Zombie Lover
A Xanth Novel
Piers Anthony
Prolog
She approached the Good Magician’s Castle on foot: an obscure woman of indeterminate age in a flowing robe, steadying herself with a staff. She looked neither lovely nor regal, without being deficient in either quality. She carried a large book in the crook of her left elbow.
The castle was obviously not expecting visitors. The drawbridge was up, laundry was hanging from a window, and the moat monster was snoozing.
The woman was unperturbed. She touched the surface of the water with the tip of her staff, then stepped onto the moat. She walked across, her slippers denting but not penetrating the surface. Small ripples traveled out across the moat.
The moat monster woke with a start as a ripple gently lifted his nose. He blinked, then coiled into action. He raised his head high, opened his jaws, and oriented on the figure. He inhaled, ready to breathe fierce water vapor on the trespasser.
“Relax, Soufflé,” she said.
The monster blinked, then sank back down into his snooze without even a snort.
The woman reached the inner bank and then the front door. It was locked closed. She touched it with her staff, and it opened. She walked into the castle. There was no clamor of discovery; whoever else was in the castle remained unaware of the intrusion.
She made her way through the dusky recesses, mounted the crooked stairs, and walked into the dingy office. There was Good Magician Humfrey, poring over his huge archaic tome.
“Isn’t it about time?” she inquired.
The gnomelike man’s near ear twitched. He raised his head and focused a bleary eye on her. One or two synapses connected. “Oh, hello, Clio,” he said.
“And a similar greeting to you, Humfrey,” the Muse of History responded. “Now I’m sure you have the matters well in hand, but thought I should verify the details, purely as a courtesy. I do have an interest in the cases.”
The Good Magician pondered, evidently sorting through his voluminous but dusty memory, until several more synapses fell into line. “I shall attend to it.”
“Of course.” Clio was too polite to suggest that he might have forgotten the matter. “I’m sure it will be a fine occasion. Are the invitations in order?”
Humfrey looked blank.
Clio gave the shadowy ceiling a you-men-are-all-alike glance. “Invitations,” she repeated. “How else do you suppose the participants will know about the main event?”
“Invitations,” he agreed, finally getting it. But his aspect seemed to be a trifle deficient in competence.
“Assign Jenny Elf to do them.”
A rheumy eyeball widened in dull surprise. “But—”
“Who else?” she inquired rhetorically. “She’s surely competent. Now do you have any proper notion of the other assignments?”
Humfrey started to turn the pages of the vasty old tome before him.
“Forget the Book of Answers,” Clio snapped. “This needs to be more flexible than that. Ask your Designated Wife to make them. She will have proper taste and finesse.”
“Wife,” he agreed, relieved.
The Muse of History turned, about to leave, then paused. “I trust I will see you there.”
Humfrey looked as if he had swallowed a stink horn. He hated to go out in public. But now he had no choice. “Yes.”
Clio completed her turn and stepped out of the dismal study. Only then did she allow a small smile to hover in the vicinity of her lips. A person who did not know better might have supposed that she enjoyed discomfiting the notorious Good Magician.
1
BLACK DREAM
Breanna felt fortunate. It was partly her appearance, which was filling out nicely: she had lustrous black hair to her waist, and glowing green eyes. Her dark skin fairly shone. That was because she was a bright healthy girl of the Black Wave, and proud of her heritage. She should really be something, she thought, when she finally turned sixteen.
She turned away from the mirror pond and looked for a blackberry pie to eat before dawn. And that was the main thing: alone among the teens of her village, she had a magic talent. Normally only a baby delivered in Xanth had magic, but she was special. She blessed the day she had discovered it, for it had changed her life. She had come to the Land of Xanth with her Wave six years ago when she was nine, and thought she would never have magic. How wonderfully wrong that had turned out to be!
Her talent was to see in blackness. That was why she now went about by night, and slept during the day. It was just so much more interesting at night, when other human folk were sleeping, and the weird creatures of darkness were abroad.
Oh, yes, there was danger. But she had obtained a safety spell that warned her of any direct threat to her tender flesh, and that was enough. She hoped. She hadn’t renewed it recently, so the spell might be fading. She was able to move quickly and silently and lose herself in the night, foiling most monsters. She also had a sharp dagger, which she hoped she would never have to use as other than a threat. Meanwhile the lure of the mysteries of darkness drew her to ever farther explorations.
There were no pie trees close by, but she did spy a tart bush. Tarts were a bit sharp on the tongue, but would do. She picked a black raspberry tart and bit into it, and it was fine. She found a coffee tree with a cup of black coffee, and that was fine too. At home she wasn’t allowed to drink coffee yet, but that was yet another adventure of going out on her own: no one told her what not to do. Her folks were so dull that they could see only mundane things, despite living in a magic realm now. They would need special magic glasses to see most of the magic of Xanth.
Breanna really didn’t miss Mundania. Xanth was so much more interesting. Oh, there were dangers, but they were mostly magical, instead of dreary things like robbers and drunk drivers. She might have liked to have some chewing gum, but here it was as apt to chew the person as to be chewed.
She saw what looked like a barrister bloom. Maybe if she wore its flower, it would enable her to argue her case better at home. It had a nice daisy-like flower. But as she touched it, something awkward happened. She jumped back. Oh, now she saw that it was a different plant, a bare aster. She wouldn’t want to wear one of those flowers.
She came to a river that seemed a bit too wide and deep to wade across. Fortunately there were big banana plants, or plantains, growing by its banks, with the biggest fruits she had seen. Magic could be very good for plants. So she grabbed onto an old plantain and managed to haul it down. She wedged it open and scooped out the remnant of its pulp. Now she had a banana boat. She used an old stem as a paddle, and moved across the water.
Another craft came floating down the stream. It was small, and had two hulls, and several cats were on it. Oh—a catamaran. It figured. It had a sail, but one cat was busily shredding it with its claws. Then the cat spied Breanna, and dived down out of sight, terrified. That one would be called Fray D. Cat, she was sure.
She landed, and saw a big dog house with a small pup tent beside it. That too figured: big dog, little dog. Things tended to be literal, in Xanth.
She saw a bright rift forming in the east, and realized that it was the first crack of dawn. Night was over, and soon light would spill through the crack and inundate the region, flooding it with day. So it was time for her to sleep. She loved her talent, but it did have the small disadvantage of making daylight uncomfortably bright for her. She acclimatized when she had to, but preferred not to bother. Also, she got tired, after being active all night. So now she simply slept in the daytime, when away from home.
Unfortunately she wasn’t sleepy yet. Oh—because of that coffee. She should have remembered that it had a mild wake-up spell. That was why her folks didn’t let her drink it: they said
she was enough of a handful by day, and they didn’t need to have her active by night too. How little did they know! But though she hated to admit it, their rule would have helped her in this case. How could she get her rest?
She looked around. She saw a large dried fish mounted on a pole. Birds were coming in to sit on it. That was a perch; it was a favorite resting place for birds. But she was no bird.
There was a commotion, and several small metallic objects ran by. They looked like keys for doors, still new and shiny. Oh—those would be latchkey kids, running home. As she herself should be doing, if she weren’t too ornery to give up her adventure. She saw them charge up to a big block marked WRITER. What were they doing around a writer’s block? They climbed up on top of it, where there was a board. They settled down comfortably on that board, each little key evidently having its own spot. When every key was in place, the block put down wooden pegs and walked away.
“Oh, I get it,” Breanna said. “The key board unlocks the writer’s block.” But her problem wasn’t being blocked, but needing to get some sleep.
She saw a spreading tree whose branches might offer a decent place to be. But then she recognized it as a sycamore, and the last thing she wanted was to get more and more sick.
Then she remembered something she had seen nearby: dark glasses. They were supposed to have a spell to put folk to sleep. So she walked back to the spectacle bush she had passed recently and checked it over. Sure enough, one of its offerings was a handsome dark pair. And, conveniently close, was an open shelter with what looked like a comfortable bed under a pleasant canopy. Nobody was using it, so she would borrow it for a few hours.
She lay down on the bed, put on the dark glasses, and closed her eyes. Immediately she felt the magic taking hold, and sank into a lovely dark slumber.
Suddenly Breanna couldn’t breathe; something was covering her mouth and squishing her nose. She struggled, reaching wildly with her arms—and discovered that a head was resting on her face. It was a man. In fact, he was kissing her!
She grabbed him by the ears and heaved him off her innocent lips. She tried to scream, but first had to inhale, and in the time it took to do that she was sitting up so violently that her dark glasses fell off. Blinding day assaulted her eyes, and she had to squeeze them tightly closed. When she shut her eyes, her mouth shut too, stifling her scream. She had never thought to practice screaming with her eyes closed.
By then she realized that maybe a scream was not in order. Who was this man who had taken such advantage of her? It might be better to find out before she took further action. After all, men did have their points, and it behooved a girl not to throw them away carelessly.
She squinted, letting only a little light in. The man was standing there, a somewhat hazy outline. He didn’t look dangerous at the moment. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why did you molest me?”
“I am King Xeth,” he replied in a somewhat scratchy voice. “I kissed you awake.”
“I know that! What made you think I didn’t want to sleep in peace?” She was irritable, because of her rude awakening from slumber. Her systems were not yet back on track.
“You are in the Pavilion of Love.” His speech was slightly slurred, but she could make it out. Her vision was improving as her eyes acclimatized to the daylight.
“The what?”
He pointed to a sign beside the bed. It said PAVILION OF LOVE.
Breanna drew a blank. “What’s that?”
“When a woman wants to marry, she sleeps in the Pavilion of Love,” he explained. “Only a man of good appearance, character, and breeding can enter. If he chooses her, he kisses her awake. I was so glad to find a sleeping beauty instead of a sleeping bag.”
Things were beginning to come together, but not in a way that reassured her. “But I’m not ready to marry anyone!” she protested. “I’m only fifteen.”
“I am thirty,” he responded. “I love your lustrous black hair and glowing green eyes. I am sure you will make a good wife.”
Breanna realized that she had blundered into real mischief. “It was a mistake. I didn’t see the sign. I was just resting. I can’t marry you.” She got off the bed and began sidling away.
“I will marry you and make you queen of the zombies,” he said. “You are young and healthy and fully alive, so it will be a long time before you rot.”
Breanna wanted nothing so much as to get well away from here, but this made her pause involuntarily. “Queen of what?”
“The zombies. We felt it was time to have our own kingdom, so we held an election, and the healthiest zombie won. Me. But it is a condition of kingship that I marry, so as to summon a suitable heir and continue the line. That’s why I came here, to find a wife.”
“You—you’re a zombie?” she asked, newly appalled. Her hand came up to wipe frantically at her mouth. Her lips didn’t feel zombied, but she wanted to wash them ten times as thoroughly as possible. Was it contagious?
“Yes, of course. How else could I be king of the zombies?”
“This is absolutely impossible!”
“By no means. My mother is Zora Zombie, who married the living man Xavier forty years ago. It took them a while to summon the stork, because not all of her necessary innards were healthy, but—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Breanna shrieked. Actually she had not meant that she doubted him to be a zombie; she could now see that there were some sagging places on him, incipient flesh rot, and the reason for his slurring was apparent: a mushy tongue. She had meant that it was impossible for her to marry him. She wasn’t ready to marry anyone, least of all a zombie.
“There is no need for you to hear it, if it bores you,” Xeth said equably. “Come with me now to Castle Zombie, where the wedding will be organized. You will want to meet your new subjects.”
“No I won’t!” she cried. “I won’t marry you! I’m just a girl. A living girl. I’m getting out of here!” Now at last she suited action to word, and charged out of the pavilion.
“But it has been decided,” he protested. “You slept here. I kissed you. All the zombie women will be jealous of your lustrous long hair and firm flesh.”
“Let them be jealous of something else!” she flung back. “Find another girl! I’m sure one will come to sleep in the pavilion soon. I’m gone!” She dodged behind a beerbarrel tree and kept going.
“No, you are the one,” Xeth called after her. “I loved you the moment I entered the pavilion, as its magic decrees. I love your burned black color. I love your high emotion.”
She was running, but not out of range of his voice. “What do you know of my emotion?”
“That is my talent: mind reading. I may fudge the details somewhat, but the power of your emotion comes through delightfully. I can tell that you have very strong feelings for me.”
“That’s because I loathe the very notion of being close to you!” she shot back.
“Yes, you love the notion of being close to me,” he agreed. “It will be a perfect marriage.”
She suspected that there was a bit of rot in his ear, too, but she didn’t stay to argue the case. She tried to sneak behind a small tangle tree, but he still pursued her. “Why don’t you marry a nice zombie girl?” she demanded over her shoulder.
“Because they are all too rotten,” he said with considerable accuracy. “While that is no fault ordinarily, it is a fact that the storks don’t like to deliver babies to zombie women. That’s why it took ten years to persuade the stork to deliver me to my mother. So I need a living woman, just as my mother needed a living man. You are just perfect.”
He had given her much too good an answer. She could not refute it logically. So she tried to do it emotionally. “I’m not perfect! I’m too young and immature and unready to settle down. I don’t love you.”
“You will surely grow older and more mature, and learn to settle down. You will be a fine inspiration for our corps d’esprit, our undead army. And I know where there is a fine love spring.
The one where my mother learned to love my father.”
He was still out-arguing her. If there was one thing she detested worse than a zombie, it was a smart zombie. So she let fly with the truth. “I don’t want to marry a zombie!” Then she ran as fast as her healthy living legs could propel her, and soon left him out of sight and hearing.
Soon she got smart. She knew he would follow, so she couldn’t rest until she was so far away he would never find her. After that, she would figure out what else to do.
She slowed, so as to let some of her breath catch up with her, and picked her way carefully, so as to leave no obvious trail. When she came to a stream, she waded through it, pausing only to wash her fouled mouth out several times. She followed it upstream, then followed a dragon trail for several paces, before doubling back and wading farther upstream. If the zombie thought she had gone that way, he would encounter the dragon. She wasn’t sure how dragons felt about zombies, but at least it would be a distraction.
At last she spied a branch hanging over the water. She reached up to catch it, and hauled herself up and into the tree. She made her way to a branch on the opposite side, and dropped off into a gully that led away from the stream. It should be just about impossible to track her this far.
But just to be sure, she climbed another tree, and hid herself carefully amidst its thick foliage. She would wait here until the end of the day, very quietly.
She was tired, after all that fleeing. She took a good grip on the branches, and relaxed, physically. She was too excited and horrified to relax mentally. She let her ears be her eyes, listening for any untoward sound.
All too soon it came: the clumsy crashing noise of a zombie in a hurry. She peered out between the leaves, just to be sure. Yes, it was a zombie, not Xeth, but another one, somewhat farther gone. He was headed in her direction.
How could he know? He wasn’t even following her trail! What gave her location away?
Breanna decided to find out. She knew that the average zombie wasn’t phenomenally smart, because its brain was rotten. “How did you know where I am?” she called.
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