the same instant, a familiar scattering of voices called her name frantically from the clearing's other end. Her dreams took life, their images suddenly, terrifyingly all about. Whispers of the warnings that had brought her to this moment turned abruptly to screams of dismay in her mind.
She felt the black unicorn shudder violently next to her and watched the white magic of its horn flare. But it did not bolt into the woods. Whatever happened next, it would run no further.
So be it. Neither would she.
Woodenly, she turned to discover their fate.
* * *
Ben Holiday burst from the trees into the meadow and stopped so abruptly that the others of the little company who followed after stumbled into him in their eagerness to keep up and knocked him forward another few steps. They were all yelling at once, calling out to Willow in warning where she stood at the meadow's center, the black unicorn at her side. The shadow of the winged demon had passed overhead a moment earlier, a monstrous cloud against the sun. It was only the worst of luck that could have brought them all together at this same place and time, but the worst of luck seemed to be the only luck Ben could count on. He had tracked Willow to this meadow after escaping the Flynts, believing the worst to be behind him. Now the demon had found them. He saw again in his mind the River Master's doomed nymphs as the demon burned them to ash and he thought of his promise to the Earth Mother to protect Willow. But he was helpless to do that. How was he going to protect Willow without the medallion?
The demon flew overhead a second time, but it did not attack the sylph or the unicorn or even Ben's little group. Instead, it settled slowly earthward at the clearing's far edge, leathered wings folding in against its body, breath steaming with a hiss. Ben squinted against the sunlight There was a rider atop the demon. The rider was Meeks.
And Meeks, of course, appeared to everyone watching to be Ben.
Ben heard muttered whispers of surprise and confusion from those crowded up behind him. He watched himself climb slowly down from the demon; and even he had to admit that Meeks looked exactly like him. His companions quit yelling, momentary indecision settling in. Ben could feel their eyes bore into his back and could sense the clouds of doubt gathering. He had told them who he was and they had believed him, more or less, until now. But actually seeing Ben Holiday standing there in that clearing across from them was something else altogether...
Then the black unicorn trumpeted, a high, eerie call, and everyone turned. The fairy beast stamped and its nostrils flared, the bridle of spun gold dancing against the sunlight with each toss of its delicate head. Magic flashed in its ridged horn. The unicorn was a thing of impossible beauty and it drew the eyes of all gathered like moths to the light. It shuddered, but held its ground against the weight of their stares. It seemed to be searching for something.
Slowly Willow turned from the unicorn and began to look about as well. Her gaze was curiously empty.
Ben wasn't sure what was happening, but he decided almost instantly not to wait to find out. "Willow!" he called to the sylph, and her eyes fixed on him. "Willow, it's me, Ben!" He came forward a few steps, saw the lack of recognition in her eyes, and stopped. "Listen to me. Listen carefully. I know I don't look like myself. But it is me. Meeks is responsible for everything that's happened. He's come back into Landover and stolen the throne. He's changed me into this. Worse, he's made himself look like me. That's not me over there — that's Meeks!"
She turned now to look over at Meeks, saw Ben's face and body, and gave a quick gasp. But she saw the demon as well. She took a step forward, stopped, and stepped slowly back again.
"Willow, it's all right," Meeks called out to her in Ben's voice. "Bring the unicorn to me. Pass me the reins of the bridle."
"No!" Ben yelled frantically. "No, Willow!" He came forward another few steps, stopping quickly as Willow started to back away. "Willow, don't do it. Meeks sent the dreams — all of them. He has the medallion. He has the missing books of magic. Now he wants the unicorn! I don't know why, but you can't let him have it! Please!"
"Willow, be careful of what you see," Meeks warned in a quiet, soothing voice. "The stranger is dangerous, and the magic he wields confuses. Come over to me before he reaches you."
Ben was beside himself. "Look at whom I'm with, for God's sake! Questor, Abernathy, Bunion, Parsnip, Fillip, and Sot!" He turned and beckoned to those behind him. But no one came forward. No one seemed quite sure that they should. Ben felt a hint of desperation creep into his voice as he faced Willow anew. "Why would they be with me if I'm not who I say I am? They know the truth of things!" He wheeled about once more, anger in his voice. "Damn it, Questor, say something to her!"
The wizard hesitated, seemed to consider the advisability of doing what Ben asked, then straightened. "Yes, he speaks the truth. He is the High Lord, Willow," he said finally.
There were muttered hissings and murmurings of agreement from the others, including a few pleas of "Save us, great High Lord, mighty High Lord" from the G'home Gnomes, who were hiding now behind Questor's robes.
Ben turned back. "Willow, come over here quickly! Please! Get away!"
But now Meeks had come forward several paces and he was smiling Ben's most reassuring smile. "Willow, I love you," he told her. "I love you and I want to protect you. Come here to me. What you see from the stranger is all illusion. He has no support from our friends; they are just false images. You can see the truth of things if you look. Do you see me? Am I anyone different from the one I always was? What you are hearing are lies! Remember the dream! You must pick up the reins of the bridle and bring the black unicorn to me to be safe from the dangers that threaten! These illusions pretending friendship are the dangers of your dream! Come to me now and be safe!"
Willow was looking first one way and then the other, confusion evident in her face. Behind her, the black unicorn stamped and snorted delicately, a bit of shadow caught in the sunlight, bound in place by ties no one else could see. Ben was frantic. He had to do something!
"Show me the rune stone!" Willow called out suddenly, head jerking from Ben to Meeks and back again. "Let me see the stone I gave you!"
Ben went cold. The rune stone, the milky-colored talisman that warned of danger when it threatened. "I don't have it!" he called back helplessly. "I lost it when..."
"I have it right here!" Meeks announced in triumph, cutting him short. The wizard reached beneath his robes and brought forth the rune stone — or something that appeared to be the rune stone — glowing bright red. He held it up for inspection.
"Ben!" Willow asked softly, some of the hope coming back into her face. "Is it you?" Ben felt his stomach lurch as the girl started away from him.
"One moment!" Questor Thews called suddenly, and everyone turned. "You must have dropped this, High Lord," he advised officiously, coming forward a step or two more, the G'home Gnomes shaken free momentarily from his robes. He held out the rune stone Willow had given Ben — at least, his magic made it seem like the stone — and let everyone have a good look. The stone glowed crimson.
Ben had never been more grateful to the wizard in his life. "Thank you, Questor," he breathed quietly.
Willow had stopped again. Slowly, she backed away from them all, the indecision returned. There was fear now in her face as well. "I do not know which of you is Ben," she told them quietly. "Perhaps neither of you."
Her words lingered in the sudden stillness that followed. A frightening tension settled down across the sunlit meadow with its chessboard of frozen figures, each ready to move in a different direction, each poised to strike. Willow pressed back toward the black unicorn, eyes shifting from one set of playing pieces to another, waiting. Behind her, the unicorn had gone still.
I have to do something, Ben told himself once more and wondered frantically what it ought to be.
Then out of the woods strolled Edgewood Dirk. The cat might have been out for an afternoon walk, sauntering with an unconcerned air from the trees, picking its way delicately through the scrub grass and flowers, head and tail held high as it stepped, eyes looking neither right nor left. It paid no attention to any of them. It seemed almost to have stumbled onto things by accident. Dirk walked directly to the center of the clearing, stopped, glanced casually around at those assembled, and sat down.
"Good day," he greeted them.
Meeks let out a shriek that brought them all out of their boots and flung back his cloak. The Ben Holiday disguise shimmered like a reflection in the waters of a pond disturbed by a thrown stone and began to disintegrate. Willow screamed. The wizard's clawed hands lifted and extended, and green fire lanced wickedly toward Edgewood Dirk. But the cat had already begun to change, the small furry body growing, shimmering, and smoothing until it was as crystalline as'a diamond. The wizard fire struck it and broke apart, scattering like refracted light into the sunlit air, showering the trees and grass and scorching the earth.
Ben was racing desperately toward Willow by this time, yelling like a madman. But the sylph was already beyond his reach. Eyes frantic, she had pressed herself back against the black unicorn and seized the golden bridle that bound the fairy creature. The unicorn was stamping and rearing, crying out its own high-pitched, eerie call, and darting back and forth in small dashes. Willow clung to the beast as a frightened child would to its mother, grappling with it, being dragged along as it went — away from Ben.
"Willow!" he howled.
Meeks was still after Edgewood Dirk. The shards of flame from his first attack had barely been scattered when the wizard struck once more. Fire gathered and arced from his hands in a massive ball, rolling and tumbling through the air to explode into the cat. Dirk arched and shuddered, and the flaming ball seemed to absorb itself into the crystalline form. Then the fire exploded out again hurtling itself back toward the wizard in a shower of flairing darts. Meeks threw up his cloak like a shield, and the darts deflected everywhere. Some burned into the hide of the demon crouching behind the wizard and it roared and surged skyward with a rasp of fury.
Smoke and fire burned everywhere, and Ben stumbled on blindly through the haze. Behind him, his companions called out. Overhead, the winged demon blocked the sun, its shadow darkening the meadow like an eclipse. The black unicorn sprang forward with a scream, and Willow flung herself atop it. She might have done so out of instinct or out of need, but the result was the same — she was carried away. The unicorn darted past Ben so quickly he barely saw it. He reached for it, but he was far too slow. He had a brief glimpse of Willow's lithe form clinging to its back, and then both disappeared into the trees.
Then the winged demon attacked. It dropped like a stone toward the meadow, diving from the empty skies, flames bursting from its maw. Ben dropped flat and covered his head. From the corner of one eye, he watched as Dirk shimmered, hunched down against the force of the fire, absorbed it, and thrust it back. Flames hammered into the demon and sent the monster catapulting back. Steam and smoke clogged the meadow air.
Meeks struck again, and Edgewood Dirk repelled the assault. The demon struck, and the cat flung the fire back once more. Ben rose, dropped, rose again, and staggered blindly through the carnage. Shouts and cries reached out to him, and visions floated through the haze before his watering eyes. His hands groped and struggled to hold something, anything — and finally fastened on the medallion.
White heat burned into his palms. For just an instant, he thought he saw the Paladin appear, a faint image somewhere in the distance, a silver, armor-clad figure astride the great white charger.
Then the vision was gone again, a vision that had been impossible in any case. No medallion, no Paladin — Ben knew that. His throat constricted and he choked as the fires of wizard and demon continued to hammer down on Edgewood Dirk and be flung back again. Flowers and grasses burned to black ash. Trees shook and their leaves wilted. The whole world seemed to be in flames.
And finally the meadow itself seemed to explode upward in one vast, heaving cough, steam and fire ripping through everything. Ben felt himself hurtled skyward like a bit of deadwood, flying in a graceless scattering of arms and legs, spinning like a pinwheel.
This is it, he thought just before he tumbled earthward.
This is how it all ends.
Then he struck with jarring force and everything went dark.