“Nimby would like to share your dreams,” Chlorine said. “Is that all right with you?”
“You mean, this dragon will appear in my dreams?”
“Not exactly. He will merely watch.”
“Well, whatever, it’s okay with me. My dreams aren’t much.”
“Thank you,” Chlorine said.
Then Breanna was riding on Imbri again, back the way they had come. She wasn’t quite sure how that had happened, but dreams did tend to be discontinuous, so she wasn’t concerned.
What did concern her was the lateness of the hour. She realized that the day had passed without her noticing, and darkness was closing. “I’ll be late getting home,” she said. “I’ll catch heaven.” There were times she needed to swear, but that could get her into trouble, so she substituted words.
“There will be no trouble,” Imbri’s dreamlet image said. “Look around you.”
Breanna looked—and realized that she could see everything. She could see in blackness!
That was the beginning of her wonderful private life. She never told anyone else about her visit to the mysterious castle with the beautiful woman and ugly dragon, or about her brand new talent. The castle scene was probably just a daydream, but the talent was delightfully real.
“That’s the way it was,” she agreed as the memory dream ended. “You, or maybe your friends, found the talent for me. But why can’t I give it back?”
A new dream formed. This was of Imbri, grazing by a clog tree. Near it was a sandalwood tree, where a faun danced and played panpipes. Then Imbri changed to nymph form and went to tousle the faun’s hair, and he patted her pert bare bottom. Obviously the two got along well.
A dragon appeared—the one with the silly donkey head. On its back was the fair Chlorine. They stopped before the faun and nymph. “Nimby wants to dream,” Chlorine said.
“Dragons can dream,” Imbri replied.
“But demons don’t.”
“Demons?” the faun asked.
“Yes, Forrest. Will you keep a secret?”
Forrest and Imbri glanced at each other. “I think we had better,” Imbri said.
“Nimby is really the Demon X(A/N)th.”
Both faun and nymph laughed, thinking this a joke. Then the dragon transformed into a huge glowing demon figure, and the scene turned inside out. After a moment the scene returned to normal, with the dragon back. There was no further laughter.
“You are the expert on dreams, Imbri,” Chlorine said. “Can you teach Nimby to dream? By himself, without having to view it as done by mortals?”
Imbri was plainly awed. “I don’t know. No demon has ever dreamed. They don’t have the mortal coils for it. They don’t know what living emotions are. So there’s nothing for dreams to fix on.”
“Living emotions,” Chlorine said thoughtfully. “Like love?”
“Yes, that especially. Demons think love is silly. Of course Nimby—” She framed the word with a peculiar emphasis, now that she knew what it signified. “Nimby is not just any demon. So possibly—”
“Nimby loves. He learned it from Mundanes, among others.”
“Oh. Then maybe he should start to learn dreaming from Mundanes too. They are less complicated than magical creatures. If he could follow the dreams of one, perhaps a young one, he might be able to pick up the essence. I can’t deliver a dream to one who doesn’t know how to do it. It’s like love: you can’t accomplish it until you learn how.” Imbri glanced at Forrest Faun, and a little heart flew across to bop him on the nose. He smiled.
“The Mundane family we know returned to Mundania,” Chlorine said. “Fresh Mundanes are hard to come by.”
“I know one,” Imbri said. “She has been in Xanth almost half her life, but she remembers Mundania.”
“Bring her here.”
“But is it wise to let a Mundane know Nimby’s true nature?”
“It isn’t wise to let anyone know Nimby’s true nature,” Chlorine said firmly. “We have told you only because we need your informed help.”
“Make her a deal,” Forrest Faun suggested. “Give her what she most wants, if she will share her dreams with you.”
“What would she want?” Chlorine asked.
“What would any Mundane want?” the faun asked rhetorically. “A magic talent, of course. Don’t tell her who Nimby is, just make the deal.”
Chlorine looked at Nimby, who wiggled a long ear. She returned to Imbri. “Bring her to the Nameless Castle.”
Imbri resumed mare form and galloped swiftly away. Chlorine mounted Nimby, and both vanished. Forrest waved at the space where they had been, and retired to his sandalwood tree.
The scene faded. Breanna was back in her regular daydream, facing Mare Imbri. “Now you know how you came by your talent. The Demon gave it to you, in exchange for sharing your dreams.”
“But I haven’t seen that dragon in any dream,” Breanna protested.
“He merely watches without interfering. If he disturbed your dreams, they would no longer be innocent. It has been effective; he is slowly learning how to dream on his own. But it would be impolitic to renounce the deal now.”
“Well, he can keep sharing, if that’s what he wants,” Breanna said, though she felt more than a smidgen queasy about having such a creature there. Some of her dreams were rather personal. “Just take back the talent.”
“Demons don’t work that way. He would not feel free, if he voided the talent. In any event, it’s not smart to jostle any demon, and especially not this one. He has more power than all of Xanth put together. In fact the whole of the magic of Xanth is merely the incidental leakage from his body, in much the way heat leaks from mortal bodies. It is best to stay entirely out of his notice, if at all possible, like a flea on a dragon. Chlorine interprets for him, so that the mere power of his attention does not obliterate much of the surrounding landscape. So it is best by far to let things be as they are—for all of us.”
“But he is already noticing me, if he is sharing my dreams,” Breanna said. “And now that I know his nature, how can I avoid noticing him?”
“Precisely. That is why you must not know. Your dreams must continue as they have been. He observes them with only a fraction of his attention, and that won’t change if you don’t change.”
Now Breanna understood. “I guess you’re right. I can’t give my talent back. So I’d better just go see the Good Magician.”
“Yes. He always does deliver, and the deals folk make with him are always worth it, even if they don’t think so at the time.”
Breanna sighed. “Okay. I agree. Take back the dream.”
She came out of her reverie. She knew that she had just had a phenomenal dream, and learned something that shook the very foundation of Xanth, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Only that now she knew that it made sense to keep her talent and go to see the Good Magician Humfrey for some other solution to her problem with the zombie king. She had agreed to relinquish the dream; she remembered that much.
“Sleep here,” Mare Imbri’s dreamlet image said. “I will keep watch for the zombies, and advise you if they come.”
“But don’t you have to go home to Forrest Faun? I’ll bet you had to censor that dream with him in it to avoid violating the Adult Conspiracy.”
“Of course. But I can remain with you for a while. Forrest understands, and so does my tree. When night comes, you can go to the Good Magician’s castle. You will be able to avoid the zombies, because you can see better in blackness than they can. I would carry you there myself, but it’s too far from my tree. I have substance only within a certain range of my tree, for it is what provides that for me. But I will help guide you and warn you, in my soul-mare form, and you will get there safely.”
“Thank you,” Breanna said. She felt better about the prospect, though she didn’t know why. Then she lay down and slept.
2
WE THREE KINGS
“Oh, you’re going to get it!” the floor said. “Quee
n Irene is looking for you.”
“Then maybe she had better find me,” King Dor replied, unperturbed. He was used to being addressed impertinently by various things, because that was his magic talent: to talk to the inanimate, and have it answer. Such things tended not to be very smart, but they were observant. “Where is she?”
“Do I look like the Book of Answers?” the nearest wall demanded flatly. “How should I know?”
Dor rephrased the question. “When did you last see her?”
“Ten minutes ago.” The inanimate did have to give a straight answer if it had it, when he asked directly.
“What direction was she going?”
“Toward the library.”
He went to the castle library. Queen Irene was just watering the flame vine she had growing there, to make light for reading. It was curled in a rising spiral, with hot little leaves, and the flower on the end was a ball of rose-like petals of red flame. Unfortunately it hated water, so tried to burn anyone who watered it. Irene was the only one who could do it, and it wasn’t always easy. The plant wasn’t smart enough to realize that its roots needed water if it was to survive.
“Need any help, dear?” Dor inquired. His wife’s talent was growing plants, and she could make anything grow to any size in a hurry. But that did not necessarily make the plants tractable.
Irene turned to glance at him. She had been a luscious young woman, but now she was safely middle aged and rather beyond lusciousness. It would not be politic to mention that, however. “Yes. Can you distract it a moment?”
Dor focused on the clock sitting on the far side of the vine. “Is that a time fly flying toward you?” he asked it.
“A time fly!” it cried, alarmed. It was an alarm clock, that got alarmed by the silliest things. “Don’t let it near me! It will foul up my mechanism.”
“I think the fish tank just got it,” the shelf said. The fish tank in the neighboring aquarium swung its turret around, searching for the fly. It rolled forward on its treads, but no fly was to be found. It fired off a watery shell, annoyed.
“Maybe it’s a sapphire fly,” the aquarium said.
The flame vine’s flower whipped around, because those bright little flies were its kind. They set fire to the sap of plants, which made them unpopular with most other types.
During the flame vine’s distraction, Irene whipped the spout of her watering can in and delivered a good dollop to its soil. Then she drew her hand away before the flame could return to burn her. “Thanks,” she said.
“Oh, she got you good, flamebrain,” the pot said. “Don’t you ever learn?”
The flame vine took aim and scorched it, but the pot only laughed. “I was fired long ago, tender-root. That’s why I sought work here. You can’t hurt me.”
“Oh, stop all this quarreling,” Irene snapped.
“Who says?” the pot demanded metallically.
“I say. Or I’ll use the hair spray on you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Irene brought out a bottle and pressed the top. A jet of hair shot out and formed a cloud around the pot. Soon it got worse: the hair formed into choking tangles. “Oh, ugh!” it exclaimed, coughing. “What a hairy mess!”
Dor smiled. It was never wise to call his wife’s bluff. She did not like back talk.
Irene brought out a hare comb. “After this perhaps you will behave,” she said as the hare tackled the worst of the tangles, clearing the pot’s surface.
“Yes,” the pot agreed, chastened.
Irene moved on to the miniature hackberry tree. It bore small axeshaped berries that waved about, trying to hack things. Her watering can had many little dents from prior times.
Dor looked in the aquarium. It was a fish bowl, and inside it pin and needle fish stood on their tails, waiting to be bowled over.
The floor tile Irene stood on spoke up. “Oh, guess what I’m seeing!” it chortled. “Feet, ankles, calves—”
Irene lifted a foot and stomped on it warningly, and it shut up. She knew how to handle the inanimate.
“I understand you are looking for me,” Dor said. “Was it for a kiss?”
“That, too,” she agreed, kissing him.
“Ooooo!” the ceiling exclaimed. “Look what she did—and at her age too.”
Irene shot half a glance at the ceiling, and it went silent. She didn’t like discussion of age. “We have news that the zombies are all stirred up. Mr. E brought it to our attention.” Mr. E was a man who loved enigmas. In fact he could sniff them out from afar. He never solved them; he merely called them to the attention of others who were likely to be willing to undertake that chore.
“Zombies?” he asked, intrigued.
“People are getting annoyed. Do you think we should check into it?”
Dor considered. This was her way of saying that the matter needed immediate attention. He was bored with the dull palace routine anyway. “I will see to it immediately. You can keep an eye on the kingdom for an hour.”
“Or a year. Zombies aren’t necessarily nice creatures,” she said. “Except for Zora. I wonder how she’s doing?”
“She’s rotting,” the nearest table suggested.
Dor ignored it. “I think she had a son some time ago. But you’re right: most zombies are a bit ugly. Maybe I should take Dolph along, for quick transportation.” Their son Dolph’s talent was changing into any other living creature; when he became a roc bird he could carry others swiftly and far.
“Maybe your father, too,” she suggested. “He and Chameleon just got youthened, and I think he’s still getting used to it.”
Dor remembered. His mother Chameleon varied with the phases of the moon, becoming beautiful and stupid, or smart and ugly. She had been rejuvenated too, but was currently in her ugly phase, and not much company for anyone. “Yes; it will do him good to get out for an afternoon.”
Irene waited, as if he had said something stupid. Usually when she did that, she had reason. So he pondered.
The nearest book helped him. “You must be missing something really obvious,” it said. “Maybe you should read a good book.”
Suddenly it came to him. “They’ve been what?”
“Youthened,” she said with half a smile, or slightly more. “Instead of being eighty one, now he’s twenty one. Physically. And Chameleon is a child of sixteen.”
He was stunned. “Why? I thought they were getting ready to fade out.”
“Nobody knows. There were two doses of youth elixir in the package the Good Magician sent to Jenny Elf this morning, and they were marked for them. So now they are both young again. Younger than their grandchildren.”
“The Good Magician always has a reason,” Dor said. “But he never gives away anything free. Do they have some arduous service to perform for him?”
“Surely so. But no one has been told. Jenny Elf has a huge chore to do, with instructions. Maybe you should ask her.” Which was her way of saying that she wanted very much to know, but didn’t deign to inquire directly.
“I will,” he agreed. “Right after I locate Bink and Dolph. We’ll check with Jenny, and then go out and check with the zombies.”
Irene nodded, and continued watering her plants.
Dor went out looking for his son Prince Dolph first. Dolph remained slightly awkward at age twenty four, despite having been married to Princess Electra for nine years and having two bright daughters delivered. His magic was first rate, however, and he was of amiable disposition. Still, it seemed better that his more savvy older sister Ivy become the next King of Xanth, when the time came. Dor hadn’t said anything about that, yet, but eventually he would have to.
The inanimate things and surfaces around him directed him to the kitchen, where Dolph and Electra were showing their daughters Dawn and Eve how to make punwheel cookies. The children were six, going rapidly on seven, and already seemed to have the hang of handling the required puns and wheels. Electra was 874 or twenty seven, depending on whether reckoned by date of
delivery or amount of active living; she had taken a long nap in the middle of her life. The twins were cute in proportion to their mischief, which was considerable.
Electra was clean in blue jeans, but Dolph and the girls were covered with punwheel dough. It was clear where the competence lay in that family.
“The zombies are roaming Xanth,” Dor said to Dolph. “I thought you and I and your grandpa Bink could go out and find out what’s agitating them.”
Dolph looked at Electra. “Go ahead,” she said. “I think we girls can handle the rest of this by ourselves.” She glanced sidelong at him. “But perhaps you should wash and change. You wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the zombies.”
Both girls giggled. They were similar in a family sense, but differed in detail. Dawn was red-haired, green-eyed, wore bright clothing, was normally bright, and her talent was to tell anything about anything living. Eve was black-haired and -eyed, wore dark clothing, was more somber, and could tell anything about anything inanimate. Dor wasn’t sure which of them would relate better to a zombie, because it wasn’t quite clear which category zombies fit into.
“I’ll do that,” Dolph agreed. He left the kitchen.
“We’ll meet you at Jenny Elf’s room,” Dor called after him. Then, to Electra: “I’m glad he married you.”
Electra blushed, and the girls giggled again, well understanding her natural modesty. Electra had never aspired to be a princess, but had loved Dolph from their first magical meeting. Her innocent ways still clung to her on occasion.
Dor went in search of his father. Bink was an oddity in Xanth, because everyone knew he had Magician-caliber magic, but few knew what it was. When there was something especially tricky or dangerous to accomplish, Bink was usually the one to tackle it, and often accomplished it by a series of weird coincidences. Apart from that, he was as amiable as his grandson, which made him easy to get along with.
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