Dawn brought a change in the weather in the lake country, and when Ben and Willow awoke, a slow, steady rain was falling. They dressed; ate a light breakfast of fruit, bread and jam, and goat’s milk; wrapped themselves in their travel cloaks; and went out to find the River Master. Elderew was misty and shadowed beneath a ceiling of dark clouds, and the city’s canopy of rain-drenched boughs shed chilly droplets on them as they moved along the deserted trail toward the city. They did not hurry. The River Master would have been advised by now that they were awake. He would come to meet them before they were required to ask for him, because that was the way he was.
Ben glanced about surreptitiously for the Ardsheal but did not see it. He could feel its presence, though. He could sense it watching from the gloom.
The River Master appeared as they neared the city center, standing alone in a clearing through which the trail passed. He greeted Ben with a nod and Willow with a brief embrace, neither gesture offering much in the way of warmth, and advised them that their horses were waiting. He did not ask if they would like to stay longer. Now that he had given them the Ardsheal, he expected them to continue the search for Mistaya. He elicited their promise to keep him advised on their progress. Bunion appeared with Jurisdiction and Crane, his gnarled body hunched and dripping in the gloom, eyes narrowed to yellow slits. As Ben and Willow mounted, the River Master put aside his reserve long enough to declare that if he was needed in the effort to reclaim his granddaughter, they had only to send for him and he would come at once. It was an unexpected deviation from his deliberate distancing of himself from them. Ben and Willow were surprised but did not show it. They took him at his word and rode out.
Wood sprites met them at the edge of the old growth leading down from Elderew to guide them back through the swamp and timber mass that warded the city. Rain continued to fall, a drizzle that turned the ground beneath their horses’ hooves sodden and slick. When their guides had returned them to the more lightly forested country below Elderew, they paused to rest before continuing on.
“Have you seen it yet this morning?” Ben asked Willow as they passed an ale skin back and forth while standing down from their horses beneath the canopy of the trees.
“No,” she replied. “But Bunion has. He said it is tracking us back in the shadows, keeping pace. Bunion doesn’t like having it along any better than I do.”
Ben glanced over. Bunion was crouched to one side in a covering of trees, looking disgruntled. “He certainly appears unhappy, even for him.”
“He considers himself your bodyguard. The presence of the Ardsheal suggests that he isn’t capable of doing his job.”
Ben looked at her. “You don’t think the Ardsheal should be here, either, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, that isn’t what I think at all. I think the Ardsheal will do a better job of protecting you than anyone.” She gave him a long, cool look. “That doesn’t mean I like having it along, though.”
He nodded. “You said as much last night. Why is that?”
She hesitated. “I will tell you later. Tonight.” She was silent for a moment. “I told Bunion that the Ardsheal was a gift from my father and that it would have been impolite and possibly dangerous to refuse it. Bunion accepted that.”
Ben looked at the kobold again. It was staring back at him, yellow eyes glittering.
When it saw Ben looking, it smiled like a hungry alligator.
“Well, I hope you’re right,” he said absently. His gaze shifted to meet hers. “I’ve been thinking. Should we try to contact the Earth Mother? She always seems to know what is happening in Landover. Perhaps she could give us some insight into what’s become of Mistaya and the others. Perhaps she knows something of Rydall.”
Rain dripped off the edge of Willow’s hood onto her nose, and she pulled the hood forward for better protection. “I gave thought to that. But the Earth Mother would have come to me by now in my dreams if she had any help to give. Mistaya is important to her, a promise of some special fulfillment. She would not let her be harmed if there was anything she could do to prevent it.”
Ben prodded a bit of rotting wood with his boot. “I wish some of these people would be more consistent with their help,” he muttered sourly.
She gave him a small smile. “Help is a gift that one must never grow to expect. Now, where do we go from here?”
He shrugged and looked off into the trees again. He hated that he couldn’t see the Ardsheal. It was bad enough being shadowed by his enemies. Did he have to put up with being shadowed by his protector as well?
He sighed. “Well, I can’t see any reason to go back to Sterling Silver. If we do, Rydall will just send another monster. And we won’t be any closer to finding Mistaya.” He frowned as if questioning his own reasoning. “I thought we might go into the Greensward. Kallendbor knows every adversary Landover has ever faced. He has fought against most of them. Perhaps he will know something of Rydall and Marnhull. Perhaps he will have heard something that will help us find Mistaya.”
“Kallendbor isn’t to be trusted,” she advised him quietly.
He nodded. “True. But he has no reason to favor an invading army. Besides, he owes me for sparing him worse punishment than I gave when he sided with the Gorse. And he knows it. I think it’s worth a try.”
“Perhaps.” She did not look convinced. “But you should be especially careful where he is concerned.”
“I will,” he assured her, wondering how much more careful he needed to be now that he had the Paladin, Bunion, and the Ardsheal all standing guard over him.
They remounted and rode on. Bunion, advised of their new destination, scurried ahead through the trees, scouting the land they would pass through, leaving them to the temporary care of their invisible bodyguard. The Ardsheal, however, stayed hidden. The day stretched away with languid slowness, morning turning into midday, midday into afternoon. Still the rain continued. They moved northeast toward the Greensward, the trees thinning as the lake country gave way to the hills below Sterling Silver. They stopped for lunch at a stream, where they took shelter beneath an old cedar. Rain dripped off the sagging limbs, a steady patter on the muddied ground. The world around them was cool and damp and still. When the meal was finished, they rode on. They didn’t see another traveler all day.
Nightfall brought them to the edge of the Greensward, where the grasslands spread away through the provinces of Landover’s lesser Lords to the Melchor. Sunset was an iron-gray glimmer in the west above the distant mountains, its light hammered tin reflecting off the advancing night. Ben and Willow made camp in a grove of cherry and Bonnie Blues on a rise that overlooked the plains. Bunion returned to share dinner, a cold meal prepared without the benefit of a fire, and then he was gone again. The Ardsheal did not appear at all.
When night had fallen and they were alone in its deep silence, the rains having abated to a damp mist that floated across the grasslands like ghost robes, Ben put his arms around Willow, pulled her back against him so that they were both staring out at the gloom, and said, “Tell me about the Ardsheal.”
She did not say anything at first, resting rigid and un-moving against him as his arms cradled her. He could feel her breathing, the rise and fall of her breast, the small whisper of air from her lips. He waited patiently, looking past the veil of her hair to the thickening roil of mist beyond.
“There have always been Ardsheals,” she said finally. “They were created to protect the once-fairy after they left the mists and came into the world of humans. The Ardsheals were an old magic, one born of earth lore, and because they were elementals, they could be summoned from anywhere. The once-fairy used them only rarely, for they were destroyers, cast of harsh purpose and desperate need. When the threat was so great that the once-fairy feared there would be loss of life among their people, the Ardsheals were called in. A few were usually all it took. In years long past, before the old King, when Landover was newly conceived and birthing yet its lands and peoples, there were wars between humans and once-fairy. Humans occupied Landover first; the once-fairy came after and were regarded as invaders. In the battles fought, Ardsheals were summoned to do battle against creatures conjured by wizards who served the humans.”
She stopped, gathering her thoughts. “That was a long time ago. Since then, Ardsheals have been used only rarely. The last time was not long ago. It happened when one of Abbadon’s demons penetrated the wards of Elderew disguised as a once-fairy. It was a sorcerous being, a changeling who sought entry for its fellows through the heart of the lake country. The magic harbored there, it reasoned, would then belong to them. So it disguised itself and came into the city, and it tried to kill my father.”
“Because he was the River Master?” Ben asked softly.
“Yes, because of that. Because he was the leader of his people.” Willow’s words were almost inaudible. “The demon tried and failed. But in its attempt to kill my father, it destroyed a handful of others, including several children. The demon escaped. There was terrible panic among the once-fairy. And rage. My father and the elders summoned five of the Ardsheals and sent them in search of the demon. The Ardsheals tracked the creature from house to house, caught it at last in one of its many disguises, and killed it.”
She took a deep breath. “It was my house it was hiding in when they found it. It had disguised itself as one of my sisters. It was very clever. It had worked its way back to the one place it thought it might be safe: the River Master’s own house. But the Ardsheals were relentless. They could track by touch, smell, taste, the smallest sound, even by a change of heat caused by the casting of a shadow. Nevertheless, they were not infallible. Not this day. They had been conjured quickly and imperfectly. Haste led to carelessness. The demon took several shapes before he took the one in which they caught him. The one he took before that was of my sister Kaijelln. The Ardsheals were closing on it by then, and when they came into our house, bursting through the entry, tearing apart the doors as if they were cloth, they thought the demon was Kaijelln still.
“And so,” she whispered, her voice shaking now, “they killed her without taking time to discover the truth. They acted on instinct. They killed her right in front of me.”
Ben swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Your father couldn’t stop them?”
Willow shook her head. “They were too quick. Too powerful. An Ardsheal, when it attacks, is unstoppable. It was so that day with Kaijelln. She was gone in the blink of an eye.”
They were silent for a long time then, Ben holding the sylph tight against him, neither of them moving, eyes staring out into the darkness. Somewhere a night bird called, and another responded. Water dripped from leaves in the stillness.
“We should have left it behind,” Ben said finally. “We should have refused it.”
“No!” Willow’s voice was hard and certain this time. “Nothing can stand against an Ardsheal. Nothing! You need it to protect you against whatever else Rydall chooses to send. Besides, my father will have taken great pains to make certain that this one does what it is supposed to do and nothing more.”
She twisted suddenly in his arms and looked directly at him. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter that I am afraid of it. It only matters that it will keep you alive.” She leaned forward until her face was only inches away. “I love you that much, Ben Holiday.”
Then she kissed him and went on kissing him until he forgot about everything else.
* * *
At dawn they rode out once more. The day was gray and misty, but the rains had moved on. Bunion had come back during the night and this time traveled with them as they moved out onto the open grasslands, the kobold skittering ahead eagerly to lead the way. The Ardsheal appeared as well, emerging from the forest to take up a position some twenty yards to their rear. It stayed there as they journeyed, attached to them like a shadow. They watched it for a while, glancing back over their shoulders, marveling at the easy, fluid motion of its stride. It wore nothing, and its body was virtually featureless—arms, legs, feet, hands, torso, and head smooth and slick with the damp, skin stretched seamless and taut, eyes black holes boring straight ahead into the gloom. It did not acknowledge them as it traveled; it never spoke. It stopped when they did, waited patiently for them to begin moving again, then resumed its steady pace.
By midmorning they quit looking for it. By midday they stopped thinking about it completely.
The grasslands were carpeted thickly with mist, and the towns and farms of the people of the Greensward and the castle fortresses of the Lords materialized with ghostly abruptness before them. They skirted all, intent on reaching Rhyndweir and Kallendbor by nightfall. They bought hot soup from a vendor at a market on the edge of a small town and sipped it from tin cups while they rode. Bunion finished his in the blink of an eye and was off. The Ardsheal stayed back in the gloom and ate nothing.
Ben and Willow traveled in silence, riding side by side, content to be company for each other, not needing to speak. Ben spent much of the day thinking on the tale of the Ardsheal and Kaijelln. He found himself comparing the Ardsheal to the Paladin, both destroyers, both perfect fighting machines, both in his service and therefore his responsibility for whatever damage they might do. The comparison bothered him more than he could say. It made him ponder anew what his transformation into the Paladin was doing to his psyche. Would he someday reach the point where the difference between them was no longer discernible? Would he then become like the Ardsheal, a passionless, remorseless killing machine, a creature without a conscience, serving only its master? He found himself thinking about how he had felt when, as the Paladin, he had been trapped within the Tangle Box, how he had lacked identity beyond his role as King’s champion, how he had been lost to everything but his skills as a warrior. The thoughts spun and twisted together with insidious intent, making him question anew his strength of purpose in the battle with Rydall’s monsters. He straggled with his thoughts but kept the struggle carefully to himself.
By late afternoon they had come in sight of Rhyndweir. The castle of Kallendbor rose on a bluff at the juncture of the Anhalt and Piercenal rivers, walls, parapets, and towers lifting darkly above the grasslands. A town lay below the castle gates, bustling and crowded, filled with buyers and sellers of goods: tradesmen, farmers, trappers, and craftsmen of all sorts. Rain had begun falling again, a gray drizzle that mingled with the mist and shrouded buildings and people alike, turning them to dark, uncertain images in the gloom.
Ben and Willow had come with no fanfare, no escort, and no advance notice. There was no one expecting them and no one to guide them to the palace. But this fit with Ben’s intent. He wanted to surprise Kallendbor, to catch Rhyndweir’s Lord unprepared so that he would be forced to improvise a response to Ben’s coming. There was a better chance of enlisting his cooperation if he was not given time to weigh the gain and loss.
Ben slowed when they reached the Anhalt and the bridge that spanned it to the castle. He called Bunion back to him, then turned to the Ardsheal and beckoned it close. To his surprise, it did as it was asked. It came to stand directly next to him, face flat and expressionless, eyes staring straight ahead. Ben arched his eyebrow at Willow, told them all to stay close, and nudged Jurisdiction forward.
They crossed the bridge and entered the town, riding through the people and rain as the afternoon light faded toward murky dark. People were hurrying home now, so few paid much attention to the riders and their footmen. Those who did looked quickly away. An Ardsheal and a kobold were not something they wished to ask questions about.
The little company reached the castle gates and was quickly halted by the guards. There were wide eyes and protestations of all sorts, but Ben simply ordered the nearest functionary to guide them to the palace. Word would be sent ahead in any event, and he did not care to wait for its arrival. One commander, braver than his companions, questioned the presence of the Ardsheal and was silenced by Ben’s curt reply. The Ardsheal was the High Lord’s personal guard. Where the High Lord went—or his Queen—so went the Ardsheal. The commander gave ground, and they were allowed to enter.
They rode through gateways and cobblestone passages, up several levels of defenses, and past quarters for the soldiers who served Kallendbor to the grassy flats on which the palace sat. Their guide tried to slow the pace to give time for word to reach his Lord and for his Lord to prepare, but Ben pushed Jurisdiction ahead and almost rode the lagging functionary down. In minutes they were before the palace entrance and dismounting.
To his credit, Kallendbor came out immediately to greet them. He was alone save for the doorman who stood waiting nervously at the entrance; apparently there had been no time to summon retainers. The Lord of Rhyndweir was a tall, rawboned man with fiery red hair and a temper to match. Battle scars crisscrossed his hands and forearms and marred an otherwise handsome face. He wore a broadsword strapped to his waist as if it were a natural part of his dress. He was flushed as he approached and his eyes were angry, but he gave his guests a deep, respectful bow.
“Had I known you were coming, High Lord, I would have prepared a better welcome,” he added, almost hiding his petulance. He took in Bunion with a glance and then for the first time saw the Ardsheal. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped, and now his anger was obvious. “Why do you bring this creature here?”
Ben glanced at the Ardsheal as if he had forgotten it was there. “It was a gift from the River Master. It serves as my protector. Shall we go inside where it’s dry and talk it over?”
Kallendbor hesitated and looked as if he might object, then apparently thought better of it. He led them out of the rain into the front hall and then down a long corridor to a sitting room dominated by a vast stone fireplace that rose from floor to ceiling. The blaze from the logs burning in the hearth threw heat and light from wall to wall and made their shadows dance as they crossed to chairs to sit before it. Bunion had remained to see to the horses. The Ardsheal stopped by the door and merged with the shadows that crowded forward from the hall.
Kallendbor seated himself across from Ben and Willow. His anger had not abated. “Ardsheals have been the enemy of the people of the Greensward for centuries, High Lord. They are not welcome here. Surely you must know that.”
“Times change.” Ben looked at the empty glasses set next to the decanter of amber liquid on the table between them and waited for Kallendbor to fill two and pass them to himself and Willow. The Lord of Rhyndweir’s lips were set in a tight line, and his great hands were knotted into fists.
“Are you quite settled now, High Lord?” he snapped.
Ben nodded. “Thank you, yes.” He ignored the other’s curt tone. “I apologize for bringing the Ardsheal into Rhyndweir, but circumstances dictate unusual caution just now. I assume you have heard of the threat against my life.”
Kallendbor brushed at the air dismissively. “By Rydall of Marnhull? I have heard. Has he pressed the matter?”
“Two attacks so far.”
Kallendbor studied him. “Two. With five more promised, I understand. But nothing can stand against the Paladin. And now you have an Ardsheal as well. They should keep you safe enough.”
Ben leaned forward. “Will you be terribly disappointed if they do?”
For the first time Kallendbor smiled, a bitter and sardonic grimace. “We are not good friends, High Lord. I have no particular reason to wish you well. But Rydall of Marnhull is no friend, either.”
“Do you know him, then?” Ben pressed.
Kallendbor shook his head. “I know nothing of him. He must come from somewhere outside Landover.”
“But if so, how did he cross through the fairy mists?”
“As you did, I suppose.” Kallendbor shrugged. “He used magic.”
Ben sipped at his drink. A rather sweet wine. He would not have expected it of Kallendbor. At his side Willow stirred, impatient with the conversation, anxious to be finished with it. She did not like Kallendbor or Rhyndweir or much of anything about the Greensward. She was a once-fairy, and the Lords of the Greensward had never been their friends.
Ben looked over at the fire momentarily, then back at Kallendbor. “This is a brief visit. One night to dry out from the rains, and then we will be on our way. We will take our meals in our rooms, so you won’t have to trouble yourself with entertaining us. The Ardsheal will stay close to us and out of sight. Bunion can join us as well.”
Kallendbor nodded, and there was a look of obvious relief on his face. “Whatever pleases you, High Lord. I’ll send hot water for baths.”
Ben nodded. “There is one thing.” He leaned forward so that the full weight of his gaze was resting on Kallendbor. “If I thought for one minute that you knew anything of Rydall and were keeping it from me, I would have you in chains.”
Kallendbor stiffened, and his face went hot with rage. “High Lord, I do not have to—“
“Because I am reminded of how you sided with the Gorse against me not so very long ago,” Ben continued, cutting him short. “I had every cause to have you exiled for life and stripped of your holdings. I had cause to have you put to death. But you are a strong leader and a man who can bring considerable weight to bear among your peers, and I value your service to the throne. I did not want the Greensward to lose you. Besides, I believe you were misguided in that matter. All of us were to some extent.”
He paused. “But if it were to happen again, I would not hesitate to rethink my position where you are concerned, Lord Kallendbor. I want you to remember that.”
Kallendbor gave a curt, barely perceptible nod. He could barely bring himself to speak. “Is that all, High Lord?”
“No.” Ben held his gaze. “Rydall has taken our daughter. Your spies may not have told you that. She is a hostage until the Paladin either defeats or is defeated by the creatures he sends to do battle. I search for her now. But there is no sign of Rydall of Marnhull. No one seems able to help, yourself included. I am determined to get my daughter back, Kallendbor. If you can help, it would be wise for you to do so.”
He waited. Kallendbor was silent for a moment. “I do not need to take children as hostages to do battle with my enemies,” he managed finally.
He seemed to have trouble speaking the words. Ben wondered why. “Then you will send for me if you hear anything that will help me find Mistaya?” he pressed.
Kallendbor’s face closed down, flat and expressionless. There was a hard look in his eyes. “You have my word that I will do whatever I can to see your daughter safely home. I can promise no more.”
Ben nodded slowly. “I will take you at your word.”
There was a long, harsh silence. Then Kallendbor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and said, “If you are ready, I will show you to your rooms.”
For the moment at least they had each had enough of the other.
Midnight came and went. Rain poured down out of the heavens, brought to the grasslands by thunderheads that had broken free of the barrier of the mountains and had crossed in the dark. Lightning seared the black skies in white-hot streaks that dazzled and stunned. Below Rhyndweir’s walls the turgid waters of the Anhalt and the Piercenal churned against their banks, swollen and clogged with debris.
Ben Holiday slept uneasily. Twice already he had awakened and risen to look about. Silence had woken him the first time, the storm’s fury the second. Both times he had crossed to the doorway and stood listening, then had walked to the windows of the bedchamber tower and looked down. They were housed in the west tower in rooms reserved for important visitors, high up in the palace, away from the household staff and other guests. From their windows it was well over a hundred feet to the rocks of the bluff and the waters of the Anhalt. From their door it was a long climb down a winding set of stairs past several other floors and unoccupied rooms to the hall that led back to the main part of the castle. As was the custom, the rooms selected for the High Lord of Landover were separate and secure, offering but a single approach.
On this night, however, Ben could not stop thinking that they also offered only one way out.
Still, he was safe here. Bunion kept watch just outside the door, and the Ardsheal roamed the stairs and hall below. Without, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the wind howled across the plains, a vast immutable force. But the storm did not penetrate to where Ben and Willow slept, save for the sound of its passing, and there was nothing else to make the High Lord wakeful.
Yet he was.
And when the heavy thudding came from the stairs and Bunion shrieked in warning, he was already awake and sitting up in the bed. Willow lifted herself beside him instantly, her face stricken, her eyes wide. The iron-bound oak door flew inward, splintered into shards that barely managed to hang together from the shattered bindings. Something huge and dark filled the doorway, tearing at the stone walls that hindered its passage. Bunion clung to the thing, ripping at it with teeth and claws, but it didn’t even seem to notice the kobold. Into the bedchamber it came, hammering apart stone and mortar, shredding the lintels and the last of the mangled door. Lightning flashed and lit up the monstrous apparition as Ben and Willow stared in disbelief.
It was a giant encased in metal from head to foot.
My God, Ben thought in stunned surprise, it’s a robot!
Iron creaked and groaned as it swung toward them, arms lifting, fingers grasping. The creature was formed of metal plates and fastenings. A robot! But there were no robots in Landover, no mechanical men of any kind! No one here had ever even heard of such a thing!
Willow screamed and tumbled from the bed, looking for room to maneuver. Ben scrambled back, slipped on the bedding, and fell. His head cracked hard on the wooden headboard, and his eyes were filled with bright lights and tears. “Ben!” he heard Willow scream, but he could not make himself respond. He knew he should do something, but the blow to his head had shaken him so that he could not think what it was.
A weapon! He needed a weapon!
Through the blur of his tears he saw the robot fling Bunion away as if the kobold were made of paper. Massive iron feet thudded in heavy cadence as the monster closed on the bed, reached down for the footboard, and tore it away. The bed dropped with a lurch, and Ben rolled free, trying to gain his feet. Bunion attacked again, and this time the robot slapped him away so hard that the kobold struck the wall with an audible crunch, crumpled to the floor, and lay still.
“Ben, call the Paladin!” Willow cried out, throwing loose bedding and broken pieces of wood at the monster in a futile effort to slow it.
Then the Ardsheal appeared, flying through the doorway out of the darkness beyond, slamming into their attacker from behind. The force of the blow caused the robot to sway momentarily before turning back. The Ardsheal closed fearlessly with the giant, grappling with it in an effort to bring it down. Lightning flashed once more, outlining the combatants as they fought for footing across the chamber floor. Willow darted past them, trying to reach Ben. Ben was on his feet, leaning dazedly against the far wall. Blood ran down his temple. He groped for the medallion so that he could summon the Paladin, but to his horror he couldn’t find it. The medallion and the chain that had bound it about his neck were gone!
Back against the stone wall crashed the robot and the Ardsheal, locked together in mortal combat, caught up in their terrible struggle like great bears. The Ardsheal fastened its hands on one of the robot’s great metal forearms and wrenched at it with terrific force. There was a frightening screech of metal giving way, and suddenly the lower arm and hand separated and fell to the floor with a crash. Instantly the robot wrapped both arms about the Ardsheal, locked its good hand to the remnants of its shattered arm, and tightened its arms in a crushing grip. The Ardsheal stiffened and threw back its head. Something inside it broke with an audible series of snaps.
Willow grabbed up a piece of the shattered door, charged forward with a cry, and slammed the makeshift club across the robot’s face. The robot did not seem to notice, still concentrating all its efforts on the Ardsheal.
Able to see again, Ben surged forward, his head clear. He pulled Willow away, snatched up a large piece of the bedding, threw it over the robot’s head, and yanked back on the ends. The metal giant twisted its head, then started to swing about, still grasping the stricken Ardsheal.
But one boot caught on the bedding, and it tripped. To regain its balance, it was forced to release its grip.
Instantly, the Ardsheal broke free. A dark liquid ran from its mouth and nose, and its joints looked to have come loose from their pinnings. Yet it did not seem to feel its injuries. It attacked anew, hammering into the robot with both fists and knocking it backward toward the open windows. As the robot reeled away, the Ardsheal catapulted into it with a ferocious charge that carried both combatants into the metal-barred opening. Stone and mortar gave way beneath their combined weight, and the iron bars broke loose. The window frame and part of the surrounding wall shattered.
Then the Ardsheal locked itself about the robot, drove it through the opening, and both creatures tumbled out into the night.
Ben and Willow reached the rain-swept opening a moment later, too late to see them fall but in time to hear them smash against the rocks below and tumble into the river. Rain drenched their faces and shoulders as they leaned out into the dark, peering down. Lightning flashed, revealing the water-slick castle walls, the empty rocks, and the surging river. Nothing moved on the rocks. Nothing could be seen in the river.
Ben drew Willow back into the room and hugged her close. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her drawing in great gulps of air.
“Damn Rydall!” he swore in her ear, trying to keep from shaking.
Her fingers dug into his arm as she nodded in fierce, voiceless agreement.
It was afterward that Ben discovered he was still wearing the medallion. He looked down and there it was, hanging by its chain from his neck. For a moment he couldn’t believe it. He held it up and stared at it. The familiar graven image of the Paladin riding out of Sterling Silver at sunrise glimmered back. He had been so certain he had lost it. He had looked for it, and it wasn’t there.
“Ben, what’s wrong?” Willow asked quickly, seeing the look on his face.
He shook his head, letting the medallion fall back into place. “Nothing. I was just...”
He trailed off, confused. The blow on the head when he had stumbled must have stunned him worse than he thought. But he had been so sure! He had reached for the medallion, and it hadn’t been there!
Willow let the matter drop, moved to the clothes chest, and brought out clean robes. Seconds later a contingent of palace guards came charging up the stairs, weapons at the ready, responding finally to the attack. Ben and Willow were working on Bunion by then and ignored them. The kobold was banged up considerably but otherwise appeared to be all right. Kobolds are tough little fellows, Ben thought admiringly, relieved that his friend had not been seriously injured, thinking that almost anyone else would have been killed.
The palace guards poked around the room, stared out through the gap in the wall into the rain-streaked night, and mostly looked uncomfortable with the fact that they were forced to be there at all. It was a reflection on them that the attack had almost succeeded, and they were wary of both the High Lord’s and Kallendbor’s reactions to their failure to prevent it.
Ben, for his part, was too preoccupied to concern himself with casting blame; he was still mulling over the suddenness of the assault and the circumstances that had surrounded it. But Kallendbor, bare-chested and broadsword in hand when he burst into the room, was less charitable. After hearing a shortened version of the attack from Ben, he berated everyone within shouting distance. Then he dispatched one search party to the riverbanks below to discover if any trace of the Ardsheal or Rydall’s monster could be found. Others he sent throughout the castle to make certain nothing else threatened. Ben, Willow, and Bunion were moved to other rooms, and guards were ordered to keep close watch over them for the remainder of the night. Obviously ill at ease with what had happened and anxious to avoid staying longer in their company, Kallendbor bid them a gruff good night and went off to sleep.
An exhausted Willow and Bunion were quick to follow.
Ben, however, stayed awake for a long time thinking about this latest monster. Two things bothered him, and he could reconcile neither.
The first was how the creature had gotten into the castle in the first place. How had it managed to slip past Kallendbor’s guards and the Ardsheal as well? Something that big and cumbersome should never have been able to do so. It should not even have gotten past the front gates. Unless, of course, it hadn’t come through them in the first place but had gotten into the palace by use of magic, which was the only conclusion that made any sense. And that made him wonder—although admittedly this was more of a stretch—if magic had also been used during the attack to make him think the medallion was lost. Otherwise, why hadn’t he been able to find it—even stunned by the blow to his head, even in the frenzy of the moment—when it was hanging right there around his neck?
The second thing bothering him was that something was vaguely familiar about that robot, and he didn’t see how that could be. There weren’t any robots in Landover or even, so far as he knew, any idea of what robots were. So he must have seen it in his old world in a movie or a comic or some such, since even there robots were still mostly conceptual. He raked through his memories in an effort to recall where, but nothing came to mind.
When he finally fell asleep close to morning, he was still trying unsuccessfully to place it.
Willow woke him sometime around midmorning. The skies were clear again; the rains had moved east. He lay quietly for a moment, watching her sitting next to him, looking down, smiling in that particularly wonderful way, and he made an impulsive decision. Willow was suffering from Mistaya’s loss and Rydall’s threat as much as he was. It was wrong to keep his thinking to himself. So he told her all of it, even part of what he had never revealed before to anyone: that the medallion and the Paladin were linked, that the one summoned the other to the defense of the High Lord. They were alone in the room, Bunion having gone off much earlier on business of his own, the nature of which he had not disclosed. Willow listened carefully to everything Ben had to say, then took his hands and held them.
“If the medallion was tampered with,” she said quietly, sitting close on the bed beside him, “then whoever did so would have to know that it provides your link to the Paladin.” She stared at him steadily a moment. “Who, besides me, would know that?”
The answer was no one. Not even Questor Thews, and after Ben he knew more than anyone about the medallion. Most knew that it marked and belonged to whoever ruled Landover as High Lord. A few knew that it allowed its wearer passage through the fairy mists. Only Ben, and now Willow, knew that it summoned the Paladin.
He was almost persuaded at that moment to tell her everything about the medallion, the last of his secrets, the whole of the truth. He had told her how it linked him to the Paladin, how it allowed him to summon the High Lord’s champion. Why not tell her as well how the Paladin and he were joined, how the Paladin was another side of himself, a darker side that took form when he was brought to combat? He had thought to tell her several times now. It was the last secret he kept from her about the magic, and the burden of it suddenly seemed almost unbearable.
Yet he kept silent. He was not ready. He was not certain. The immensity of such a revelation could have unexpected results. He did not want to test Willow’s commitment to him by giving up so terrible a truth. He was afraid even now, even after so long, that he might lose her.
“Where do we go now, Ben?” she asked suddenly, interrupting his thinking. “You do not intend to remain here longer, do you?”
“No,” he replied, relieved to be able to move on to another subject. “Kallendbor does not appear to have any help to give us, so there’s no reason to linger. We’ll leave as soon as I dress and we have something to eat. Where’s Bunion, anyway?”
The kobold returned to the bedchamber just as Ben finished washing and putting on his clothes. Willow’s bandage from the previous night, which had been applied to the worst of his injuries, a severe head cut, was gone. Bunion had been able to retain a strong scent from the robot, and he had gone down the stairway, backtracking its progress from the previous night. It had been a short trip. Much of the scent had been obliterated by the trampling of guards up and down the stairs, but there was enough left to determine that Rydall’s monster had materialized out of nowhere on the landing of the floor just below their own. Ben looked at Willow, then back at Bunion. They all knew what that meant.
Bunion also advised them that a thorough search of the Anhalt and its banks by Kallendbor’s soldiers had revealed no trace of either their attacker or the Ardsheal.
They summoned breakfast and ate it in their room, then had their belongings gathered and went down to the main hall. Kallendbor met them there, stern-faced and subdued from the previous night’s events. Ben advised him that they were leaving, and there was veiled relief in the other’s eyes. Ben had expected as much, since they were hardly friends under the best of circumstances. He offered his thanks for the other’s hospitality and made him promise anew that he would send word if he learned anything of Mistaya or Rydall. Kallendbor walked them to the palace doors, where their horses were already saddled and waiting. Ben smiled to himself. Kallendbor would never make a good poker player.
They mounted and rode out the fortress gates and back through the town. They crossed the bridge over the Anhalt and headed southwest, retracing their steps in the direction of Sterling Silver. Willow gave Ben a questioning look, wondering anew at his plans, but he just cocked an eyebrow and said nothing. It was not until they were well beyond the castle and deep into the grasslands beyond that he swung Jurisdiction about and stopped.
“I didn’t want Kallendbor to see where we were really going,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Which is?”
“East, to the Wastelands, to the one other creature who might know something of Mistaya.”
“I see,” Willow replied quietly, way ahead of him by now.
“He’ll talk to you. He likes you.”
She nodded. “He might.”
They worked their way back toward the Anhalt and followed it for the remainder of the day. By nightfall they had reached the beginning of the Wastelands. They camped there, taking shelter in a grove of ash on a hill that provided a good view in all directions of the surrounding countryside. They ate dinner cold. Bunion offered to stand watch for the entire night, but Ben would not hear of it. The kobold needed his rest as well, particularly if he was to be of any use when the next attack came—and there was no longer any pretense that it wouldn’t. Since they were all dependent on one another, they would share the responsibility, he insisted.
There were no monsters this night, and Ben slept undisturbed. By morning he was feeling revitalized. Willow seemed rested, too. All three were anticipating what lay ahead. Even Bunion had figured it out. He went on ahead to scout while Ben and Willow followed at a more leisurely pace. They left the Greensward behind and entered the Wastelands. The day was cloudy and gray once again, but there did not appear to be any immediate threat of rain. Even without sunshine the air was hot and dry, the ground parched and cracked, and the country about them empty of life and as still as death.
By midday they were deep into the Wastelands, and Bunion came back to report that the Fire Springs were directly ahead and that Strabo the dragon was at home.
“If anyone knows of Rydall, it will be Strabo,” Ben said to Willow as they rode into the craggy hills surrounding the Springs. “Strabo can go anywhere he wishes, and he may have flown through the fairy mists into Marnhull at some point. It’s worth asking, in any case. As long as you’re the one who does the asking.”
Strabo did not much care for Holiday, although they were somewhat closer now after their shared experience in the Tangle Box. But the dragon genuinely liked Willow. He was fond of declaring that dragons had always had a soft spot for beautiful maidens, even though from time to time he thought that he was mistaken in this and that it was eating them that dragons really enjoyed. Too vain to admit his confusion, he had allowed himself to be charmed by the sylph on several occasions. Still, each visit to the Fire Springs was a new and uncertain experience, and Strabo the dragon was nothing if not temperamental.
When they were close enough to feel the heat of the pits, long after they had spied the smoke and inhaled the smell, they dismounted, tethered the horses, and proceeded on foot. It was a difficult walk over rugged, barren hills and across rock-strewn gullies. Bunion led the way as always, but he stayed close to them now. They had gone on for some minutes when they heard the crunching of bones. Bunion glanced over his shoulder and showed all his teeth in a humorless smile.
The dragon was feeding.
Then they crested a ridge, and there it was.
Strabo lay coiled about the mouth of one of the Springs, his forty-foot bulk as black as ink, all studded with spines and spikes, his sinewy body gnarled and sleek by turns. He was lunching on the remains of what appeared to have been a cow, although it was hard to tell since the dragon had reduced the carcass to legs and part of one haunch. Wicked blackened teeth glimmered as it gnawed on a large bone, stripping it of a few last shreds of flesh. Yellow eyes hooded by strange reddish lids focused on the bone, but as the newcomers topped the rise and came into view, its massive horned head lifted and swung about.
“Company?” it hissed none too pleasantly. The yellow eyes widened and blinked. “Oh, Holiday, it’s only you. How boring. What do you want?” The voice was low and guttural, marked by a sibilant hiss. “Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to know about this cow. You’ve come all the way from the comforts of your shiny little castle to reprimand me about this cow. Well, save your breath. The cow was a stray. It wandered into the Wastelands, and that made it mine. So no lectures, please.”
It always surprised Ben that the dragon could talk. It went counter to everything life experience had taught him in his old world. But then, there were no dragons in his old world, either.
“I don’t care about the cow,” Ben advised. He had made Strabo promise once upon a time that he would give up stealing livestock.
The dragon’s maw split wide, and it laughed after a fashion. “No? Well, in that case I’ll confess that perhaps it wasn’t quite inside the boundaries of the Wasteland when I took it. There, I feel much better. The truth shall set you free.” The eyes narrowed again. “Well, well. Is that the pretty sylph with you, Holiday?” He never called Ben “High Lord.” “Have you brought her to me for a visit? No, you would never be that considerate. You must be here for some other reason. What is it?”
Ben sighed. “We’ve come to ask—“
“Wait, you’re interrupting my dinner.” The dragon’s nostrils steamed, and it gave a rough cough. “Politeness in all things. Please take a seat until I’ve finished. Then I’ll hear what you have to say. If you keep it brief.”
Ben looked at Willow, and reluctantly they sat down on the knoll with Bunion and waited for Strabo to complete his dinner. The dragon took his time, crunching up every single bone and devouring every last shred of flesh until nothing remained but hooves and horns. He made a deliberate production out of it, smacking his lips and grunting his approval with every bite. It was an endless performance, and it produced the intended effect. Ben was so impatient by the time the dragon had finished that he could barely contain his temper.
Strabo tossed away a stray hoof and looked up at them expectantly. “Now, then, let’s hear what you have to say.”
Ben tried to refrain from gritting his teeth. “We have come to ask your help with something,” he began, and got no further.
“Save your breath, Holiday,” the dragon interrupted with a curt wave of one foreleg. “I’ve already given you all the help you’re getting in this lifetime—more help, in point of fact, then you ever deserved.”
“Hear me out at least,” Ben urged irritably.
“Must I?” The dragon shifted as if trying to get comfortable. “Well, for the sake of the lovely young lady, I will.”
Ben decided to cut to the chase. “Mistaya is missing. We think she has been taken prisoner by King Rydall of Marnhull. At least he claims to have her. We are trying to get her back.”
Strabo stared at him without speaking for a moment. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? Mistaya? Rydall of Marnhull? Who are these people?”
“Mistaya is our daughter,” Willow said quickly, interceding before Ben lost his temper completely. “You helped Ben find us when I was carrying her out of the Deep Fell.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.” The dragon beamed. “Good of me, wasn’t it? And you’ve named her Mistaya? Very pretty. I like the name. It sings with the promise of your own beauty.”
Gag me with a spoon, Ben thought blackly, but kept his mouth shut.
“She is a beautiful child,” Willow agreed, keeping the dragon’s attention focused on her. “I love her very much, and I am determined to see her safely home again.”
“Of course you are,” Strabo affirmed indignantly. “Who is this King Rydall who’s taken her?”
“We don’t know. We were hoping you could help.” Willow waited.
Strabo shook his horn-crusted head slowly. “No. No, I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of him. Another in a long line of lesser Kings, I expect. There’s literally hundreds of them, all parading about, all posturing as if anyone of note could ever for a minute be impressed.” He gave Holiday a meaningful glance. “Anyway, whoever he is, I don’t know him. And he’s from some place called Marnhull? Really? Marnhull? Sounds like what’s left after you crack a nut open.”
The dragon laughed uproariously, the laughter culminating in a choked gasp as he fell backward into one of the Fire Springs, sending ashes and shattered rock flying everywhere. He hauled himself upright with an effort. “Marnhull! Ridiculous!”
“So you’ve never heard of either?” Ben pressed, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Never.” Strabo snorted dirt and steam from his nostrils. “They don’t exist, either of them.”
“Not outside Landover, beyond the fairy mists, perhaps?” Ben pressed, disbelieving. “Not even there?”
The great black head swung sharply about. “Holiday, pay attention here. I have traveled all the lands that ever were and a few that weren’t. I have been to all those that surround the mists. I have been well beyond. I have been alive a long time, and travel has always agreed with me—especially when I find places where I am not welcome and can feed on the inhabitants.”
The yellow eyes lidded. “So. If a land called Marnhull existed, I would have found it. If a King named Rydall existed, I would have heard of him. I haven’t. So they don’t.”
“Well someone calling himself King Rydall exists, because he’s come to Sterling Silver twice now to threaten me, claims he’s taken Mistaya, and promises to send monsters to try to kill me!” Ben’s patience was at an end. “Mistaya’s disappeared, and I’ve been attacked three times already! Something’s happening, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t,” the dragon declared with studied disinterest, “since I don’t know what you are talking about. I have better things to do than to keep up on the local gossip. If you’ve been attacked, it’s news to me. Rather unimportant news, I might add.”
Willow took Ben’s arm and gently pulled him back, then stepped forward to face the dragon. “Strabo, listen to me, please. I realize what we are telling you is of little personal interest. You are involved in much larger concerns than ours. And if you say you have never heard of Rydall or Marnhull, then it must be so. Everyone knows that dragons never lie.”
This was the first time Ben had heard of that, but it appeared to please Strabo, who gave a courtly nod in response.
“Now, I must ask you as someone who has been my friend,” Willow continued, “to consider helping me find my daughter. She has disappeared, and we have searched the whole of Landover for her without success. We have spoken with everyone we could think of in an effort to discover where she is. No one can help. You are our last hope. We thought that if anyone would know of Rydall or Marnhull, it would be you. Please, is there anything you could tell us, anything at all that might be of help? Is there anyone you know who might be Rydall? Or any place that might be Marnhull?”
The dragon was silent for a long time. All about him the Fire Springs belched and coughed, spewing forth ashes and smoke. The grayness of the day deepened as the sun drifted west, and the clouds locked together in the skies overhead to form a solid covering. Below the clouds and smoke the landscape stretched away in numbing solitude, bleak and desolate.
“I treasure my privacy,” Strabo said finally. “That’s why I live out here, you know.”
“I know,” Willow acknowledged.
The dragon sighed. “Very well. Tell me more of Rydall. Tell me whatever you either know or suspect.”
Willow did so, leaving out nothing but the information about the medallion. When she was finished, Strabo thought some more.
“Well, Holiday,” he advised softly, “it appears I must help you once again, even though it is against my better judgment. Such help as you receive, however, is due entirely to my considerable affection for the lovely sylph.”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing passes through the fairy mists without my knowing. That is simply the way of things. Dragons have excellent hearing and eyesight, and nothing escapes their attention.” He paused, considering. “If they deem it worthy of their attention, that is.” He appeared to remember his earlier disclaimer of any knowledge about what had been taking place at Sterling Silver. “The point is, no one has come through the mists recently. But even if I were mistaken in this—and a lapse in my attention span could have occurred just as Rydall or whoever was passing through, I suppose—there would still be a discoverable trace of that passing. In short, I could find out anyway.”
He gave them a broad smile and added, “If I were to choose to do so.” He cocked his ugly head at Willow. “I wonder, my Lady, if you would favor me with one of your exquisite songs. I do miss the sound of a maiden’s voice now and then.”
It was his favorite thing in all the world, and although once it would have embarrassed him to ask, he seemed to have gotten over his discomfort. Willow had been expecting this. Her success in charming him before had been due in large part to her singing, so she did not hesitate now to do so again. There was an unspoken bargain being made, and the price the dragon was asking for his help was certainly small enough. Willow sang of meadows and wildflowers filled with dancing maidens and of a dragon who was lord over all. Ben had never heard the song and found it more than a little saccharine, but Strabo lay his horn-crusted head on the rim of one of the springs and got very dreamy-eyed.
By the time she had finished he was almost reduced to the limpness of a noodle. Tears leaked from his lantern eyes.
“When you return from your search,” she called over to him, reminding him of his end of the bargain, “I will sing one more song for you as a further reward.”
Strabo’s head lifted slowly from its resting place, and his teeth showed in a pathetically futile attempt at a smile. “Je t’adore,” he advised softly.
Without another word great wings spread from his serpent’s body and lifted him skyward, circling up and away until he was lost from view.
They waited through the remainder of the day and all night for his return. Bunion went back for their blankets, and all three took turns standing watch, settled down on the windward side of the Fire Springs so they would not have to breathe the smoke and soot. Flames licked out of the craters, and molten rock belched forth at regular intervals, effectively disrupting attempts to sleep. The heat was intense at times, relieved only when a small breeze blew across them on its way to a better place. But they were safe enough, for nothing would dare to venture into the dragon’s lair.
It was nearing dawn when Strabo returned. He came out of a sky in which Landover’s moons were already down and the stars were fading into a faintly brightening east, his bulk a massive dark shadow that might have been a chunk of sky unexpectedly broken away. He settled earthward as smoothly and delicately as a great butterfly, without sound, without effort, belying his monstrous bulk.
“Lady,” he greeted Willow in his deep, raspy voice. There was weariness and regret in that single word. “I have flown the four borders of the land, from Fire Springs to Melchor, from Greensward to lake country, from one range of mountains and mists to the other. I have searched the whole of the boundaries that mark the passage from Landover to the fairy worlds. I have smelled all tracks, studied all markings, and hunted for the smallest sign. There is no trace of Rydall of Marnhull. There is no trace of your child.”
“None?” Willow asked quietly, as if perhaps he might reconsider his answer.
The dragon’s gnarled head swung away. “No one has passed through the mists in recent days. No one.” He yawned, showing row upon row of blackened, crooked teeth. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get some sleep. I am sorry, but I can do nothing more. I release you from your pledge to sing further. I regret to say I am too tired to listen. Good-bye to you. Good-bye, Holiday. Come again sometime, but not for a while, hmmm?”
He crawled off through the rocks, snaked his way down between the simmering craters, curled up amid the debris, and promptly began to snore.
Ben and Willow stared at each other. “I don’t understand it,” Ben said finally. “How can there be no sign at all?”
Willow’s face was pale and drawn. “If Rydall did not come through the mists, where did he come from? Where is he now? What has he done with Mistaya?”
Ben shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He reached down for his blanket and began to fold it up. “What I do know is that something about all this isn’t right, and one way or another I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
Taking Willow’s hand in his own and with Bunion leading the way, he turned disconsolately from the Fire Springs and the sleeping dragon and started back toward their horses.
They rode out from the Fire Springs and back into the Wastelands, heading west. The sun crested the horizon behind them in a hazy white ball, obscured by mist and clouds and the thickness of heat on the summer air. Already it was hot and threatening to grow hotter. Clouds rolled in from the west, beginning to build on one another, promising rain before the day was done. Ahead, the land stretched away, stark and unchanging.
Ben rode in silence, his mood as bleak and despairing as the land he traveled. He was putting up a brave front, but he knew he had run out of options. Strabo had been his last chance. Since the dragon couldn’t tell him how to find Rydall, he was faced with the unpleasant possibility that no one could. And if he couldn’t find Rydall, he couldn’t find Mistaya or Questor Thews or Abernathy. If he couldn’t find his daughter and his friends, he would have no other choice but to return to Sterling Silver and sit around waiting for the rest of Rydall’s monsters to come for him. Three down and four to go; it was not a comforting thought. They had almost had him several times already—almost had the Paladin, he corrected, but it was the same thing. He didn’t think he could survive four more, and if he did, he didn’t really believe he would get Mistaya back, anyway.
It was a terrible thought, and he cursed himself silently for thinking it. But it was true. It was what he believed. Rydall wasn’t the sort to keep a bargain, not this man who devoured countries, who sent monsters to kill their Kings, and who kidnapped children and used them as hostages. No, Rydall played games with his victims, and when you played games of his sort, you made up the rules as you went along so that you didn’t lose. It didn’t matter if the Paladin survived all seven challengers or not. Mistaya wasn’t coming back.
Unless Ben found her and brought her back himself.
Which at the moment he didn’t seem to have the slightest hope of doing.
He thought about what Strabo had told him. There was no sign of Rydall’s passage through the fairy mists now or any time in the recent past. There was no sign of Mistaya. So what did that tell him? That Rydall was lying? That Strabo had missed something? But Rydall had said he had come through the fairy mists. He had said his army was prepared to follow. Through the mists. Maybe, Ben thought suddenly, Rydall’s black-cloaked companion had magic that facilitated this and left no trail. Maybe the magic was such that it could conceal the point of passage. But wouldn’t Strabo have found some trace of that magic? Nothing escaped the dragon. Had Rydall been able to do what no one else could and deceive the beast?
Then it occurred to Ben that there was another way into Landover, a way he had forgotten about—through the demon world of Abbadon. Could it be that Rydall had gained entry from there? But in order to do so he would have had to bypass the demons. Or win their support, as the Gorse had done, promising them something in return. Could Marnhull’s King have done that? It didn’t feel right. The demons hated humans; they never made bargains with them unless they were forced to. It was one thing to ally themselves with the Gorse, itself a creature of dark magic. It was another to join forces with someone like Rydall. Besides, Rydall had said that he had come through the mists, and that was not the same thing as coming out of Abaddon.
Jurisdiction was proceeding at a walk, picking his way carefully over the rocky ground, moving so slowly that they were barely making any progress at all. Ben was oblivious, lost in thought. Willow rode next to him, watching his face, not wanting to distract him. Bunion walked beside them, bright eyes shifting from one to the other, then back to the barren land ahead. It was no concern of his. Behind them the Fire Springs had disappeared into the curve of the horizon, leaving little more than a dark smudge of smoke and ash against the sky.
A crow with red eyes appeared out of the retreating night to the west and circled lazily overhead, unseen.
What was it he was missing? Ben wondered. Surely there was something he had overlooked, or mistaken, or failed to recognize—something that would lead him to Rydall. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Assume for the moment that Rydall was lying about who and what he was and where he came from. It was a fair enough assumption given Rydall’s disposition toward game playing. Invent the rules of a game, put them in play, and wait to see what would happen—that seemed to fit with what he knew of Rydall. The question he had asked himself earlier and then not gotten back to for an answer was, Why was Rydall doing all this? It had been the River Master’s question as well.
Why was Marnhull’s King sending monsters to challenge Ben instead of simply demanding his life in exchange for Mistaya’s? Why was he spending so much time challenging the Paladin to individual duels when he could just as easily have marched his army into Landover and taken it by force? To avoid bloodshed and loss of life? That didn’t seem likely.
In fact—and admittedly this was a stretch—Ben was beginning to question if Rydall had any real interest in Landover at all.
Because the truth was that this entire business was beginning to feel very personal. Ben couldn’t put his finger on why, but he definitely sensed it. It was something about those monsters, the nature of their magic, and the manner of their attack. Something. The confrontation between Rydall and himself looked to have more to do with the two of them than with Landover. Landover seemed almost an excuse, a pawn to be played and then discarded. Rydall didn’t appear to be in any hurry to complete his conquest. No time limits had been imposed regarding the passing of the throne, and no mention had been made of when a transition was expected to take place. All that seemed to matter was the contest.
Why was Rydall wasting so much time if all he wanted was to persuade Ben to give up the throne? Wouldn’t Ben do that anyway if it meant getting Mistaya back safely?
Wouldn’t he?
He looked quickly at Willow, a pang of guilt lancing through him as he hesitated with his answer. She was staring back at him, but no condemnation or suspicion registered in her green eyes, only concern and sadness and, behind it all, unfailing love. He was suddenly ashamed. He knew the answer, didn’t he? When his wife in his old world, Annie, and their unborn child had died, he had thought he would never recover; they were gone, and he could not get them back again. Now he had Willow and Mistaya, and he could not bear losing them as well. He would give up anything to keep them.
Midmorning had arrived, and the Wastelands were hazy-bright and sweltering.
Ben turned to Willow. “Another mile or so and we’ll stop and rest,” he told her. “And we’ll talk things out a bit.”
She nodded and said nothing. They rode slowly on.
Overhead, the crow with red eyes wheeled back the way it had come and was gone.
Nightshade flew quickly to the draw through which Holiday and his companions would pass, holding the struggling wurm firmly in her beak. She could barely keep her rage in check. She had waited all night for him to come to her, believing he must, certain that the dragon would offer no help and send him away. Instead, the beast had gone hunting for him—hunting, like some tame dog!--and Holiday had not come back as expected but had camped within the confines of the Fire Springs, a place she could not safely penetrate even with her formidable magic. So she had been forced to wait, to spend the entire night in the Wastelands keeping watch over her prize.
As if in response to her anger, the wurm wrapped itself around her beak and tried to bite her.
She laughed to herself as she watched its tiny teeth gnash. It had been a regular earthworm once, fat and sleek and indolent. Now it was her creature and would undertake the task she had set for it, becoming Rydall’s fourth monster.
She was still dismayed that there had been a need for a fourth. The robot should have been enough, would have been enough if not for the Ardsheal. That the River Master should intercede on Holiday’s behalf as well, granddaughter or no, was infuriating. Holiday and he were no more friends than Holiday and the dragon. Why did these obvious enemies keep offering to help the play-King and interfering with her plans? What madness was this?
On the other hand, she thought, trying to put matters in a better light, it had been her intention from the beginning that Holiday survive until the particular end she had devised for him, the end that would come at Mistaya’s hands. It would be less enjoyable if he was to die before then. And the appearance of the Ardsheal had provided her with fresh inspiration for playing with Landover’s beleaguered High Lord. So nothing had been lost after all, had it?
She swooped down onto the flats and glided into the shadow of a draw that opened between two massive hills that blocked passage to the west and east. Holiday and his companions had come through the draw on the way to the dragon; the hoof prints of the horses made that plain enough. They would return the same way. But this time she would have the wurm waiting for them. She hopped across the ground on her bird feet to the tiny puddle of seepage water that sat back in the shadow of the rocks and had not yet evaporated with the heat of the day. A little water was all it took; a little would be more than enough.
She held the wurm over the water, watching it struggle to get free. She was tired of holding it. It was bad enough that she’d been forced to travel all the way to the Wastelands in nonhuman form, not daring to use her magic for fear it would reveal her presence and give the game away. But having to keep a secure grip on the little monster for so long was really too much. She had been able to put it down last night, safely up in the rocks where the ground was dry and hard and offered the creature no escape. Now she was ready to release it for good. She was thinking that she would like to stay around to see what would happen when she did, but she had been gone from the Deep Fell for a long time now, and she didn’t like leaving the girl alone. Mistaya was growing impatient with the direction and limitation of her lessons, in fact, the wurm had been Nightshade’s idea, devised when the girl had failed to come up with anything new. She was still obedient, but there were signs that the girl might test the rules Nightshade had imposed on her. Mistaya was incredibly gifted, both with imagination and with talent, and under the witch’s tutelage her skills at applying her magic had grown formidable. If she ever chose to challenge Nightshade...
The witch brushed the idea aside with a sneer. She was not frightened of Mistaya. She wasn’t frightened of anyone.
But it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
She made up her mind. It was best that she return to the Deep Fell as quickly as she could. It was best that she make certain Mistaya did not step out of line.
She dropped the wurm into the puddle of water and watched it sink. Then she flew swiftly away.
* * *
Ben Holiday peered into the distance, catching sight of the draw that led through the rugged Wasteland hills to the flats beyond. The light was so poor this day, its clarity so diluted by heat and mist, that everything appeared fuzzy and distorted. Even the horizon shimmered as if it were a mirage in danger of disappearing altogether. Ahead, the draw was a mass of impenetrable shadows.
He guided Jurisdiction toward the opening, his mind on other things.
He was thinking again about that robot. Why was it so familiar? Where had he seen it? He was absolutely certain by now that he had, and it was maddening that he could not remember from where. Complicating matters was his growing suspicion that he had seen Rydall’s other monsters, as well. And he was now willing to bet, having given the matter considerable thought, that he had seen them since coming into Landover. Yet how could that be? They couldn’t have been alive; he would have remembered that. Had Questor or Abernathy told him about them? Had someone described them to him? Had he seen a drawing or a picture?
They reached the edge of the shadows that marked the entrance to the draw. Ahead, the passageway was dark and empty. Ben nudged Jurisdiction forward, his stomach grumbling softly as he savored the prospect of lunch.
Suddenly Bunion chittered in warning. Ben glanced down at the kobold, who was looking back from where they had come. Ben followed his gaze, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. At first he saw nothing. Then he caught sight of a tiny black speck hanging low against the horizon. The speck seemed to be growing larger.
Ben blinked uncertainly. “What in the heck is—“
That was all he got out before the ground in front of them erupted in a shower of earth and rock and something huge and dark rose out of the draw’s deep shadows. Bunion catapulted over Crane, snatching Willow from the saddle an instant before the horse was swallowed whole by the thing before it. There was a terrified scream and the crunching of bones. Dust and heat filled the air. Jurisdiction leapt away in panic, barely avoiding the massive jaws that reached now for him, sweeping past Ben’s head with ferocious purpose. Ben hung on as his horse bolted, catching just a glimpse of the thing attacking them—a monstrous snake of some sort, faceless, eyeless, all teeth and maw, its purplish body smooth and ringed like...
Like a worm’s, for goodness’ sake!
Ben reached instinctively for the medallion, but Jurisdiction was shying so badly—skittering up the slope of a steep rise, twisting and bucking in terror—that he had to abandon the attempt and grasp the saddle and reins with both hands to avoid being thrown. He saw Bunion and Willow scrambling up the far side of the draw and into the rocks. The monster dove downward suddenly into the earth, wriggling underground, its great bulk disappearing in the manner of a whale’s beneath the surface of an ocean. It burrowed down, the earth rising above it as it tunneled, and the line of the tunnel moved directly toward Ben.
Ben kicked Jurisdiction frantically, trying to make the horse come down off the rise. But Jurisdiction was panicked beyond all reason and could think only to climb higher. It was a losing battle, the horse’s hooves slipping badly on the loose rock and earth, its progress stalled. Ben wrenched the horse’s head about and sent him scrambling along the side of the slope parallel to the crest, still hoping to turn him downward. Behind them the earth buckled and lifted, the monster turning to follow.
The gap between them closed.
In desperation Ben released his grip on the saddle and tried to reach inside his tunic for the medallion. But the instant he did so Jurisdiction stumbled and went down, throwing him head over heels into the scrub. The terrified horse came back to his feet at once and this time bolted down the slope to safety. Ben was not so fortunate. Dazed and bloodied from his spill, he scrambled up and began racing ahead without any idea what it was he was racing toward, aware only that the subterranean horror was almost on top of him. Rocks and earth split and rumbled as the creature’s huge bulk tunneled deliberately in pursuit. Ben groped for the medallion, feeling its hardness through the fabric of his tunic, unable to work it free from where it lodged in the folds. Sweat and blood ran down into his eyes, blinding him. Any moment now his attacker would surface. Any moment it would have him. He could feel the medallion’s smooth edge, could touch its engraved surface through the tunic cloth. Another moment! Just one more...!
Then earth and rock exploded skyward, knocking Ben off his feet and sending him tumbling away. He lost his grip on the medallion and landed on his back with a sharp grunt, the wind knocked from his lungs. The worm-thing towered over him, earth-encrusted body arching forward, jaws opening, mouth reaching down.
Ben twisted wildly in an effort to escape, knowing he was too late, knowing he could not. The medallion! he thought. Have to...!
Then something bigger and blacker and more ferocious than his attacker hurtled out of the sky. Claws fastened on the monster’s body, snatching it backward and away. Huge jaws snapped down, severing the sightless head. The head, its maw still gaping, fell away in a gush of ichor, but the body continued to squirm madly. The jaws snapped down again and yet again, and the monster at last fell lifeless.
Strabo dropped what was left, fanned the air once with his great wings, and settled slowly earthward. Willow and Bunion were already running over from the far side of the draw.
“You really are a great deal of trouble, Holiday,” the dragon hissed. The great head swung about, and the lantern eyes fastened on him. “A great deal.”
“I know,” Ben managed, gasping for breath as he pulled himself back to his feet. “But thanks, anyway.”
Willow reached him in a rush and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Strabo,” she echoed, releasing her grip on Ben just enough to turn toward the dragon. “You know how much he means to me. Thank you very much.”
Strabo sniffed. “Well, if I’ve given you reason to smile, fair enough,” he declared, a hint of pleasure in his rough voice.
“How did you know to come?” Ben asked. “When we left, you were asleep.”
The dragon folded his wings against his body, and his eyes lidded. “The Wastelands are mine, Holiday. They belong to me. They are all I have left of what once was unending. Therefore, they are ruled as I determine they should be. No magic is allowed here but my own. If another intrudes, I am warned at once. Even asleep, my senses tell me. I knew of this creature the moment it took shape.” He paused. “Do you know what this is?”
Both Ben and Willow shook their heads.
“This is a wurm. W-U-R-M. An ordinary worm turned predator by magic. Expose it to water, and it grows to the size you see now.” Strabo glanced down at the severed parts and spit in distaste. “Pathetic excuse for disturbing my rest.”
“Rydall again,” Ben said quietly.
Strabo’s head swung back. “I don’t know about Rydall,” he hissed softly, “but I do know about witches. Wurms are a particular favorite of witches.”
Ben stared. “Nightshade?” he said finally.
The dragon’s head lifted. “Among others.” He yawned and looked to the east. “Time to be getting back to bed. Try to stay alive long enough to get out of the Wastelands, Holiday. After that you won’t be my responsibility anymore.”
Without another word he spread his wings, lifted away, and flew out of sight. Ben and Willow watched him go. Bunion stood with them a moment, then left at Ben’s direction to hunt for Jurisdiction.
Willow wiped blood from Ben’s face with a strip of cloth torn from her shirt. After a moment she said, “Could Nightshade be involved in this?”
Ben shook his head. “With Rydall? Why would she do that?”
Willow’s smile was hard and bitter. “She hates you. That’s reason enough.”
Ben stared off into the empty hills, into the glare of the sun, looking at nothing. Willow finished cleaning off his face and kissed him lightly. “She hates all of us.”
Ben nodded. He was thinking suddenly of something else. “Willow,” he said, “I remember now where I’ve seen Rydall’s monsters—all three of them.”
The sylph stepped back from him. “Where?”
He looked back at her, and there was wonder in his eyes. “In a book.”
Mistaya woke early that same morning and found herself alone for the first time since she had arrived in the Deep Fell. Her reaction was disbelief; Nightshade never left her alone. She rose in the gray, misted dawn and looked about expectantly, waiting for the mistress of the hollow to present herself. When she failed to appear, Mistaya called for her. When she still didn’t show, the girl walked all about the edges of the clearing, searching. There was no sign of Nightshade.
Unexpectedly, Mistaya found herself relieved.
There had been considerable changes of late, and chief among them was her relationship with the witch. In the beginning Nightshade had been a willing, enthusiastic teacher, a companion in the magic arts, anxious to share her knowledge, a secret friend who could instruct Mistaya in the uses of her mysterious, intriguing power. Mistaya was there to discover the truth about her birthright, Nightshade had said. She was there to find ways to help her father in his struggle against Rydall of Marnhull. There was good to be achieved from the skills they would uncover. But somehow all that had gotten lost along the way. There was no longer any mention of Rydall or of her birthright. There was barely any mention of the world outside the hollow. All that seemed to matter now was how swift and compliant Mistaya could be in carrying out the witch’s instructions. Patience, once so much in evidence, had dropped by the wayside. Diversity and exploration had been abandoned entirely. For days now all they had done was use the magic for a single purpose: to create monsters. Or if they weren’t actually creating monsters, they were talking about it. In the process the student-teacher relationship had suffered drastically. Instead of continuing to grow closer to each other, it seemed to Mistaya that they were now growing farther apart. Praise and encouragement had been replaced with criticism and disgust. Accusations flew. Mistaya wasn’t trying hard enough. She wasn’t concentrating. She wasn’t thinking. She seemed to have reached a point where she couldn’t do anything right.
When Mistaya had devised the robot, another of the creatures she had seen in her father’s old book, Nightshade had pronounced it wonderful. Then, barely two days later, she had dismissed it as a failure. It wasn’t good enough; she wanted something better. Mistaya tried to think of a new monster, but under the intense pressure of the witch’s demands and her own growing disinterest in the project, she had been unable to come up with anything. In exasperation, Nightshade had devised a creature of her own—a wurm, she called it—which together they had changed from a harmless crawler to a dangerous predator. This time Mistaya had balked openly, saying that she was tired of monsters, weary of this particular use of the magic, and anxious to try something new. Nightshade had dismissed her complaint with a scathing look and a reminder of the girl’s promise to do as she was told in exchange for the privilege of being taught. Mistaya was tempted to remark that the exchange had grown decidedly one-sided, but she held her tongue.
In truth, she didn’t understand what was happening. Their differences notwithstanding, she still looked upon Nightshade as her friend. There was a closeness between them that transcended even her present dissatisfaction, but she was discovering that it was grounded in the reality of shared powers and bordered more and more on an increasingly intense form of competition, as if somehow both of them knew that rather than be friends, they were fated to be rivals. Each day there was more tugging and pulling against than with each other, and the breach between them continued to widen inexorably. Mistaya did not want this to happen, but she found herself powerless to prevent it. Nightshade would not listen to her; she would not make any effort to compromise or conciliate. She wanted Mistaya to do as she was told, to not ask questions, and to repress any and all objections. More and more Mistaya found she could not do that.
So this morning she was alone, and she breathed the air as if it were new and fresh. Wary about her unexpected freedom, she cast a simple spell to be certain that Nightshade was not attempting some sort of deception. But no trace of the witch revealed itself, so she called for Haltwhistle. The mud puppy appeared immediately, materializing out of the gloom, eyes soulful, ears cocked slightly, tail wagging.
“Good old Haltwhistle,” she greeted him with a smile. “Good morning to you.”
Haltwhistle sat back on his haunches and thumped the ground with his tail.
“Shall we do something, you and I?” she asked her four-legged friend. “Just the two of us?”
She looked around the clearing as if expecting the answer to present itself. The familiar misty haze cloaked everything. Trees and brush were shrouded in gloom, the sky was invisible, and the world was a cocoon of silence. She was tired of being confined in so small a space; she wanted to see farther than the edge of the mist. She remembered the world without, and she wanted to look upon it again—on sunlight, green grass, blue skies, lakes, forests, mountains, and living things. She had been thinking about her parents lately, something she hadn’t done for a while. She was wondering why they hadn’t come to see her or written her or sent word of some sort asking how she was. And what about her friends at Sterling Silver? Why hadn’t she at least heard from Questor Thews? They were best friends. What had happened to everybody?
She had not asked this of Nightshade. She knew what the witch would say. They were being careful because Rydall was searching for her. They were making sure she stayed safe. But the answer didn’t satisfy her the way it should have. It seemed inadequate somehow. There should have been a way for her parents and friends to contact her, even here. Like it or not, Mistaya was becoming homesick.
“Well,” she declared impulsively. “Enough standing about. Let’s go for a walk.”
She started out resolutely and without further consideration of her decision. She was about to take a big chance, and she knew it. She intended to walk out to where she could see for more than fifty feet at a time, where there was light and warmth, where there were living things. She intended to go outside the Deep Fell, and that meant breaking Nightshade’s rules.
Oddly enough, she didn’t much care.
She conjured up a stalk of Bonnie Blue to chew on, anxious for something she hadn’t seen for a while. Travel was easy. Once she would not have been able to find her way out of the Deep Fell. Now she employed her magic with barely a thought and was at the base of the slope leading up to the rim in no time at all. She found a pathway and climbed toward the light. Haltwhistle plodded steadfastly along behind her.
Moments later she emerged from the murky haze into a day filled with sunshine and summer smells. She smiled as the light fell across her face and arms. She blinked away its brightness as she looked first left into forested hills with their deep green shadows and then right across a valley of blue and yellow wildflowers. Purple-shadowed mountains rose on the distant horizon, clouds scraping across their peaks. Birds flew in the trees close by, and a woodland rabbit darted away through the long grasses of the valley.
“Well, which way shall we go?” she asked Haltwhistle with a bright, determined smile.
Since the mud puppy didn’t seem to have a preference, Mistaya made the choice for them. They struck out east into the trees, winding their way through glens and clearings, seeking out small streams and quiet ponds, watching for forest creatures, and smelling out nuts and berries. Mistaya meandered without concern for where she was going, knowing her magic would allow her to find her way back again when she was ready. She gave Rydall a passing thought, then dismissed him. Her wards were up, the magic lines that kept her alert to anyone who might approach so that she would be warned well in advance of discovery. She did not think Rydall would find her out here in any event. She did not think anyone would.
She was surprised when, in the middle of skipping stones across a small pond, she sensed somebody just a short distance off. She stopped what she was doing and stood perfectly still, using her magic to send out feelers. Nightshade had taught her a lot. She found the other without difficulty. One man, all alone. She sensed no danger from him. She debated what to do, then decided it might be fun to speak with someone. After all, she hadn’t talked with anyone besides the witch in weeks. She would have a look at him, and if he seemed safe, she would show herself.
With Haltwhistle in tow, she slipped through the trees, treading soundlessly, cloaking herself in her magic. She found her quarry sitting cross-legged in a clearing before a tiny fire, chewing on the remains of some small animal he had cooked. He was an odd-looking fellow, small-limbed, round-bodied, and hairy all over. He had whiskers that stuck out from his face like the bristles of a brush and tiny pointed ears that were ragged at the ends. His clothes were badly sewn, ill fitting, and frayed from wear. He wore a gold ring in one ear with a dilapidated feather hanging off it. He was encrusted in dirt and grime from his bare feet to his bare head.
She searched her memory in an effort to identify what sort of creature he was and decided finally that he was a G’home Gnome.
Safe enough to talk to, she believed, and she strolled bravely out into the clearing.
“Good morning,” she greeted him.
The fellow at the fire started so that he dropped the bone he was gnawing into the dirt. “Jumping junipers, don’t do that!” he exclaimed irritably. “Give a person some warning, will you? Where did you come from, anyway?” He reached down hurriedly to pick up the bone, wiping it off with his fingers.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Didn’t scare me! Didn’t scare me one bit! No sir!” He was instantly defensive. “Startled me was all. Thought I was alone out here. Had every reason to feel that way, too. No one comes to these woods, you know. Say, who are you, anyway?”
She hesitated. “Misty,” she said, no fonder of the name now than before but opting for caution over pride. “What’s yours?”
“Poggwydd. That your pet, cute little fellow behind you?” His eyes were suddenly sharp. “What is he?”
She came all the way over and stood looking down at him. Haltwhistle followed. “What are you eating?” she asked in return.
“Eating? Oh, uh, a rabbit, yes, a rabbit. Caught it myself.”
“It has a rather long tail for a rabbit, doesn’t it?” She indicated the leavings of his meal piled next to him in a bedraggled heap.
Poggwydd frowned petulantly. “Well, I forget. Maybe it’s not a rabbit. Maybe it’s something else. What difference does it make?”
“It looks like a cat.”
“It might be. So what?”
Mistaya shrugged and sat down across from him. “I just didn’t want you to get any ideas about Haltwhistle, that’s all.” She indicated the mud puppy, who was sniffing at the ground. “You’re a G’home Gnome, aren’t you?”
“Proud to be so,” he announced with uncharacteristic boldness for one of Landover’s most despised peoples.
“Well, everyone knows G’home Gnomes eat pets.”
Poggwydd threw down his bone in disgust. “That’s a lie! An outright lie! G’home Gnomes eat creatures of nature and the wild, not those of house and hearth! Now and then a stray gets eaten, but that’s its own fault! See here, little girl, we must have an understanding if we’re to continue this conversation. I will not be maligned. I will not be reviled. I will not sit here and defend myself. I was here first, so if you feel compelled to impugn the integrity and character of G’home Gnomes, you must leave now!”
Mistaya wrinkled her brow. “You seem awfully grouchy.”
“You’d be grouchy, too, if you had to spend your whole life bearing up under the abuse of others. G’home Gnomes have been wrongfully accused since the dawn of time for crimes of which they were not guilty. They have been scorned and ridiculed with never a thought given to the harm that was done. Innocent little girls like you should know better than to follow in the ways of your ignorant, prejudiced elders. Not everything you hear is true, you know.”
“All right,” Mistaya acknowledged. “I’m sorry for being suspicious. But there are lots of stories about you.”
Poggwydd screwed up his whiskered face in distaste. “Humph! Stories, indeed!” He glanced again at Haltwhistle. “So what is he, anyway?”
“A mud puppy.”
“Never heard of it,” Poggwydd held out one grimy hand. “Come over here, Haltwhistle. Come here, boy. Let old Poggwydd give you a pet.”
“You do not pet mud puppies,” Mistaya declared quickly. “You never touch them.”
Poggwydd looked at her suspiciously. “Why not?”
“You just don’t. It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Poggwydd looked back at the mud puppy. “He doesn’t look dangerous. He looks rather silly.”
“Well, you mustn’t touch him.”
“Suit yourself.” The G’home Gnome shrugged. He looked down at the bones gathered in his lap. “Want something to eat?”
Mistaya shook her head. “No, thank you. What are you doing out here?”
Poggwydd ate a sliver of meat off a bone. His teeth looked sharp. “Traveling.” He shrugged. “Enjoying my own company for a while, getting away from the noise and bustle of home, escaping from this and that.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m not in trouble!” He gave her a peevish look. “Do I look like I’m in trouble? Do I? Say, what about you? Little girl wandering around out here in the middle of nowhere. Are you in trouble?”
She thought about it a moment. She was in trouble, she supposed. Not that she was going to tell him. “No,” she lied.
“No, huh? What are you doing out here, then, all by yourself? Taking a long walk, maybe? Are you lost?”
Her jaw tightened defensively. “I’m not lost. I’m visiting.”
“Hah!” Poggwydd made a face. “Visiting who? The witch, maybe? That’s who you’re visiting?” The look on her face brought him up short. “Now, now, I was only teasing; no need to be frightened,” he reassured her hastily, misreading the look. “But she’s right over there, you know. Just a mile or so off in the Deep Fell. You don’t want to be wandering about down there. Just remember that.” He cleared his throat and tossed away the last of the bones. “So who are you visiting way out here?”
She smiled coyly. “You.”
“Me? Ho, ho! That’s a good one! Visiting me, are you?” He rocked with laughter. “You must lack much in the way of choices, then. Visiting me! As if that were something a little girl would do!”
“Well, I am.”
“Am what?”
“Visiting you. Sitting here having this conversation is visiting, isn’t it?”
He gave her a sharp look. “You are too smart by half, little girl. Misty, is it? You tell me now, if we’re really friends—who are you?”
She tried her best to look confused. “I already told you that.”
“So you did. Misty, out for a walk in the middle of nowhere. Come to visit a new friend she didn’t know she had until just now.” Poggwydd shook his whiskered face at her. “Well, you look like trouble to me, so I don’t think I want to talk with you anymore. I don’t need any more trouble in my life. G’home Gnomes have enough as it is. Good-bye.”
He rose and brushed himself off, sending dust and crumbs flying. She stared at him in disbelief. He really meant it. She scrambled up with him.
“I don’t see what difference it makes who I am,” she declared angrily. “Why can’t we just talk?”
He shrugged. “Because I don’t like little girls who play games, and you’re playing one with me, aren’t you? You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. I don’t like that. It isn’t fair.”
“Isn’t fair?” she exclaimed.
“Not a bit.”
She watched him begin to gather up his few belongings. “But I don’t really know who you are, either,” she pointed out quickly. “I don’t know any more about you than you know about me. Except your name. And you know mine, so we’re even.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Well, now, I suppose that’s right. Yes, I suppose it is.”
He put down his pack with a small clatter of implements and sat down again. Mistaya sat with him.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, holding up a single grimy finger for emphasis. “You tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you something about me. How about that?”
She held out her finger and touched it to his, binding the agreement. “You first.”
Poggwydd frowned, shrugged, and rocked back. “Humph. Let me see.” He looked marginally thoughtful. “Very well. I’ll tell you what I’m doing out here. I’m a treasure hunter for the King, for the High Lord himself.” He gave her a conspiratorial look. “I’m on a special mission, looking for a very valuable chest of gold that’s hidden somewhere in these woods.”
She arched one eyebrow. “You are not.”
“I am so!” He was immediately indignant. “How would you know, anyway?”
“Because I just do.” She was grinning in spite of herself. Poggwydd made her laugh almost as much as Abernathy did.
“Well, you don’t know anything!” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I have been a treasure hunter for the King for years! I have found a good many valuable things in my travels, I can tell you! I know more about treasure hunting than anyone, and the High Lord appreciates that. That’s why he employs me.”
“I bet he doesn’t even know you,” she persisted, enjoying the game. It was the most fun she’d had in some time. “I bet he has never seen you before in his entire life.”
Poggwydd was beside himself. “He has so! I happen to know him quite well! I even know his family. I know the Queen! And the little girl, the one who’s missing! Why, I might even find her while I’m looking for that chest of gold!”
She stared at him. Missing? She kept her lips tightly together. “You don’t know her. You’re making this all up.”
“I am not! I’ll tell you something, since you seem so intent on being rude. The High Lord’s little girl is a whole lot nicer than you!”
“She is not!”
“Hah! Fly doodles! How would you know?”
“Because I’m her!”
It was out before she could help herself. She said it in a rush of indignation and pride, but she supposed that she would have said it anyway because this was a game, and he wouldn’t know whether to believe it. Besides, she wanted to see the look on his face when she said it.
The look was worth it. He gaped in undisguised amazement, sputtered something unintelligible, and then finished with a monstrous snort. “Pfah! What nonsense! What a heap of horse hunks! Now who’s telling tall tales?”
“And I’m not missing, either!” she added firmly. “I’m right here with you!”
“You’re not the High Lord’s daughter!” he exclaimed vehemently. “You can’t be!”
“How would you know?” she mimicked. Then she put her hands to her face and feigned shock. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot! You’re the King’s personal treasure hunter and know the whole family!”
Poggwydd scowled. He hunched forward, his round body rocking on its stubby, gnarled legs as if in danger of tipping over completely.
“Look here,” he said carefully. “Enough foolishness. It’s one thing to play at being someone where the playing is harmless but another altogether to make light of misfortune. I know you are just a little girl, but you’re a smart little girl and old enough to appreciate the difference.”
“What are you talking about!” she snapped, furious at being lectured like this.
“The High Lord’s daughter!” he snapped back. “That’s what I’m talking about! Don’t tell me you don’t know.” He stopped short. “Well, now, maybe you don’t—little girl all alone out here in the woods, bumping up against a fellow like me. Who are you, anyway? You never did say. Are you one of those fairies, come out from the mists for a visit? Are you a sprite or some such from the lake country? We don’t see many up this way. Not us G’home Gnomes, anyway.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Well, here’s what’s happened, if you don’t already know. The High Lord’s daughter is missing, and everyone is looking for her. She’s been missing for days, weeks perhaps, but gone for sure, and there were search parties hunting for her from one end of Landover to the other.”
He bent close, lowering his voice as if he might be heard. “Word is, King Rydall has her. He’s from someplace called Marnhull. He has her. Won’t give her back, either. He’s making the King’s champion do battle with some monsters. I don’t know that for a fact, but that’s what I’ve heard. In any case, she’s missing, and you shouldn’t make fun of her.”
Mistaya was dumbfounded. “But I am her!” she insisted, hands on hips. “I really am!”
There was movement in the trees to one side. She caught just a glimpse of it and whirled about, poised to flee, her heart in her throat, her stomach turned to ice. The movement turned to color, a rush of wicked greenish light that filled the shadowed spaces between the trunks and limbs. The color tightened and took shape, coalescing into human form, lean and dark and certain.
Nightshade had returned.
The witch stepped out of the shadows, silent as a ghost. Her bloodied eyes fixed on Mistaya. “You were told not to leave the Deep Fell,” she said softly.
Mistaya froze. For a moment her thoughts were so scattered that she couldn’t think. Then she managed a small nod in response. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wanted to see the sun again.”
“Come stand over here,” the witch ordered. “By me.”
“It was just for the day,” Mistaya tried to explain, frightened now of what might happen to her, terrified by the look on the other’s face. “I was all alone, and I didn’t think—“
“Come here, Mistaya!” Nightshade snapped, cutting her short.
Mistaya crossed the clearing slowly, head lowered. She managed a quick glance back at Poggwydd. He was standing in front of his fire, eyes wide and staring. Mistaya felt sorry for him. This was her fault.
“I am waiting, Mistaya,” Nightshade warned.
Mistaya’s gaze swung back again toward the witch. She realized suddenly that Haltwhistle was missing. He had been right beside her while she had been talking with Poggwydd. Where had he gone?
She reached Nightshade and stopped, dreading what might happen next. Nightshade forced a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “I am very disappointed in you,” she whispered.
Mistaya nodded, ashamed without being quite sure why. “I won’t do it again,” she promised. She remembered Poggwydd. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said quickly, looking back over her shoulder at the unfortunate G’home Gnome. “It was mine. He didn’t even want to talk to me.” She hesitated. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”
Nightshade reached out and placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. Gently but firmly she moved her aside. “Of course not. He is nothing but a silly Gnome. I’ll just speed him on his way.”
“Excuse me?” Poggwydd ventured, his voice small and thin. “I don’t need to be here anymore, do I? Any longer, I mean? I... I can just pick up my things, and I can—“
Nightshade’s hands came up, and green fire blazed sharply to life at her fingertips. Poggwydd squeaked and cringed back in terror. Nightshade let the fire build, then gathered it in her palms and caressed it lovingly as she watched the Gnome. Mistaya tried to speak and found she couldn’t. She turned to Nightshade, pleading with her eyes, suddenly certain that the witch meant to harm Poggwydd, after all.
Then she saw Haltwhistle. The mud puppy was crouched at the edge of the trees just out of Nightshade’s field of vision. His hackles were standing on end, and his head drooped forward as if he were concentrating. Something white and frosty-looking was rising off his back.
What was he doing?
Abruptly Nightshade sent the green fire hurtling into Poggwydd. But Haltwhistle’s moon/frost reached him first. Mistaya screamed at the sound of the impact. The fire and the frost exploded together, and Poggwydd disappeared. All that remained was the Gnome’s discarded pack and the smell of ashes and smoke.
“What was that?” Nightshade exclaimed instantly, eyes raking the clearing from end to end. She wheeled on Mistaya. “Did you see it? Did you?”
Mistaya blinked. Her breath came in little gasps. The moon/frost. She had seen it, of course. But she would never admit it to the witch. Not after what had happened to Poggwydd. At least Haltwhistle had escaped. There wasn’t a trace of him to be seen.
She faced Nightshade down, her voice shaking. “What did you do to Poggwydd? I asked you not to hurt him!”
The witch was nonplussed by the girl’s vehemence. “Calm yourself,” she soothed. Her eyes were still skittering about uneasily. “Nothing has happened to him. I sent him home, back to his people, away from where he doesn’t belong.”
Mistaya would not be placated. “I don’t believe you! I don’t believe anything you say anymore! I want to go home right now!”
Nightshade gave her a cool and dispassionate look. “Very well, Mistaya,” she said quietly. “But first listen to what I have to say. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
Mistaya nodded, tight-lipped.
“Your friend wasn’t harmed,” the witch emphasized. “But he couldn’t be allowed to remain here. What he told you was true, so far as he knew. Everyone thinks that Rydall has you. Your father arranged for them to think that. He started the rumor when Rydall first tried to kidnap you. He even organized a search for you to make the claim seem true. He did this to confuse Rydall and whoever might be trying to find you on his behalf. This way it seemed that no one knew where you were.”
She gave Mistaya a sympathetic smile. “But now the little Gnome knows the truth. Suppose he tells someone what you said? Suppose he tells them where he saw you? What if word of this gets back to Rydall’s spies? The risk is too great. So I returned him to where he came from, and I used my magic to erase his memory of this incident. I did it to protect you both.”
“He won’t remember anything?” Mistaya asked carefully.
“Nothing. So no harm is done, is it?” Nightshade bent close. “As for going home, you may do so immediately if you wish.” She paused. “Or you may stay with me for three more days and then leave. If you choose to stay, I will make you a promise. I won’t ask you to make any more monsters. We’ve done enough of that, I know. You have been more than patient, and I have been rather demanding of you. So we shall try something else. What do you think about that?”
Mistaya stared at her, surprised by this unexpected turn of events. The witch’s eyes were silver again, soft and compelling. Mistaya remembered how things had been when they had first met, how eager Nightshade had been to teach, how anxious she had been to learn. She remembered how excited she had been the first time she had used her magic. She felt a little of the anger and mistrust drop away. She would like to continue the lessons, she supposed. She would like to stay. She didn’t have to go home right this instant, not if Poggwydd was really safe and she didn’t have to make any more monsters.
“Are my parents all right?” she asked suddenly.
Nightshade looked shocked. “Of course they are. Where do you think I was this morning? I changed form and went to Sterling Silver to make certain. Everything is fine. Your father and mother are well. Questor Thews protects them from Rydall, so we have time to finish your training in the use of magic. Then you will be ready to help protect them as well.”
Mistaya stared at the witch without speaking. Nightshade seemed to be telling the truth. And Poggwydd hadn’t said anything about her parents being in any danger or having come to any harm. Of course, it was hard to know whether anything the Gnome said was true, she supposed.
She was suddenly very confused. She sighed and looked away from the witch. The clearing was silent and empty save for them. Overhead, the sun brightened the skies and streamed down through the trees. She could almost believe that Poggwydd had never been there at all.
“Well,” she said finally, “I guess I could stay for three more days.”
“That would be very wise of you,” Nightshade encouraged, and Mistaya failed to catch the hard edge that shaped the words or the way the witch’s back lost a touch of its stiffness. “But you must not go out of the Deep Fell again.”
Mistaya nodded. “I won’t.” She looked back at the witch tentatively. “What will we study now?”
Nightshade pursed her lips. “Medicine,” she answered. “Healing through the use of magic.”
She put her arm about Mistaya and began to walk her from the clearing back toward the hollow. “Mistaya,” she said softly, “would you like to learn how to use your magic to bring something dead back to life?”
She smiled at the girl, and her eyes were lidded with pleasure.
After three days of searching Graum Wythe and finding nothing, Questor Thews became convinced that somehow they were overlooking the obvious.
“We’re wearing blinders!” he announced abruptly. He sat down on a packing crate with his chin in his hands and a frown on his face, bushy white eyebrows fiercely knit. “It’s here, whatever it is, but we’re simply not seeing it!”
Elizabeth and Abernathy looked over at him in voiceless contemplation. They were secluded in one of Graum Wythe’s many storage rooms, deep in the bowels of the castle, a small windowless room where the sun never penetrated and the air was close and stale. They had searched the room once and were engaged at present in searching it a second time. By now, unfortunately, they had searched everywhere at least once and were growing discouraged.
“It shouldn’t be taking this long,” the wizard declared forcefully. “If we are meant to find it, if that is why we were brought here, then we should have stumbled on it by now.”
“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” Abernathy observed glumly, lowering himself onto a second crate with a weary sigh. He was sick of poking through old boxes and dusty corners. He wanted to be outside, where the sun was shining and the air was fresh. He wanted to enjoy being who he was now that he had finally been restored to himself. All those dog years had fallen away as quickly as leaves from a tree on winter’s first storm, as if none of it had ever really happened, all of it a dream from which he had finally awoken.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, causing her button nose to wrinkle. “I don’t suppose you could be mistaken about what you are doing here?” she asked Questor Thews tentatively. “Is it possible that your coming was simply a fluke?” She seated herself next to Abernathy. “Or that you were dispatched here for some other reason?”
“It is possible,” the wizard acknowledged charitably, “but unlikely. The consequences of magic are seldom haphazard. They almost always have a reason for turning out as they do. Nightshade would not have made the mistake of letting us live when she expected us to die. No, the conclusion is inescapable. Another magic intervened and saved us. We were sent here for a purpose, and I can think of no other purpose than to rescue Mistaya.”
“Is it possible you are wrong about the magic being at Graum Wythe?” Elizabeth pressed. “Could it be somewhere else?”
Questor Thews scrunched up his face. “No. It has to be here. It has to be a magic that originally came from Landover. Nothing else makes sense!”
They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, then looked about the room. “Could there be a second medallion?” Abernathy asked suddenly. “Another like the High Lord’s?”
Questor raised a spiny eyebrow thoughtfully. It was a possibility he hadn’t considered. But no; Michel Ard Rhi would have found such a talisman quickly enough and would not have gone to such great lengths to force Abernathy to give up the High Lord’s when the scribe had been his prisoner at Graum Wythe those several years back.
The wizard shook his head. “No, it is something else, something that Michel would not have recognized. Something, at least, he could not find a way to use.” He rubbed at his bearded chin thoughtfully. “This is exceedingly frustrating, I must say.”
“Maybe we should have some lunch,” Elizabeth suggested, nudging Abernathy playfully. “We might think better on full stomachs.”
“We might think better after a short nap,” Abernathy observed, nudging her back.
Questor Thews watched them wordlessly. He didn’t like what he was seeing. Abernathy was growing complacent in his new life. He was altogether too satisfied with himself, as if getting back to Landover didn’t mean anything to him now that he was a man again. He was forgetting his responsibilities. The High Lord and his family still depended on them, and Questor was afraid Abernathy was losing sight of that. He knew he shouldn’t judge, but what was happening was obvious. Abernathy was rediscovering himself, and in the process of doing so he was making over his life to fit his new circumstances. It was a dangerous indulgence.
He cleared his throat sharply, causing both of them to jump. “Before we eat or nap, perhaps we could talk this business through one more time.” He offered a smile to soften the force of his words. “Just for a few more moments, if you would. I admit to being rather desperate just about now.”
Elizabeth smiled back reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Questor. You’ll find it sooner or later, whatever it is.” She ran her fingers through her curly hair. “Even if you don’t, this isn’t a bad place to be trapped in, is it?”
She sounded altogether too hopeful. Questor did not dare say what he was thinking. “We have to get back to Landover,” he insisted quietly. “We have to find the magic that will allow it.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I know.” She didn’t sound convinced, “This magic, whatever it is, has to be something you’ll recognize when you see it, doesn’t it? If it’s really here?”
“We’ve seen everything at least once already,” Abernathy countered, pushing back his glasses on his nose.
“Maybe we’re not looking at it the right way,” Questor Thews mulled aloud.
Elizabeth swung her feet away from the crate and studied her sneakers. They were silent again, considering.
“Wait a minute,” Abernathy said suddenly. “Maybe what we’re looking for isn’t a thing at all. Maybe that’s why we’re not seeing it. It was a spell that brought us here, magic conjured out of words. What if a spell is needed to take us back again?”
Questor’s eyes widened, and he jumped up instantly from the packing crate. “Abernathy, you are an absolute genius! Of course that’s what it is! A spell! We’re not looking for a talisman at all! We’re looking for a book of spells!”
Abernathy and Elizabeth rose as well, looking decidedly less certain of the matter. “But wouldn’t Michel have recognized a book of that sort?” Abernathy asked doubtfully. “Wouldn’t he have used it to get back into Landover there at the end, when he wanted to regain the throne? Or wouldn’t your brother have searched it out when Holiday defied him? I know it was my idea, but on thinking it through, it doesn’t make much sense. If there is a spell that allows passage back into Landover, why didn’t one of them use it?”
“Perhaps because they couldn’t,” the wizard offered, stalking first to one side of the cluttered room, then back again to the other, head lowered, hands swinging animatedly. “Because the spell wouldn’t work for them, maybe. I don’t know. But I think you have stumbled on something nevertheless. A spell brought us over. It would make sense that a spell would take us back. A reversal of the magic that brought us here. A reworking of the words...”
A nasty suspicion crossed his mind, one that had occurred to him earlier in Elizabeth’s kitchen when they had been discussing the reasons for what had happened to them. He had discarded it then, refusing to consider it too closely, unable to contemplate the possibility. Now it was back again, looking all too possible to be ignored.
He stopped his pacing and looked at Abernathy with haunted eyes. “Abernathy, this is difficult for me to suggest, but what if...”
He never finished. Light flared in the shadows at the far side of the storage room, and all three turned abruptly to face it. The light brightened sharply and then disappeared, leaving in its wake a decidedly ragged and frightened G’home Gnome sitting stunned and shivering on the concrete floor.
When he saw them staring at him, he gasped and threw up his hands defensively. “Don’t hurt me!” he begged, blinking rapidly and trying to curl into a ball. “I just want to go home!”
Questor Thews exchanged a startled glance with Abernathy. A G’home Gnome? Here? What was this all about?
“Now, now, no one is going to hurt you,” Questor reassured the other, starting forward, then stopping again as the Gnome started to gasp for air. “Are you all right?”
The Gnome nodded uncertainly. “If you can call being fried in witch fire ‘all right,’ then I suppose so.”
Witch fire? Questor and Abernathy exchanged a second glance. “What’s your name?” Questor pressed. The grimy little fellow was twisted down into an impossible position. “Come, now. We mean you no harm. We are all friends here.”
The Gnome sniffled uncertainly, peering out from beneath crossed arms. “G’home Gnomes have precious few friends anywhere,” he pointed out sullenly. He lifted his head. He was the scruffiest fellow imaginable, tattered and disheveled and in desperate need of a bath. “You tell me who you are first.”
Questor sighed. “I am Questor Thews. This is Abernathy. That is Elizabeth.” He pointed to each in turn. “Now, then. Who are you?”
“Poggwydd,” the G’home Gnome said. He sounded proud of the fact. He lowered his arms and straightened up a bit. “Questor Thews, the Court Wizard? I heard you were Rydall’s prisoner. You and the dog. Is that where we are, in Rydall’s prison? Is that where the witch sent me?”
“Wait a minute.” This time Questor Thews came right over and brought the Gnome firmly to his feet. “The witch, you said? Do you mean Nightshade?”
Poggwydd nodded. “Who else?” He was a little more sure of himself now. “She’s the one who did this to me. Sent me here, wherever that is. Used her witch fire. Say, you didn’t answer. Are we in Rydall’s prison? What’s going on?”
Questor Thews took Poggwydd by the elbow, marched him over to a vacant packing crate, and sat him down. The Gnome was rubbing at his wet nose and trying unsuccessfully to look brave. He kept his eyes fixed on Questor, as if by doing so he could stave off anything worse happening to him.
“Poggwydd,” the wizard addressed him solemnly. “I want you to tell us everything that happened, everything you can remember, especially about Nightshade.”
“I can do that, all right,” the Gnome declared. He paused suspiciously. “You promise me you aren’t friends with her?”
“I promise,” Questor replied.
Poggwydd nodded, thought it over, then cleared his throat officiously. “Well, I thought she was going to hurt me—the witch, that is. She had that look in her eye. She was real mad at me because of the little girl. Caught me talking with her out there in a clearing about a mile from the Deep Fell. Ridiculous, really. I didn’t even know her; she just showed up out of nowhere, way out in those woods, wanting to talk. So we did, and then the witch came, and the little girl asked her not to hurt me, said it wasn’t my fault, but the witch didn’t look like she believed her, so—“
“Whoa! Stop! Hold on!” Questor held up his hands imploringly. His brow knit furiously. “What little girl are you talking about? What did she look like? Did she tell you her name?”
Poggwydd stared, startled by the look on the other’s face. He glanced past the wizard to the other two, found no help there, and looked back again. “I don’t know what she looked like. Who can remember? She was... small. Not very old, maybe ten. Had freckles and blond hair.” He frowned. “She was very clever. Played some games with me while we talked. Pretended to be... She said she was the High Lord’s...” He stopped, no longer certain where to go. “She said her name was Misty.”
“Mistaya,” Questor breathed, backing away. “So Nightshade has her. Or had her. Did she escape, Poggwydd? Is that what happened?”
The G’home Gnome looked at him blankly. “Escape? I don’t know if she did or not. I don’t know where she came from. I don’t even know who she is for sure. What I do know is that the witch was furious when she found me talking with her and that’s why I’m here!” He paused, rubbing at his bristly chin. Bits of dirt flaked off. “Although maybe that’s not right, either. You know, she asked the witch not to hurt me, the little girl did. But I don’t think the witch was paying any attention to her and meant to fry me like a piece of old meat.”
“But she didn’t,” Questor interjected, trying to hurry the story along, anxious to pin down his suspicions.
Poggwydd shook his head. “Well, there was this mud puppy, you see. I think maybe he stopped it from happening.” He looked confused all over again. “Is that possible?”
Eventually they got the whole story out of him although it took a while to do so. They heard about how Mistaya had come upon his camp not far from the Deep Fell and engaged him in conversation. They heard about Haltwhistle and how he seemed to be the girl’s companion. Finally, they heard about Nightshade’s unexpected appearance, her anger at discovering Mistaya outside the Deep Fell, and her attack on Poggwydd, which appeared to have been thwarted in part by the magic of the mud puppy, resulting in the Gnome’s appearance at Graum Wythe.
“Just like us!” Abernathy exclaimed as the Gnome finished. He was standing next to Questor Thews by now, looking quite animated. “Questor, that must be what happened to us, too! The mud puppy intervened, changed Nightshade’s magic, and sent us here! It sounds exactly the same!”
“Indeed,” Questor agreed, pursing his lips, thinking hard.
“Where is here?” Poggwydd asked once again. “You haven’t said yet.”
“In a minute,” Questor replied, turning away momentarily and then back again. “But who sent the mud puppy to Mistaya? It must have happened that night, while we slept, before the witch came. We were in the lake country, so it could have been the River Master. But the only mud puppy I ever heard of outside the fairy mists is the one who serves the Earth Mother.”
“What difference does it make?” Abernathy cut him short. “What matters is that the witch has Mistaya and is using her to hurt the High Lord, just as she promised she would. You were right, Questor Thews. We are here for a purpose, and it must have something to do with helping Ben Holiday. We just have to find out what it is.”
“A book of spells,” Questor recalled, thinking back to where this conversation had started. “All right, then.” He wheeled about, strode quickly to Poggwydd, and placed both hands firmly on the Gnome’s narrow shoulders. “Where you are doesn’t matter, Poggwydd. What’s important is that you are in no immediate danger. But the little girl, Misty, is. We have to get out of here and back to where she is. There is something here, in this place, that can help us do that—if we can find it. That is what we intend to do right now. While we search, I want you to stay right here.”
Poggwydd looked around doubtfully. “Why should I do that? Why can’t I just go home? I can find my way once I’m outside again.”
Questor gave him a sympathetic look. “Not from here, you can’t. You will have to trust me on this.” He paused, thinking. “If you try, Poggwydd, Nightshade might get her hands on you a second time. Do you understand me?”
The Gnome nodded quickly. He understood, all right. “I’ll do as you say,” he agreed reluctantly. “How long do I have to wait?”
“I don’t know. Maybe quite a while. You must be patient.”
Poggwydd sniffled. “I don’t have anything to eat. I’m hungry.”
Abernathy rolled his eyes. Questor squeezed the Gnome’s shoulders and released him. “I know. Be brave. We’ll try to find you something to eat and bring it down. But you have to stay where you are, no matter what. This is important, Poggwydd. You must not leave this room for anything. All right?”
The Gnome rubbed at his nose and shrugged. “All right. I’ll wait. But try to hurry.”
“We’ll be as quick as we can.” Questor backed away, looking once again at Abernathy and Elizabeth. “We’ll have to start over, tourists or no tourists. The common rooms first, then back into storage. But I’m willing to bet the book we need is right out there where we can see it.”
“You know,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “I think there were some books that were kept separate from the others, ones printed in a language that no one here could read. My father mentioned them once.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Questor exclaimed in undisguised glee. “Books written in Landover’s language, carried over by Michel or my brother! They would have to be the ones, wouldn’t they?”
And with that, following Questor’s final reassuring smile and wave of the hand to Poggwydd, they were out the door and on their way back through the castle.
The search took them longer than they expected, however, extending well into the late afternoon, when the last of the tourists were straggling back to their buses and cars and heading home. They hunted through the rooms of the castle twice before they found what they were looking for. There were books in every room, and most of them were under lock and key. That meant keeping watch and distracting both tourists and guides while the locks were released and a quick survey made to determine if any of the books were what they were looking for. Questor used magic on the locks, which hastened the process, but checking through the books took an inordinate amount of time and for most of the day yielded absolutely nothing.
Until finally, with time running out and the castle closing down, Elizabeth remembered a massive old glass-front cabinet in an upstairs drawing room tucked away in a dormer that was not visible from the roped-off doorway. There were some books there, she thought. Just a few, but she remembered them because her father had remarked once on their covers. Following her suggestion, they hurried to the drawing room as a bell sounded closing time in the downstairs hall. While the girl and Abernathy kept watch, Questor stepped over the ropes and wormed his way through an obstacle course of furniture to the cabinet. He peered inside. Sure enough, there were the books, a dozen of them, all wrapped in dark cloth covers that concealed the titles. The cabinet latch was locked, but a whisper of magic and he was inside.
Excited now, Questor reached past a collection of amethyst glassware that fronted the books and pulled the first out. To his extreme disappointment it was written in English and had nothing at all to do with Landover. He checked another two. It was the same. Another dead end, it seemed. Hope dwindling, he continued on more quickly. Books on gardening, travel, and history.
“Questor Thews, hurry!” Abernathy hissed from the doorway as voices from down the hall rapidly approached.
Questor opened the eighth book in the collection and his eyebrows shot up. It was written in Ancient Landoverian script, in a language the old wizards had commonly used. He paged through it hurriedly to make sure, hearing the voices more clearly: laughter, a quick greeting to Elizabeth, her response. Feverishly, he wedged himself between the wall and the cabinet, where he was out of sight of anyone standing in the doorway.
“Still poking about, Elizabeth?” someone asked, coming to a stop beyond the ropes. “Aren’t you getting hungry?”
“Oh, we’re almost done,” she replied with a nervous laugh. “Is it all right to stay a bit longer?”
“One hour,” a second voice advised. “Then we leave. Call if you need anything.”
The voices continued on down the hall and faded away.
“Questor!” Abernathy warned a second time, his patience obviously at an end.
Questor freed himself from his hiding place and looked down at his discovery. Carefully he pulled back the cloth covering. There were symbols etched in gold leaf on the leather binding that read Gateway Mythologies.
“Drat!” he muttered, shoved the book back into place, and pulled out the next one.
Greensward Histories. He reached for the third.
Theories of Magic and Its Uses.
“Yes, yes, yes!” the wizard whispered in relief.
He could not take time to read it here, he knew. He checked the last of the volumes and found nothing. He would have to hope that the one in his hands held what he was looking for. He moved quickly back across the room toward the door.
“I’ve got it!” he announced triumphantly as he reached Elizabeth and Abernathy.
Abruptly an alarm went off. They all jumped, and Elizabeth gave a short cry. Questor hurriedly tucked the book into the carry bag he had brought. “What’s happened?” he gasped, white hair and beard flying out in every direction. “What did I do?”
“I don’t think you did anything at all!” Elizabeth grasped his arm as he whirled this way and that, casting about for imagined attackers. “It’s a fire alarm! But I can’t imagine what set it off!”
Questor Thews and Abernathy immediately looked at each other. “Poggwydd!” they exclaimed.
They hurried along the corridor to the stairs and started down, jostling and bumping against each other, all talking at once.
“We shouldn’t have left him alone!” Questor moaned, clutching the carry bag and its precious contents close against his chest.
“We should have tied and gagged him!” Abernathy snapped. From below came the sound of shouts.
“Maybe it isn’t him at all!” Elizabeth encouraged.
But it was, of course. Two security guards were hauling Poggwydd into view just as they arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The Gnome was disheveled and covered from head to foot in a coating of ash. He was struggling and moaning pathetically while the guards held him at arm’s length between them, not at all certain what it was they had.
“Boy, I’ve seen it all!” one of them was muttering.
“Shut up and hold on to him!” the other growled irritably.
Poggwydd caught sight of Questor Thews and started to call for help, but the wizard made a quick motion with one hand and the startled G’home Gnome was rendered instantly voiceless. His mouth worked in futile desperation, but nothing came out.
“Stand back, folks,” one of the guards advised as they carried the struggling Gnome past.
“What do you have there?” Questor asked, feigning ignorance.
“Don’t know.” The guard’s attention was diverted momentarily as Poggwydd tried to bite him. “Some sort of monkey, I guess. Filthy as a pig and twice as ugly. Found him in the kitchen, trying to start a fire. It almost looked like he was trying to cook some food he’d stolen, but c’mon, he’s a monkey, right? Anyway, the fire alarm went off or he might have burned the place down. Look at him fight! Mean little devil. Must have escaped from a zoo or something. How he found his way here, I’ll never know.”
“Well, be careful with him,” Questor offered, trying to avoid Poggwydd’s furious look.
“Careful as can be.” The guard laughed.
“There, there, little fellow,” Questor called after the struggling Gnome. “Someone will come to claim you soon!”
“Can’t be soon enough for me!” the other guard called back, and the unfortunate Poggwydd was dragged kicking and writhing through the front door and out of sight.
Questor, Abernathy, and Elizabeth stood staring after the Gnome in silence for a moment. Then Questor said, “This is my fault. I completely forgot about him.”
“You told him to wait where he was,” Abernathy reminded him, evidencing a noticeable lack of sympathy. “He should have listened.”
“Questor, what did you do to stop him from talking?” Elizabeth asked.
The wizard sighed. “Cast a small spell. I couldn’t very well let him tell them who we are, and that is exactly what he was about to do. Besides, things would be much worse for Poggwydd if they found out he can talk. He is better off if they think him an animal, believe me.”
“He is an animal,” Abernathy muttered. “Stupid Gnome.”
“Stupid or not, we have to help him,” Elizabeth said at once.
“What we have to do,” Questor announced quickly, “is to go back to the house, where I can study this book and find out if it is what we are looking for.”
“It better be,” Abernathy grumbled. “I have seen all I care to see of Graum Wythe!”
“Where do you think they will take him?” Elizabeth asked, her brow creased with worry.
“Wherever they think he came from, I suppose,” Questor replied absently. He was peering down into the carry bag at the book.
“I just don’t want us to forget about him a second time,” Elizabeth insisted. They started for the entry. “He looks so helpless.”
“Believe me, he is anything but,” Abernathy sniffed. He was thinking about the G’home Gnomes’ penchant for eating stray pets. “He does not deserve an ounce of your sympathy. He is a nuisance, plain and simple.”
Elizabeth took his hand and squeezed it. “You are being difficult, Abernathy. It’s not his fault he’s here.”
“It is not our fault, either. Nor our responsibility.”
“She’s right, you know,” Questor Thews offered.
Abernathy gave his friend a scathing look. “I know she’s right. You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I was just trying to point out—“
“Confound it, Questor Thews, why do you insist on belaboring—“
Still arguing between themselves while Elizabeth tried in vain to reestablish some semblance of peace, the wizard and the scribe passed down the corridor to the front door of the castle and out into the fading light.
In front of them, a King County police car was just pulling away.
* * *
After their return to Elizabeth’s house, Questor Thews stayed up all night reading the purloined book. He sat curled up in an easy chair in the far corner of his bedroom with a single light illuminating the pages as he turned them one by one. He was certain early on that this book was what they had been looking for and that hidden within its text lay the answer to the riddle behind their improbable escape from Nightshade. Theories of Magic and Its Uses. They were right there, all the discoveries of all the wizards since the dawn of Landover, set out as postulates and axioms, theories proved and suspected, absent only the recipe and ingredients for each specific stew. They were theories, not formulas, but were quite enough to get at the essence of things. Questor even knew what to look for. He hated himself for this, but the obviousness of the truth facing him was inescapable once he accepted its possibility. He worked his way through the book tirelessly, ignoring his exhaustion, suppressing his growing fear, reading on determinedly.
Across the room from him Abernathy slept with his face turned away from the light. It was just as well. His friend didn’t want to have to look at him just now.
Sometime during the long, slow hours after midnight Questor Thews discovered what he was looking for. Even so, he kept reading, not wanting to take anything for granted, not wanting to give up his search for a better answer, although he knew already that there wasn’t going to be one. He read all the way through the book and back again. He studied individual passages and considered alternative possibilities until his head hurt. Then he went back to the passage he had discovered earlier and read it again slowly, carefully. There was no mistake. It was what he was looking for. It was the answer he had been seeking.
He sighed and put the book down in his lap. He looked over at Abernathy again, and tears came to his eyes. His face crumpled, and his chest ached with need. Life was just so unfair sometimes. He wished things could be different. He wished this could be happening to someone else. His sticklike frame twisted into a clutter of old bones and wrinkled skin, and his heart knotted in his chest.
Finally, exhausted of feeling, he reached up, turned out the light, and sat motionless in the dark, waiting for morning.
“The title of the book is Monsters of Man & Myth,” Ben told Willow, speaking directly into her ear.
They rode double atop a still-skittish Jurisdiction, Willow in front, Ben behind. Bunion had retrieved the horse after a lengthy chase, and now they were traveling west again toward the Greensward. Ahead rose the black wall of an approaching thunderstorm. Behind lay the remains of the wurm and the sulfurous stench of ash and gases from the Fire Springs. Overhead, the sun beat down mercilessly, a blinding white-hot flame that turned the arid emptiness of the Eastern Wastelands into a furnace.
Rain will come as a welcome relief, Ben thought wearily, trying to distance himself from his growing thirst.
“And Rydall’s creatures were in this book?” Willow asked in response, half turning to catch a glimpse of his face.
He nodded into her emerald hair, breathing the dusty scent of it. “A giant that gained strength from its contact with the earth, a demon that could mimic the look and abilities of whatever foe it faced, and a robotic machine man, armored and indestructible.” He looked off into the sweltering distance, trying to make out the geography of the land against the blackness of the storm. “I don’t remember the specific stories so much as the picture of the robot. It’s right on the cover, and it’s exactly the same as Rydall’s. But they’re all there. It’s as if Rydall read the book!”
“But that isn’t possible, is it?”
Ben sighed. “You wouldn’t think so.”
Willow looked forward again. The land shimmered with heat and dust. Bunion was out there somewhere, scouting for further dangers. If he found any, he would try to find a way around them. Another confrontation in their present condition was unthinkable. “Where is this book?” Willow asked.
“In the library with the others,” Ben answered. “It’s one of several I brought over with me from my old life, books that I thought I might like to have. I remember why I picked that one in particular. I’ve had it since I was a boy, and it seemed to represent something of what I was hoping to find here in Landover—as if what wasn’t real in my old life might be real in this one.” He shook his head. “I got my wish, didn’t I?”
Willow was silent for a moment. “But how would Rydall know about it?”
Ben shrugged. “I can’t imagine. It doesn’t make sense. Why would he know about this book as opposed to any other book? Has he read through my whole library? Does his magic enable him to search out any book at random and read through it without even being there?” He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and kept his temper tightly in check. “What I keep coming back to, Willow, is how personal this all feels. Rydall using my own things against me; striking out at my family and friends; kidnapping Mistaya, Questor, and Abernathy; attacking you and me, chasing us all over the place with this business of pitting his monsters against the Paladin; coming after me over and over again—I just don’t get it. Supposedly it’s about surrendering the throne to Landover, but it doesn’t feel like Landover’s got all that much to do with it.”
Willow nodded without looking at him. “No,” she agreed, and was silent again.
They rode on through the afternoon until the storm met them as they approached the edge of the Greensward. Black clouds swept past, blotting out the sun and blue sky, and a driving, blinding rain enveloped and soaked them to the skin in moments. The dust and grime of their travel were washed from their bodies, and the air about them was cooled. Jurisdiction plodded on, head lowered against the sheets of rain and swirling wind, and soon Bunion reappeared to lead them down into a grove of maple trees that provided good shelter from the damp. They dismounted, stripped off their clothing, wrung it out, and hung it to dry by a fire that Bunion had somehow managed to start. Sitting cross-legged in a soft patch of grass beneath the canopy of the trees, they watched the storm swirl around them and pass on. Darkness descended, and the world beyond their encampment disappeared. They dressed again, chewed halfheartedly on stalks of Bonnie Blue, rolled into their travel cloaks, and quickly fell asleep.
When they woke, it was raining again, a slow, persistent drizzle that fell out of low, empty leaden skies. The whole of the land about them had gone gray and misty in the early morning light. They mounted Jurisdiction once more and rode out into the weather. Bunion went on ahead, a small, spidery figure skittering into the gloom until he was lost from view. The summer day was warm and filled with the smell of damp earth. Ahead, the Greensward stretched away in a patchwork of greens and browns, of tilled fields and grassy pastures, of mature forests and midseason plantings, all interspersed with rivers and lakes that in the rainy haze took on the look of molten metal, their surfaces stirred by the faint breezes that swept down across the flats.
By midday Bunion had returned with a second horse. He didn’t offer an explanation of where he had gotten the beast, and Ben and Willow didn’t ask. It was not a farm animal; it was a trained riding horse. Willow stood in front of the horse, a brown mare, and spoke to it encouragingly for a moment, then mounted smoothly and wheeled over beside Ben. She gave Bunion a smile and a wink, and the kobold was gone again.
They rode on through the rest of that day and most of the next. All the while it rained, leaving them wet clear through except for brief periods of dryness when they camped and were able to chase away the damp with the help of the fires Bunion always seemed to be able to construct. They passed Rhyndweir and several of the other castles of the Lords of the Greensward but did not stop to ask for shelter. Ben had no interest in seeing anyone, preferring to minimize the chance of further attacks from Rydall. Surprisingly, there were none. Since Rydall had found them in the Eastern Wastelands with the wurm, Ben had supposed he would be able to find them anywhere. Given the frequency and consistency of the attacks, he had expected another by now. On the other hand, Rydall had used up four of his promised seven challenges, so perhaps he was rethinking his strategy. Ben didn’t consider it worth his while to ponder the matter further. He was simply grateful for the respite.
He used the time to think. With his travel cloak a shield against the elements, Willow a silent wraith riding next to him, and the rain a curtain that shrouded everything in damp, gray silence, he shut himself away from his discomfort and tedium and concentrated on the puzzle of Rydall of Marnhull. He was beginning to consider possibilities he had not considered before. Some of this was prompted by his growing sense of desperation. He could feel time running out. Sooner or later Rydall was going to send a monster from which no one could save him—not the Paladin, not Strabo, not anyone. Sooner or later his defenses were not going to be strong enough, and the struggle to survive would be over. The only thing that could prevent that from happening was uncovering the secret behind Rydall, and Ben seemed to be no closer to doing that than ever. So he determined to quit thinking in predictable ways, to be more innovative, more daring. He had to stop being led around by Rydall. He had to refuse to follow the paths Marnhu’s King left open to him and start opening a few of his own. There was a net being woven about Ben Holiday, and he could sense it tightening with every new strand laid out. He had to find a way to cut through the webbing.
His thinking, however, was prompted not so much by his desperation as by his realization that there were a few loose threads in Rydall’s carefully woven net. First, there was Ben’s growing certainty that Rydall’s sending of monsters to do battle with the Paladin was part of a game that had far more to do with Ben than with Landover’s throne. Second, there was his recognition that three of the four monsters had come from the stories in his Monsters of Man & Myth book. Three created in painstaking detail from the writer’s descriptions, as if Rydall had copied the creatures directly from the book’s pages. Three, but not the fourth. No, the fourth, a wurm, had come from somewhere else.
A witch’s favorite magic, Strabo had informed him.
In Landover that meant Nightshade. He had given no serious consideration before to the possibility that Nightshade might be involved in this. Why would he? Rydall was an outlander, a usurper of power, an interloper whose goals were directly at odds with Nightshade’s. On the other hand, no one hated Ben Holiday and his family more than the witch did. Stripped of Rydall’s obvious presence, this entire business felt very much like her work. The use of dark magic, the attack on family and friends, and the calculated effort to destroy him all smacked of Nightshade. While he had heard nothing from the witch in more than two years, he did not expect that she had forgotten her promise that she would never forgive him for what had happened to her in the Tangle Box. For what she had been made to feel for him when they had both been stripped of their identities. For what she viewed as the loss of her dignity.
What if there was no Rydall? Oh, there might be someone masquerading as Marnhull’s King, but what if Rydall himself was a fiction? No one had ever heard of Rydall or Marnhull—not the River Master, not Kallendbor, not even Strabo, who had traveled everywhere. No one could find Rydall or Marnhull. There was no trace of Mistaya, Questor Thews, or Abernathy. There was no sign of an invading army. The only physical evidence of Rydall at any time in this entire episode had been presented when Marnhull’s King and his black-cloaked companion had appeared at the gates of Sterling Silver. So, Ben mulled, what if this whole business was an elaborate charade? Where, after all, was the one place in Landover that he hadn’t searched since Mistaya had disappeared? Where was the one place he had ignored because it wasn’t readily accessible to him and because it didn’t seem reasonable to look there? Where was the one place none of them had looked?
The Deep Fell, where Nightshade made her home. Ben Holiday’s suspicions hardened. What had begun as a consideration of possibilities rapidly evolved into a careful sifting of facts. Nightshade as Rydall; it made as much sense as anything else he had envisioned. Or Nightshade as Rydall’s black-cloaked companion, he amended. He remembered the way the hooded rider had studied him when he had come down onto the causeway to pick up the gauntlet, the intensity of that veiled gaze. He remembered the way both riders had looked upon Mistaya when she had climbed onto the ramparts. His chest tightened, and his stomach turned to ice. It was late on the third day of their journey home when they came in sight of Sterling Silver. The castle materialized through the gloom like a vision brought to life from a child’s imagining, a gleaming, rain-streaked rise of spires and parapets that hardened into stone and mortar, timber and metal, pennants and flags as they closed on its island surround. They crossed the moat through a misty curtain and passed beneath the raised portcullis. Retainers scurried to take their horses and usher them inside out of the weather. Ben and Willow went wordlessly to their bedchamber, stripped off their sodden clothing, climbed into a tub of steaming water, and lay back to soak. When some of the ache and discomfort of their travel had been eased, they climbed out again, dried off, and dressed in fresh clothing.
Then Ben led Willow down to the library for a close look at his copy of Monsters of Man & Myth. It took only moments to locate it. It sat on the shelf exactly where he remembered leaving it. He pulled it out and looked at the cover. Sure enough, there was Rydall’s robot. He thumbed through the pages and in short order found a drawing of the giant. Then he found the writer’s description of the demon that could mimic any foe.
He showed the book to Willow. “You see? Exactly the same as Rydall’s monsters.”
She nodded. “But how did he do it? How did he know about this book and these particular monsters? Ben, I didn’t know about this book. I didn’t even know it was here. We’ve never talked about it, not once. How did Rydall know?”
It was true, he realized. He had never taken it down and shown it to her before. They had never discussed it. There had never been any reason to do so. He had carried it over with him through the mists, unpacked it, placed it in the library, and forgotten it.
Until now. He stood close to the sylph, staring down at the book in silence. Without, the rain continued in dreary, unchanging monotony, the sound of its falling a soft patter on the stone. Ben felt strangely lulled, as if he might fall asleep at any moment He was more tired than he wanted to admit, but he could not afford to sleep until he had unraveled the secret of Rydall and his monsters. Not until he had found a way to bring Mistaya home. Mistaya.
He stared at Willow in surprise. “You said you didn’t know about this book. But do you know who did? Mistaya. I caught her reading it once, paging through it. I didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt her. I don’t think she even saw me watching. She was so small, and I didn’t think she could even understand it...”
He trailed off, his mind racing. “Willow,” he said quietly, “I want you to listen to something. I want you to tell me what you think.”
Then he told her of his suspicion that Nightshade might be Rydall’s creator and that the Witch of the Deep Fell might be behind everything that had happened to them. He gave her all his reasons, laid out all the possibilities, and provided all the underpinnings of his conjecture. Willow listened intently, not interrupting, waiting for him to finish.
“The thing is,” he concluded worriedly, “Mistaya could have told Nightshade about the book, could have described the monsters, could even have drawn a picture. She’s smart enough to have remembered. She probably understood a whole lot more than I gave her credit for.”
“But why would she do this?” Willow wanted to know instantly. “Why would she do anything to help the witch?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m guessing about all this. But she has seen the book, and if Nightshade is Rydall, then it was Nightshade who kidnapped her. And has her now.”
Willow gave him a long, steady look as she considered the possibility. “Do you remember when we talked about who else knew of the connection between the medallion and the Paladin? Only you and I, you said. But Nightshade knows, too. She was with you in the Tangle Box when you used the medallion.”
Ben took a deep breath. “You’re right. I forgot about that.”
“You said you believed magic was used to hide the medallion when the robot attacked at Rhyndweir. Nightshade possesses such magic.” Willow’s face was stricken. “Ben, we have to go to the Deep Fell.”
Ben slid his book back into its slot on the shelf. “I know. We’ll go tomorrow, first thing. It’s too late to start out again today. We’re exhausted. We need at least one night’s sleep in a dry bed.”
He moved over to her and put his arms about her waist. “But we’re definitely going,” he promised. “And if that’s where Mistaya is, we’ll get her back.”
Willow put her arms around him in response and lay her head against his shoulder. They held each other in silence, drawing comfort and strength from their joining, hardening themselves against the feelings of fear and doubt that twisted within.
Outside, the shadows lengthened toward twilight and the rain fell harder.
They ate dinner alone in the dark silence of the eating hall, two solitary figures hunched close within the candlelight where it pushed back against the gloom. They did not speak much, too tired to attempt conversation, too immersed in their own thoughts. When they were finished, they retired to their bedchamber, climbed beneath the covers, and quickly fell asleep.
It was midnight when Ben woke. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to gain his bearings. He felt a faint burning where the medallion lay against his chest, a warning that something was wrong. He sat up slowly, his ears straining for sounds in the darkness. The rain had ceased finally, but the clouds hung across the sky like a shroud, blotting out the light of moons and stars. He could hear water dripping from the eaves and battlements, soft, small splashes in the inky night. Next to him Willow’s breathing was relaxed and steady.
Then he heard something scrape against the stone outside his window, a barely discernible sound, a whisper of trouble approaching. He slipped from the bed swiftly, noiselessly, feeling the medallion burn sharply now against his skin. Panic raced through him. He knew what was coming, and he was not ready for it. It was too soon. He had convinced himself that Rydall would not strike again so quickly, that he would deliberate before sending his fifth monster.
Ben glanced about the room, looking for help. Where was Bunion? He had not seen the kobold since their return. Was he anywhere close at hand? He turned back to the bed and Willow. He had to get her out of there. He had to get her to safety, away from whatever was going to happen next.
He reached down for her shoulder and shook her gently. “Willow!” he hissed. “Wake up!”
Her eyes opened instantly, a brilliant emerald even in the near black, wide and deep and filled with understanding. “Ben,” she said.
Then the room’s light shifted as a shadow filled the window, and Ben wheeled back to face it. The shadow rose into the gap and perched there, hunched down against the lesser blackness of the night, lean and sinewy and somehow terribly familiar. He could not see but could feel the shadow’s eyes upon him. He could feel the eyes taking his measure.
He did not move, knowing that if he did so, he would be dead before he could complete whatever effort he began. His hand was already closed about the medallion; as if by instinct it had reached for the only help left. He held the medallion within the clutch of his fingers, feeling the graven image of the knight riding out of his castle at sunrise, the Paladin from Sterling Silver off to do battle for his King. He felt the image and stared at the shadow in the window, seeing now that it wasn’t all smooth and taut as he had first believed but was in fact in places ragged and broken, a creature that had suffered some catastrophic misfortune and bore the injuries because there could be no healing. Bits and pieces of the shadow hung loose, as if layers of skin had been shredded. Bone jutted in cracked shards from joints no longer whole. It made no sound, but he could hear the silent wail of its inescapable pain and despair.
Then the shadow’s head shifted slightly, a tilting to one side, little more, and silver eyes gleamed catlike out of the black.
Ben’s breath caught in his throat.
It was the Ardsheal, come back from the dead.
He had no time to ponder how this could be, no chance to deliberate on what it meant. His response was instinctive and eschewed reason and hope. His fingers tightened on the medallion, and the light flared outward in spears of white brightness. Willow screamed. The Ardsheal launched itself at Ben, a black panther at its prey, quicker than thought. But the Paladin was there instantly, come out of a sudden, impossibly brilliant explosion of light that erupted in the dozen yards of space between King and assailant. The knight rose up in a surge of gleaming silver armor and weaponry, catching the Ardsheal in midair and flinging it aside. The force of the collision sent the Ardsheal slamming into the stone wall and the Paladin stumbling backward into Ben. A metal-clad elbow hammered into Ben’s head, and he collapsed on the bed next to Willow, so stunned that he was barely able to hold on to the medallion.
The Ardsheal was on its feet in a heartbeat, pulling itself upright with the smoothness of a snake, the ease of its recovery belying its ragged condition. Through a haze of pain and dizziness, Ben watched it rise, his vision blurred and his head aching from the blow. But he felt the pain and the dizziness from inside the Paladin’s armor, where his consciousness was now irrevocably lodged, there to remain until he triumphed or died. He saw Willow embracing his corporeal body, whispering frantically in his ear. He wondered for the briefest second what she was saying, remembering that he had wanted to get her clear of the room before this battle was joined. He caught a sudden glimpse of the Ardsheal’s face in the gloom, one eye gone, a gash opened from forehead to chin, skin crosshatched with cuts and lesions. He saw it tumbling out of the castle window at Rhyndweir, riding the robot to the rocks below and certain death. He wondered how it could possibly have survived.
Then the mind-set of the Paladin closed down like a visor, and all he knew were the knight’s long memories of battles fought and survived. He went down into his harder-than-iron other self, the battle-tested veteran of a thousand struggles from which only he had emerged. He withdrew into his armor and his experience, locking away what life there was beyond, shutting out the man and the woman on the bed behind him, the castle in which he now battled, the world beyond, the past and the future, all things but the here and now and the enemy that sought to destroy him.
The Ardsheal feinted right to left, testing. It was a dead thing by the look of its flat silver eyes, by the broken mix of skin and bone, by the gaping wounds that marked its body. But it lived beyond death, fed by magic that wrestled through its once-lifeless tissues and demanded of it one more task before it could rest in peace. The Paladin sensed this, knowing its enemy from knowledge innate and from some spark of Ben Holiday’s own reason and memory. He watched the wraith before him shift and shift again, snakelike, looking for an opening. He saw it for the danger it was, a creature created of magic to serve a single purpose; to hunt and destroy. He saw it as he saw so few others he faced—as an equal.
The Ardsheal came at him with lightning speed, so low that it would be hard to take away his legs. The Paladin dropped on the creature in an effort to pin it, his dagger digging futilely into the stone floor as the Ardsheal rolled away, ripping at the knight’s visor, twisting at it wickedly. The Paladin shook off the blow and rose to face his enemy once more. Quickness and strength, cunning and experience—the Ardsheal had them all and felt nothing beyond the magic that compelled it. It would not stop; it would not quit. It would keep coming until it could come no more.
An Ardsheal is a match for anything alive. Nothing is more dangerous. The River Master’s words.
In the shadows the Ardsheal crouched. The Paladin thought momentarily of drawing forth his broadsword, but the weapon was too cumbersome and unwieldy for this foe. Small weapons would be more effective, until an opportunity presented itself, as it must if he was to survive.
He shifted the dagger to his left hand, reaching with the right for his long knife, and the Ardsheal was on him in a flash, ripping and tearing and wrenching at armor and limbs. The Paladin stumbled back under the fury of the attack, hearing the shriek of fastenings as they tore loose, feeling metal plates threaten to give way. Forsaking the dagger, he jammed both armored hands against the creature’s chest and again flung it away. It came back at him at once, animal-wild, crazed beyond sense, a thing insane. It was impossibly strong, and its strength was aided by its lack of feeling and the rush of magic that fed it. It fought without hindrances of any kind; it battled without the complications that emotion and reason demanded. Its efforts were pure and unrestricted, its struggle single-minded. It would win or lose and still be dead either way.
For the third time the Paladin flung it away, and this time snatched free the long knife before it could recover. When it came again, he would skewer it on the blade and rip it in two. His breathing was harsh and unsteady. Though he would not acknowledge it because he could not permit himself to do so, his strength was already beginning to fail. He could not tell if it was the number of battles fought in so short a span of time or the weakened condition of the King he served, for both could play a part in determining whether he survived. He relied on himself, but he was irrevocably attached to the man who commanded his services and lent him his strength of will. If the King failed in his resolve, so might he. But such thoughts were not permitted. So he told himself only that he should end the fight quickly and not speculate further.
The Ardsheal stalked him through the bedchamber’s gloom, another of night’s faint shadows sidestepping the light. It was no longer attempting a frontal attack; it was looking to do something else. The Paladin shifted, turning to follow its movements, not leaving his place before the King and Queen. His armor hung loosely from the bindings in several places. He was coming undone, as ragged as his attacker. He could feel the other’s eyes studying him, searching for an opening. Beneath the armor the Paladin was vulnerable. The Ardsheal sensed this. One strike was all it would take if the strike was deep enough.
It faked a quick rush and retreated. It faked another. The Paladin stayed set, not allowing himself to be drawn out. Then, in a flash of recognition, he saw what the Ardsheal was trying to do. It was trying to pull him far enough away from the King and Queen to leave them exposed. It would kill them, sensing, perhaps even knowing, that this would mean the defeat of the Paladin as well.
As if reading his thoughts, the Ardsheal attacked anew. It came in a slashing, wild charge, so quick that it was almost past the Paladin before he could act. As it was, he barely caught the Ardsheals arm as it reached for the Queen, snatching the creature back and flinging it aside. This time he went after it, intent on finishing the battle, but again he was too slow, and the Ardsheal was up and away again into the gloom.
Twice more the elemental tried to slip past, and both times it nearly succeeded. Only the Paladin’s experience and determination kept it at bay. The Queen was crying on the bed behind him now, small sounds only, almost silent in her misery, her despair. She was strong, but her fear was immense and impossible to conceal. She was terrified of the Ardsheal. The King was awake again. He had placed himself before her, and he held the medallion out like a talisman. Too frail, the both of them, the Paladin knew, to survive if he should fall.
The thought was a mind spike he was quick to wrench free and cast away from him.
The Ardsheal faded into emptiness, leaving the Paladin searching the darkness frantically. Then it reappeared out of nowhere directly before him, a frenzied blackness whipping atop him and beating him to the floor. It sought to break past, but the Paladin collapsed and, momentarily blinded, held on to one leg and dragged it back. The Ardsheal wrenched at the fallen champion, kicked at him, struck at him, tore at his weakened armor. The Paladin felt pain. In desperation, he hauled himself to his knees through the flurry of blows, through a massive effort that came mostly from the heart, and one final time hurled the Ardsheal away.
This time when the Ardsheal came to its feet, one arm hung limp. But the Paladin was a shambles of broken armor and torn bindings, aching muscles and wearied limbs, standing upright through sheer force of will. There was blood in his mouth and on his body. He still gripped the long knife, still waited for his chance to use it. But time was fleeing quickly now. Time was racing away.
The Ardsheal moved forward, an inexorable, implacable force.
Then the door to the room flew open, and a small bristling fury hurtled into the fray. It hammered into the Ardsheal and bore it backward to the wall. All claws and teeth, Bunion appeared to have gone berserk. The Ardsheal was caught off guard, staggered by the force of the kobold’s attack. It twisted wildly, trying to dislodge its assailant. The Paladin lunged forward, the chance he had been waiting for there at last. He drove the dagger through the Ardsheals skull with such force that he buried it to the hilt. The Ardsheal arched upward, silver eyes filling with blood. It tore Bunion free and wheeled toward the Paladin. But the knight had unsheathed the great broadsword, and with every ounce of strength left to him he swung the blade crosswise and down at his enemy. The blade caught the Ardsheal between neck and shoulder and cut straight through. Down it sliced, all the way to the creature’s heart.
The Ardsheal slumped into the blow. It convulsed, and in the terrible eyes there was a hint of some ancient recognition that not even the darkest magic could withstand. The eyes fixed, and the magic faded. Death stole the Ardsheal back once more.
Broken, exhausted, a ragged caricature of the silver knight he had been when the battle had begun, the Paladin freed the broadsword and turned to Landover’s King where he crouched on the bed. Their eyes met and held. He had the odd sense of looking back at himself. He started to drop to one knee, but he was caught up in the light of the medallion still held outstretched in the King’s hand and carried down into healing sleep.
In the silence that followed Ben and Willow could hear the rain begin to fall again.
King’s Guards were summoned, and the remains of the Ardsheal were removed. The sounds of the struggle had gone unheard, an impossibility in the absence of magic deliberately employed. When the soldiers were gone and the room had been cleaned and straightened, Bunion took up watch just outside the door. The kobold blamed himself for what had happened. He had been scouting once more, just beyond the castle walls, but somehow the very enemy he had been seeking had slipped past him and entered the castle unseen. No words were spoken, but Bunion’s apology was there in the squint of his eyes and the flash of his teeth.
When Ben and Willow were alone again, they clung to each other as if to the last solid grip on a crumbling rock. They did not speak. They stood pressed together in the darkness and took comfort from their closeness. Willow was shaking in the summer heat. Ben, though he appeared steady, was inwardly shattered.
They climbed back into their bed, there in the no-longer-reassuring dark, eyes wandering the room, ears pricked for the faintest of sounds. They could not sleep and did not try. Ben stilled Willow’s shivering, chasing momentarily at least her fear of the thing that had come to kill them. He held her tight against him and tried to find words for what he would say, for the confession he now knew he must make if he was ever again to find peace.
Without, the rain pattered on the stone and dripped from the capping on the walls in a steady cadence.
“I have to tell you something about the Paladin,” he said finally, speaking in a rush the words he could not seem to organize better. “This isn’t easy to explain, but I have to try. We’re the same person, Willow. Right now his pain is all through me. I can feel the ache of his body and limbs, the wear on his soul, the hurt that threatens to break him down. I feel it when he does battle, but I feel it now, as well.” He took a deep breath. “It’s all I can do to stand it. It seems as if it might pull me apart, break all my bones, and flatten me into the earth. Even now it’s there. He’s gone, but it doesn’t matter.”
He felt her head lift from his shoulder so that her eyes could see his face. He felt her fingers move along his chest, searching. “He is part of me, Willow. That’s what I want to say. He is part of me and always has been, ever since I came into Landover and took up the medallion of Kingship. The medallion joins us, makes us one when I call him up from wherever it is he waits.”
He looked at her, looked quickly away. “When the medallion summons him, the magic carries some part of me inside his armor. Not my body or my mind but my heart and will and strength of purpose—those he requires. In some way the King and the King’s champion are the same. That’s the real secret of the medallion. It’s a secret I couldn’t tell you.”
Her emerald eyes were steady as she stared at him. “Why couldn’t you tell me?” she asked quietly.
“Because I was afraid of what it would do to you.” He forced himself to meet her gaze and hold it. “I’ve wanted to tell you. I’ve felt I should, that it was wrong not to, but I was afraid. What would it do to you to know that every time the Paladin was summoned, it was me—or at least some important, necessary part of me—that would be required to do battle. What would it mean if you knew that the Paladin’s death could bring mine as well.”
He shook his head, feeling adrift. “But it’s worse than that. Every time I go into the Paladin and become one with him, I feel myself slipping farther away from who I really am. I become him, and each time it is harder to get back. I live in constant fear that one time I might not be able to return because I do not want to, because I have forgotten who I am, because I like what I have become. The power of the magic is so seductive! When I’m the Paladin, he’s all I wish to be. If the medallion did not bring me back to myself, if it did not take the Paladin away, I do not think I could ever return of my own will. I think I might be lost forever.”
The pain in her eyes was terrible to see. “You should have told me,” she said quietly. He nodded, emptied of words. “Don’t you understand, Ben? I gave myself to you unconditionally when I found you at the Irrylyn. I belong to you, and nothing would ever make me leave. Nothing!”
“I know,” he agreed.
“No, you don’t, or you would not have hesitated to tell me this.” Her voice was soft, but there was iron at the core. “There is nothing you could not tell me, Ben. Not ever. We will be together always, until the end. You know how it was foretold. You know the prophecy. You should never question the strength of its truth.”
“I was afraid—“ he began, but she hushed him quickly.
“No, let it go for now. Let it go.” She touched him gently. “Tell me again. All of his pain comes back into you? All that he bore in your defense?”
He closed his eyes. “I feel as if I am falling apart. I feel as if I’m dying, and I cannot find the wound that’s killing me. It’s everywhere, inside and out. I am in fragments scattered all over this room—in the air, in the sound of the rain, in my own breathing. I don’t know what to do. The Paladin won, but I seem to have lost. Calling him again so soon was too much to bear. It took too much out of me, Willow. I haven’t the heart for this!”
“Shhh, no more,” she comforted, pressing herself against him. She kissed his mouth. “You have heart enough for all of us, Ben Holiday. It has always been your greatest strength. You survived a terrible struggle. No ordinary man could have done what you did. Do not disparage yourself. Do not demean what you have accomplished. Listen to me. The secret of the Paladin is ours now, not yours alone to bear. Its weight can be better carried by two. I will help you. I will find ways to sustain you when you are weary and sick at heart as you are now. I will help shield you from the pain. If you must go into the Paladin for our sake, I will find a way to bring you back. Always. Forever. I love you.”
“I have never doubted that,” he replied softly. “I would have been finished long ago if I did.”
She stroked his forehead gently, kissing him once more. Gradually he felt himself relax and begin to drift. “Go to sleep,” she whispered.
He nodded, his breathing growing slower and deeper. Some of the pain eased. Some of the ache lessened. The memories of his battle as the Paladin lost their hard edge, giving way to the softness of Willow’s touch. Sleep would renew his strength, and with morning he would be able to go on. All that would remain was the inescapable knowledge that he must go through this again with each new transformation. And even that could be accepted, he supposed. Even that.
He stilled himself, pushed back the fear and despair. Find Mistaya, he thought. Find her safe and well, and it would all be worth it. Bring back Questor Thews and Abernathy. Put an end to Rydall of Marnhull and his insidious games.
In the inky night’s stillness the words were a whisper of hope.
Seek out Nightshade in the Deep Fell. Look there for the truth. Then he was asleep.