by Sharon Lee
Gran, why didn’t you call me?
I sighed. Yeah, right. What good would I have done her, failing and blind as I’d been? I would have only slowed her down.
The land entered my consciousness with a self-important bound. Images rolled before my mind’s eye, augmented with sound and taste.
It took me a few minutes to figure out where the land had found Mr. Ignat’—and to believe it, once I had.
Googin Rock.
I’d known Mr. Ignat’ was foolish, but I hadn’t thought he was suicidal. I queried the land, but it was adamant, replaying the whole sequence over again for my benefit.
I closed my eyes against the mist, and listened to the distant voice of the sea.
Well. Googin Rock. What the heck, I could use some exercise.
I got moving, heading south down the beach in the pre-dawn chill.
* * *
Archers Beach hasn’t always been a hole-in-the-wall, hardscrabble town with a main drag full of empty storefronts and a run-down amusement park its best and last hope of making a dime.
Back in the 1890s, the Beach had been a sight to see. There were luxury hotels, casinos, and concert halls crammed onto every square foot of the place. First class acts came up from Boston, New York, and Washington, D.C., to entertain the tourists who poured in by the double-dozens. A pier was built out into the ocean, 1800 feet long and twenty feet above high tide. There were fancy restaurants and posh shops and the Sea King Casino, as seductive a den of pleasurable ruination as ever man did see.
That was before The Fire, so fierce it burned the whole place right down to the ground in a single night, and the best they could do was pin the cause on some poor girl who they said had left a hot curling iron too near a lampshade in her hurry to meet her beau.
The truth of the matter is, that girl was innocent. The fire was started by an Ozali from a House of Flame. It wasn’t, as Gran always insisted, his fault, exactly, that the place burned down. He’d been running for his life from a posse of Ozali, and didn’t have time to be careful.
Be that as it might, the Ozaliflame had a good enough lead on those that wanted him returned to the fire that spawned him that he made it to the Wood on Heath Hill, swore fealty to the Lady, and bound himself to the Changing Land. That should’ve been the end of the matter, but the posse wanted a life, and failing that, they wanted pain.
The Fire Ozali’s life, the Lady would not cede, nor would she release him from his oath. But she and all the trenvay she could call upon were no match for a half-dozen angry Ozali, and in the end they got their pain.
The Fire Ozali was allowed to stay in the Changing Land, all right.
Bound into Googin Rock.
* * *
The incoming tide played ’round the Rock in wicked currents; the waves breaking over its bladed, chancy surface hissed and boiled, mixing steam into the pre-dawn mist, and if Mr. Ignat’ was anywhere near the place, he was invisible.
I queried the land again, and got the equivalent of a baffled stare for my answer.
Still . . .
I stood on the wet sand and watched the balefire flicker and flash, thinking.
The Changing Land is the last and the least of the Six Worlds. There is nothing native to the place to entice or interest any resident of its sister worlds, all of which are endowed with far more grace, beauty, and magic than we are. No brag, just fact.
That being so, and the things most considered “treasure” by Ozali being those which can augment their power . . .
It could be that the imprisoned Ozali was a treasure, indeed, for a mage on the rise and in need of easily-acquired jikinap. Also? That particular leap of logic would neatly explain the other reason Gran hadn’t been interested in the proposed exchange.
Point: It would be a heavy blizzard and six feet of snow covering the smoldering coals in Hell before Gran, in her hat as Lady of the Wood, released the Fire Ozali from his oath, or his sworn service. Put a good deal of stock in oaths, did Gran.
Point: The residents of the Land of the Flowers do embrace a code of honor. According to that code, an exchange of hostages must, in order to have force, be equal. In other words, you don’t trade a donut for a diamond.
A daughter for an oath-sworn, though . . .
A lead wave hit Googin Rock, with a crash and a hiss of steam.
It looked to me like the Fire Ozali was still snug in his dungeon, and damned peeved he was about it, too. Which led one, should one be the driver of this particular fraught and faulty logic train, to believe that the Mystery Ozali had not yet returned to claim his prize.
If the prize was, after all, inside Googin Rock.
Well, there was one person, at least, who might know. If he didn’t blast me out of time and space for daring to disturb him in his torment.
I walked forward three steps, until I was standing on the narrow, sand slicked apron of stone that was the only part of Googin Rock that stood above the incoming tide. Jikinap starved as I was, I expected to see nothing more than what I already saw.
Color me surprised.
It was like walking through the sea mist curtain that hung between my grandfather’s private chamber and his Law Room. The woven energies comprising the fabric of the curtain parted, and suddenly one could see clearly, in all directions and upon all levels.
Googin Rock lay before me etched in dreadful clarity, flames of red and blue, yellow and green flickering hungrily beneath the black, bladed surface. Over and about it, confining both flame and hunger, stretched a dense and complex knotwork of forces; living jikinap twined and twisted with homey trenvay magic to produce a seamless and shimmering silver covering, like the finest and strongest mail in my grandfather’s armory.
I extended my thought to touch the land, and with that brace and anchor, dared to try my will against those pulsing strands of power.
It was an idiotic thing to do and I could well have been fried. Happily, the only thing that happened was that my will slid off the binding, like a prince off a glass mountain, leaving me breathless and annoyed, but basically unharmed.
All right, I thought. There’s more than one road to Amber.
Carefully, I shaped my request. The land accepted the commission and vanished from my consciousness—reappearing not a heartbeat later, with a wail and a bump.
So much for an impromptu social call. If I wanted in, I’d need the help of at least one trenvay of Nerazi’s status, and an Ozali skilled in spellweaving, always remembering that there wasn’t any guarantee that the Ozaliflame wouldn’t seize the opportunity to torch us all.
Not that I thought the bound mage was a bad guy, necessarily—in the stories, Gran always claimed he was honorable, if a trifle rash. However, a hundred years chained inside a rock and drowned every twelve hours is bound to take its toll on a man’s sanity, Ozali or not.
I went backward three steps; the curtain of energies parted and fell closed just beyond the tip of my nose. Googin Rock lay as it always had, bladed, black, and chancy, hissing as the waves broke over its surface, the fell-fire above it mixing uneasily with the mist.
Shaking my head, I turned and stepped from the apron of rock to the sand.
Inside my head, the land screamed.
The air was heavy with despair and dismay; a miasma arose from the waves, slowing my thoughts, my heart, and my feet. I shuddered; the land screamed again, and I heard the pounding of paws upon the sand.
“Dammit!” I spun, and there they were, two blots of hopeless darkness against the purity of pre-dawn, tongues lolling and iron teeth bared, slavering to destroy hope and beauty and love.
“I have had enough!” I yelled, and raised my hand, pointing. “Begone!”
Heat rushed through me, and a tang of butterscotch, reminiscent of Mr. Ignat’s home brew.
The lead Dog vanished with a small pop! of displaced air.
The second Dog plowed to a halt, sand spraying. It whined, sat, and raised a paw, head tipped to one side in doggy dismay.
It licked its jowls, sighed—and blinked out of existence.
I sat down, hard. The land nuzzled me worriedly, but I was staring at the huge paw prints in the sand, remembering with sudden and sinking clarity the flask that never got any lighter, no matter how much we drank, and cursing myself for a complete and total idiot.
Because of course, as any child can tell you, there are three ways for a mage to gain jikinap: steal it, earn it—or accept it as a gift.
Hair of the dog, indeed.
I exhaled and looked at the sky. Not dawn yet. Still, it might’ve been a fluke. Black Dogs aren’t particularly known for having a sense of humor, but this pair might’ve decided it would be fun to play with me—vanish and then sneak on back . . .
One more test, then, and here’s hoping I was wrong.
I scooped a hasty circle in the sand; sat back on my heels, hands on my thighs, and concentrated.
One of the more amusing features of modern fantasy books is how the author always makes it seem that making a fire by will alone is, y’know—easy. Like any old Assistant Pigkeeper can touch off a nice, polite little flame first try out of the box.
Take it from me, willing a contained fire into existence is not something the hopeful, untutored mage should try at home. Technically, it wasn’t something I should be trying, years out of the schoolroom as I was—and to hear him tell it, not my tutor’s most apt student ever—but I’m nothing if not imprudent.
Carefully, keeping a close eye on the details, I built the thing in my head: a beach fire at the end of a long, joyous night, just a few pale flamelets dancing tiredly among red embers.
I felt a tickle of heat around my heart, and a shy warming of my blood. Good, good. I concentrated on the shallow, scooped pit and pictured my weary little fire there.
Heat flared; there was a white whoosh and a silent explosion, knocking me flat on my back. I lay there, staring up at the towering orange column, hastily extended my will, connected with the inferno and—breathed in.
The fire seared, but I kept myself centered, sucking it down, down . . . until there was nothing in my little sand pit but those few, intended chunks of mostly burned driftwood, glowing warmly red, a few homely flames flickering across the spent surface.
“Gah.” I closed my eyes, and lay there. Inside my head, the land gave the equivalent of an exasperated sigh and settled down to wait.
Well, I thought, I can bind the prisoners now.
That’s what you call your silver lining.
I don’t know how long I lay there, brooding. Eventually, the land nudged me and I sat up, blinking at a gold and pink sky. I extended my hand and put the embers out, taking the power back into myself. Then I stood, brushed the sand off me as best I could, and started back to Fun Country.
TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, April 23
Low Tide 1:50 p.m. EDT
She returns.
Her sword and her shield shineth ere the sun.
She is like unto a goddess, her glance to slay; her touch to heal . . .
I sighed, and crossed to the fuse box. “Everybody’s a comedian.”
The electric light came on with a snap. I maybe closed the hatch a little harder than was strictly necessary, and turned to face the carousel; in particular, the six rose-bound figures.
“So!” I said brightly. “Who wants to be first?”
Silence so thick you could pour it on pancakes and have it for breakfast.
“All righty, then!” I stepped forward, pushing up the sleeves of my hoodie, swung up onto the deck, and walked ’round, ’til I stood in front of the unicorn.
“You first, I think,” I said, and before it could react, or even answer, I extended my will and spun a halter of pure energy, binding essence to wood, and sealing both to the carousel. I did it as fast as I could—Gran had always said that quickness was a mercy—feeling the imprisoned spirit become listless and compliant. Maybe I waited a bit too long; maybe testing my work three times was excessive. I was a long time out of practice and I’d never possessed jikinap on this level. I distrusted it, doubted my ability—and I couldn’t afford any mistakes.
Satisfied at last that the bonds would hold, I moved on to the hippocampus, and ’round in order until I had bound five and only one remained.
A boon, Keeper, the batwing whispered loathsomely between my ears.
“A boon?” I repeated incredulously, the binding spell warm as honey on the back of my tongue. “What boon?”
Bind me lightly, it urged. Protect those you deem innocent, but do not tie me to oblivion.
“Why not?” I asked.
Why, because I am Changed, Keeper. Is that not the outcome desired by the Wise?
“Being a smartass isn’t likely to get you what you want,” I pointed out, and before it could answer, added what I had always been taught. “We bind you as we do as a mercy, to ease your suffering under the geas laid on you by the Wise.”
I know it is thought such, and in days past I have embraced the gift. However, I have dreamed and truly . . .
I paused. My grandmother had taught me to be respectful of dreams.
“Can I get any details, here?”
Keeper, I have little enough. The wind belling my wings, and the sweet bloom of power in my blood.
“A memory, then,” I suggested.
I . . . think not, the batwing murmured. Within the memory I am granted—which is that of my imprisonment—I have never flown. If I had power, I am now bereft. This wheel stands beyond the range of the everyday sea, yet I felt spray on my flanks. Small as it is, I believe it to be a True Dreaming, Keeper, and yet to be fulfilled. I would, by your grace, stand ready to meet what may come.
Sarcastic and bitter as it was, the batwing rarely outright lied. And—perversity being my middle name—I was more inclined to believe the small dream described than I would a detailed and grandiose saga.
It was true that the added kick of oblivion wasn’t necessary to the binding spell. But—
“I don’t want to be hearing snarky comments out of you all Season.”
I will be as still as the wood from which my prison is carved. I so swear upon my name, which was taken from me.
I’m not sure, myself, if it was that particular reminder of the cruelty of the Wise, or the batwing horse’s refusal to invent a dream of glorious destiny for itself, despite the stakes, that convinced me. In the end, though, I bound it as lightly as conscience would allow, and hoped I’d have no reason to be sorry for it.
You will not regret, Keeper, it whispered between my ears when I was done. I snorted, stepped off the carousel, and went to fetch my paints and brushes.
* * *
By the time Nancy arrived, about ten minutes before eight, I’d finished touching up the otter and the bucking bronc, and was rubbing cleaner on the loon.
“Mornin’,” she said, nodding, and I gave her a nod back.
“Glad to see you decided to stay on. Feeling all right today?”
“Fine as frog hair.” She took off her cap and re-settled it. “There’s tourists all over this town,” she said. “Looks like Early Season out there.”
“They all here for that contest?” I asked, but Nancy only shrugged and moved on toward the back. She was back in two shakes, armed with rags and Brasso.
“Got everybody settled, I see,” she said, giving me a wise glance out of ale-colored eyes.
“Yup,” I answered.
She nodded like she hadn’t expected anything else, and got down to brass tacks.
* * *
Around about 9:30, I stood, and stretched and looked over to Nancy. “I’m for some coffee, how ’bout you?”
“Good idea.”
She sealed up the Brasso, I set my brushes to soak, and the two of us ambled out into the day. I blinked as we came into the sunlight—and again at the number
of pressed jeans, casual khakis, new sneakers, and pastel sweatshirts on the midway.
“What on earth do they think there is to see?” I asked rhetorically.
Nancy shrugged. “Maybe it’s a church group or something—folks up from Portsmouth on a day trip.”
“As likely as anything, I guess,” I said as we crossed over to Tony Lee’s. We waited in line behind a plump guy wearing a sweater that exactly matched the pink of his scalp, his stick-thin wife bundled up in fleece jacket, watch cap, and scarf. She received her Styrofoam cup in both hands, like it was the Grail, and bent her face into the steam.
“Hi, there,” I said to Anna when it was our turn. “Didn’t the doctors at least give you a day off?”
She wrinkled her nose and put a handful of creamers on the counter. “I was supposed to stay home and ‘rest,’ but there are so many tourists, Tony needed help and Billie had other business today. Besides, I feel fine.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said, and meant it with all my heart. She smiled and stepped into the back, reappearing a moment later with two rice paper packets. She put them on the counter next to our creamers.
“Breakfast,” she said, and turned away to draw our coffee.
The egg rolls smelled wonderful, prompting my stomach to note that it had been a good long time and numerous adventures since my last meal.
“I—” I began, and Anna raised a stern hand.
“You will not pay, and you will not offer to pay,” she stated, and I grinned before I reached beneath my hoodie, found the chain and drew it over my head.
“I was only going to say—I’ve got your lucky piece,” I said, holding it out. The stone fragment spun in the busy air.
Anna took it, reluctantly, to my eye, and held it at arm’s length, watching it twirl at the end of its chain.
“It—it didn’t do any good, this lucky piece,” she said slowly. “I still fell and hit my head.”
“It worked just fine,” I said, firmly. “You could’ve been hurt a lot worse.”
“Could’ve broke your neck,” Nancy added, while she peeled little plastic buckets and dumped creamer into her coffee. “That was a nasty tumble, no mistake.”
