"Just tell me who is here and how the ceremony is to proceed. I have never attended an elopement."
"I shall be delighted to, though my own understanding is far from perfect. It seems that Prince Dor and Princess Irene--their titles are similar but have different derivations, as he is the designated heir to the throne, while she is merely the daughter of the King-both of whom I met eight years ago in Mundania, are at last to achieve nuptial bliss, or such reasonable facsimile thereof as is practicable."
Imbri realized that Mundanes had a more complex manner of speaking than did real people; she cocked one ear politely and tried to make sense of the convolutions.
"But he seems not yet to be aware of this, and she is supposedly not aware that virtually everyone in Castle Roogna or associated with it is attending. It is supposed to be an uncivil ceremony, performed in the dead of night by a dead man--i.e., a zombie. A most interesting type of creature, incidentally. Queen Iris has cloaked all visitors with illusion--she does have the most marvelous facility for that--so they seem to be zombies, too, and she has mixed them in with the real zombies so that no one not conversant with the ruse is likely to penetrate it. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive! That is a Mundane quotation from--"
He broke off, for there was a stir to the south. Just in time, for he had been about to bore Imbri again. He did seem to have a formidable propensity for dullness. All the zombies, real and fake, hushed, waiting.
The pale moonlight showed a young woman of voluptuous proportion stepping through the fringe of the Castle Roogna orchard, hauling along a handsome young man. "We'll just cut through the zombie graveyard," she was saying. "We're almost there."
"Almost where?" he demanded irritably. "You're being awfully secretive, Irene. I'm tired; I have just come back from Centaur Isle, where I couldn't make much of an impression; I've consulted with King Trent about the Nextwave incursion and how to contain it; and now I just want to go home and sleep."
"You'll have a good sleep very soon, I promise you," Irene said. "A sleep like none before."
A rock chuckled. "It'll be long before you sleep, you poor sucker!" it said.
"Shut up!" Irene hissed at the rock. Then, to Dor: "Come on; we're almost there."
"Almost where?"
"Don't trust her!" the ground said. "It's a trap!"
Irene stamped her foot, hard. "Oooo!" the ground moaned, hurting.
"I wish you'd just tell me what you're so worked up about," Dor said. "Dragging me out here for no reason--"
"No reason! Hah!" a chunk of deadwood chortled. Irene kicked it into the moat, where there was a brief, wild splashing as a moat monster snapped it up.
"I suppose you do have the right to know," she said as they entered the graveyard. All the guests had abruptly faded into invisibility, thanks to Queen Iris's illusion. "It's an elopement"
"A what?"
"Elopement, idiot!" a tombstone cracked. "Better run before you're lost!"
Irene rapped the stone on the top, and it went quiet. She seemed to have had experience dealing with talking objects. "We're eloping," she said clearly. "I'm taking you secretly away to get married. Then you'll have something nice in bed with you."
"Something nice?" Dor asked, bemused. "You mean you're giving me a pillow?"
This time it was Dor she kicked, as the whole cemetery guffawed evilly. "Me, you oaf! Stop teasing me; I know you aren't that stupid. I can be very soft and warm when I try."
"Ooooo!" the crypt said in a naughty-naughty voice. "Not many of that kind here."
"But we haven't set the date!" Dor protested.
"That's why we're eloping. We'll be married tonight, before anyone knows. So there won't be any foolishness. The job will be done."
"But--" She turned and kissed him emphatically. "You have an objection?"
Dor, obviously daunted by the kiss, was silent.
"Marvelous, just marvelous, the way she manages him," Ichabod murmured beside Imbri.
The couple arrived at the crypt. "Zombie justice, where are you?" Irene called.
The officiating zombie appeared, holding his book. Also, slowly, the rest of them phased into dim view, under the continued glow of the moon.
"We're going to be married by a zombie?" Dor demanded weakly. "Won't the union fall apart?"
"Ha. Ha. I have laughed." She shook her head, so that her green hair flounced darkly in the limited light. "It's the only person I could get without alerting Mother," Irene explained. There was a choked snort of mirth from the depths of the audience. Irene looked around and spied the crowd. "Well, all you zombies didn't have to rip yourselves from your graves," she said in a spooks-will-be-spooks manner. "But I suppose some witnesses are in order."
"I didn't know there were this many zombies buried here," Dor said.
"There aren't, you poor stiff," the crypt said. "These are--"
"Quiet!" the Queen Zombie snapped.
Now Irene was suspicious. "That voice is familiar."
"Of course it is, you luscious dummy!" the crypt said. Then a black cloud roiled out of nowhere and emitted a roll of thunder that drowned out whatever other information the crypt disgorged.
"There's something very funny about this," Dor said, squinting at the loud cloud.
Irene reverted to first principles. "What's funny about zombies? They love grim occasions. Let's get on with it."
The zombie magistrate opened his book. A page fell out; the volume was as decrepit as the zombie.
"Oh, how I hate to see a book mistreated," Ichabod breathed beside Imbri.
"Wait a moment," Dor protested. "You tricked me out here, Irene. I didn't agree to get married tonight."
"Oh? Well, I intend to marry someone! Should it be one of these zombies?"
"Now that's a bluff I can call," Dor said.
Irene stood in silent but almost tangible grief. Her shoulders shook. Tears plopped into the sod at her feet. Dor, aided by a touch of the Queen's illusion, assumed a form somewhat like the hinder part of a giant's boot: a first-class heel. "Ah, well--" he mumbled inadequately.
Irene flung her arms about him and planted another kiss that made the audience murmur with envy. Even the zombies seemed moved. When she was through. Dor stood as if numbed, as well he might.
"Classic!" Ichabod whispered. "That girl has absolutely mastered the art!"
The zombie magistrate mumbled something unintelligible. He had no tongue, and he was reading from the pageless book, with empty eyeball sockets.
"I do," Irene said firmly.
The zombie mumbled something else as his nose fell onto the book.
"He does," Irene said, nudging Dor.
The zombie made a final effort, causing several loose teeth to dribble out of his mouth.
"I've got it," Irene said. She produced a ring with an enormous stone that glowed in the moonlight so strongly it seemed to illuminate the graveyard. "Put it on me. Dor. No, not that finger, idiot. This one."
Dor fumbled the moonstone onto the designated finger.
"We're married now," Irene said. "Now you can kiss me."
Dor did so, somewhat uncertainly. The audience broke into applause.
The remaining illusion faded, revealing the zombies and people standing throughout the graveyard. Irene's gaze swept across the crowd. "Mother!" she exclaimed indignantly. "This is your mischief!"
"Refreshments are served in the Castle Roogna ballroom," Queen Iris said, controlling a catlike smirk. "Come, dears--mustn't keep the King waiting."
Dor came out of his trance. "You made King Trent fetch refreshments?"
"Of course not. Dor," Queen Iris said. "I supervised that chore myself yesterday. My husband refused to participate in this little charade, the spoilsport. But I know he'll want to congratulate you."
"He should congratulate me," Irene said. "I landed Dor, after all these years."
"In the whole castle, one honest person," Dor muttered. But he did not seem unhappy. "I knew the King
would not betray me."
"Well, you're married now," Queen Iris said. "At last. Now come on in before the food spoils."
The zombies stirred. They liked the notion of spoiled food.
Soon all the living people were across the moat, where sleepy moat monsters made only token growls of protest, and inside Castle Roogna, where food and drink had been set out. Imbri found herself near the beverage table. Since she did not drink human-style drinks, and did not much care for human-style treats, she was satisfied to watch.
Ichabod, still beside her, felt otherwise. "I love to eat," he confided. "It is my inane ambition eventually to become obese." He took a buttercup filled with a sparkling brown liquid. "This looks suitably calorific." He tilted it to his mouth.
As the liquid passed his lips, Ichabod made a funny little jump. Brown fluid splashed over his face. "I say!" he sputtered. "Why did you do that, mare?"
"Do what?" Imbri projected.
"Kick me!"
"I did not kick you!" she protested.
"I distinctly felt a boot in my posterior!" Then he cocked his head, looking at her feet. "But you don't wear boots!"
"If I kicked you, you would have a map of the moon on your rump," Imbri sent
Ichabod rubbed the affected portion. "True. It must have been an hallucination." He tipped the remaining liquid to his mouth.
Again he jumped. "Someone did kick me!" he exclaimed. "But there was no one to do it."
Imbri got a notion. "Let me sniff your drink," she sent.
Ichabod held down the cup for her. Imbri sniffed--and felt a slight shove at her tail. "I thought so. This is the rare beverage Boot Rear, distilled from the sap of the shoe-fly tree. It's the drink that gives you a real kick."
"Boot Rear," Ichabod repeated thoughtfully. "I see." He picked up another cup. "Perhaps this differs. It seems effervescent, but colorless." He put it cautiously to his lips, paused, and when no suggestion of a kick manifested, gulped it quickly down.
Shining bars formed about him, enclosing him so tightly that he yelped with discomfort. "Let me out!" he cried.
Imbri quickly put a hoof on a nether bar and used her nose to shove the higher bars apart. In a moment Ichabod was able to squeeze out, his suit torn, abrasions on his body. "I suppose that was the result of the drink, too?" he asked irritably.
Imbri sniffed the empty cup. "Yes. That's Injure Jail, a concoction of incarcerated water," she reported.
"I should have guessed." But the man hadn't given up. He took a third drink, sipped it with extreme caution, paused, took a deeper sip, waited, and finally swallowed the rest. "This is excellent."
Then he fidgeted. He reached inside his jacket and drew out a card. "Where did this come from?" He found another up his sleeve, and a third dropped out of his pant leg.
Imbri sniffed the cup. "No wonder. This is Card Hider," she reported.
"This begins to grow tiresome," Ichabod said. "Imbri, would you do me the immense favor of locating me a safely sedate beverage?"
Imbri obliged, sniffing her way along the table. "Seam Croda," she sent. "Foot Frunch. June Pruice." '
"I'll take that last," Ichabod said. "That sounds like my style. I think it is presently June in my section of Mundania."
Chameleon came to join them. "Wasn't that a wonderful wedding?" she asked, delicately mopping her eyes. "I cried real tears." She picked up a drink.
"Wait!" Imbri projected and Ichabod cried together. It was an unclassified beverage.
But Chameleon was already sipping it. It seemed she had to replace the fluid lost through her tears. Then her feet sank into the floor. "Oh, my--I'm afraid I took a Droft Sink!" she exclaimed. "I'm sinking!"
Imbri and Ichabod managed to haul her back to floor level. "I wouldn't want to seem to criticize the Queen, who I am sure put a great deal of attention into this spread of refreshments," Ichabod said. "But in some quarters it might be considered that certain types of practical jokes become, shall we say, tiresome."
Now the Queen herself approached. "Have you taken any of these drinks?" she inquired brightly. She had clothed herself in a fantastically bejeweled royal robe that was perhaps illusory. "I trust you find them truly novel and not to be taken lightly or soon forgotten. I want this occasion to make a real impression on the guests."
Mutely, the three nodded. The drinks were all that the Queen described.
Queen Iris picked one up herself and sipped delicately. Then she spit it out again, indelicately. Her pattern of illusion faltered, revealing a plain housedress in lieu of her robe. "What's this?" she demanded.
"A truly novel beverage that makes a real impression and is not soon forgotten," Ichabod murmured.
"Don't get flip with me. Mundane!" the Queen snapped, a miniature thundercloud forming over her head. "What's in this cup?"
Imbri sniffed. "Drapple Ink," she projected.
"Drapple Ink!" the Queen exclaimed, her gems reforming and glinting furiously. "That's meant for signing official documents indelibly! What's it doing on the refreshment stand?"
Ichabod picked up another cup of Boot Rear. "Perhaps this one is better, your Majesty," he suggested, offering it to her. "It certainly made an impression on me."
The Queen sniffed it. She took a step forward, as if shoved from behind. "That's not what I ordered!" she cried, and now her gems shot little lances of fire. "Some miscreant has switched the drinks! Oh, wait till I get my claws on that chef!"
So Queen Iris had not been responsible for the joke. Chameleon looked relieved.
The Queen paused, turning back. "Oh--Chameleon," she called. "I really came to ask if you had seen my husband the King. He doesn't seem to be here. Would you look for him for me, please?"
"Of course, your Majesty," Chameleon agreed. She turned to Imbri. "Will you help me look, please? He might be in a dark room, meditating."
"And we have another message to give him," Imbri reminded her, remembering. "Beware the Horseman, or break the chain."
"If only we knew what chain." Chameleon sighed. "I haven't seen any chains."
"I'll help, too," Ichabod said. "I do love a mystery."
They looked all through the downstairs castle, but could not find the King. "Could he be upstairs, in the library?" Ichabod asked. "That's a very nice room, and he is a literate man."
"Yes, he is often there," Chameleon agreed.
They went upstairs, going to the library. A ghost flitted across the hall, but was gone before Imbri could send a dreamlet to it. If she ever had a moment when she wasn't busy, she would catch up to a ghost and inquire where Jordan was, so she could give him the greeting from the ghosts of the haunted house in the gourd world.
The library door was closed. Ichabod knocked, then called, but received no answer. "I fear he is not in," he opined. "I do not like to enter a private chamber unbidden, but we should check."
The others agreed. Cautiously they opened the door and peeked in. The room was dark and quiet.
"There is a magic lantern that turns on from a button near the door," Chameleon said, fumbling for it. In a moment the lantern glowed, illuminating the room.
There was King Trent, sitting at the table, an open book in front of him.
"Your Majesty!" Chameleon cried. "We have to tell you--"
"Something is wrong," Ichabod said. "He is not moving."
They went to the King. He sat staring ahead, taking no notice of them. This was odd indeed, for King Trent was normally the most alert and courteous person, as men of genuine power tended to be.
Imbri projected a dream to the King's mind. But his mind was blank. "He's gone!" she sent to the others, alarmed. "He has no mind!"
The three stared at one another with growing dismay. Xanth had lost its King.
Chapter 5
Sphinx and Triton
By morning the new order had been established. King Trent had been retired to his bedroom for the duration of his illness, and Prince Dor had assumed the crown and mantle of Kingship and sat momentarily o
n the throne, making it official. For Dor was the designated heir, and Xanth had to have a King. He had vaulted in one strange night from single Prince to married King.
If there was to be a visible transformation in the young man, it had not yet materialized. He called a meeting of selected creatures after breakfast. The golden crown perched somewhat askew on his head, and the royal robes hung on him awkwardly. These things had been fitted for King Trent, who was a larger man, and it seemed King Dor preferred to wear them unaltered, so that they could be returned when King Trent recovered.
The shadows of Dor's eyes showed that he had not slept. Few of them had; the joy of the elopement had shifted without pause to the horror of involuntary abdication. Indeed, King Trent had lost his mind while the others were celebrating in the zombie graveyard. It was hard not to suspect that the two events were linked in some devious way. The new Queen Irene evidently thought they were; she had lost a father while in the process of gaining a husband.
"We have a crisis here at Castle Roogna," King Dor said, speaking with greater authority than his appearance suggested. Queen Irene stood at his side, poised as if ready to catch him if he fell. Her eyes were dark and red, and not from any artifice of makeup or magic. How well she knew that it was the misfortune of her father that had catapulted her to replace her mother as Queen; this was hardly the way she had wanted it. Former Queen Iris was upstairs with King emeritus Trent, watching for any trifling signal of intelligence. No one knew what had happened to him, but with the Mundane invasion, they could not wait for his recovery.
The King turned to a blackboard that his ogre friend had harvested from the jungle. On it was a crudely sketched map of Xanth, with the several human folk villages marked, as were Centaur Isle and the great Gap Chasm that severed the peninsula of Xanth but that few people remembered. "The Mundanes have crossed the isthmus," Dor said, pointing to the northwest. "They are bearing south and east, wreaking havoc as they progress. But we don't know what type of Mundanes they are, or how they are armed, or how many there are. King Trent was developing that information, but I don't know all of what he knew. I will consult with the Good Magician Humfrey, but that will take time, as we don't have a magic mirror connecting to his castle at the moment. The one we have is on the blink. We shall try to get it fixed; meanwhile, we're on our own."
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