Hanging for a moment to the rail, stretching toward the water, Golden let go to slip noiselessly into the harbor sea.
All that Golden could do now as he swam strenuously -- mostly underwater -- to a parallel pier on the boat's other side, was hope that what he had done was right! If so, it was possible he had saved John-Lyon. More importantly, had rescued the source of John-Lyon's magic.
If Golden had misjudged the situation -- a thought that made him shiver from more than the water's cold -- he had to hope that, before the Mage missed it, Golden would be able to slip the amber crystal of Stil-de-grain back into the Mage's pocket -- the Mage never to discover this slight of hand Golden had performed!
* * * * *
It was still difficult for Forsk, young as he was, to accept the fact that he was Head of the Stil-de-grain Army, his command signified by the full width of yellow sash striped across the vest of his formal, white, military tunic. Nor could he believe the charge that Army Head Nator had committed treason against the Mage.
Much was wrong in Stil-de-grain.
Much happening that Forsk did not understand.
One thing was clear, however. Failing to please the Mage was the quickest path to the palace dungeon!
Nor was being Army Head a position without ... disgust. Disgust at changes in the military. Disgust that he must use these odious under officers the Mage had forced upon him.
Quietly, Forsk had checked on them. Had discovered that their record was a long one! First, they had claimed to have served as "irregulars" at Carotene -- "irregulars," little more than brigands. More recently, the four had been incorporated into the army during that time in the Claws when a desperate Stil-de-grain had pressed everyone into service. Even those of doubtful parentage! Later, these men had deserted, only to be caught and sentenced to the dungeon for their crimes.
From what Forsk could learn, that was where the Mage had found them -- in the palace dungeon. Discovered them there when personally supervising Nator's incarceration in that wretched place.
A dungeon guard, for a sizable sum, had told Forsk that the Mage had recognized the four criminals from another time. Had pardoned them on the spot, whereupon he had them unchained from the dungeon walls.
The Mage had then placed the scoundrels in the army -- even made them officers of this hand-picked unit.
Though putting such men in command positions was a practice Forsk opposed, he dare not say so. It was for opposing the Mage in such matters that Nator had been declared a traitor.
Leading to the current business.
Forsk had ordered his command into two files of 50, dressing them at right angles to the pier to form a guard through which the crew of the strange ship would pass on debarkation.
At least the information brought by the captain of the Wanderer had been correct. This was undoubtedly John-Lyon's ship -- what was left of it.
By this time, burly stevedores had finished tying the boat off fore and aft, the ship even odder looking now than formerly. From two hulls, the craft had become a narrow, one-hulled boat with a ... wood extender ... to the far side.
As the ship was pulling in at dead slow, Forsk had seen John-Lyon in the prow. Also Golden, by John-Lyon's side. Plus Navy Head, Coluth, who was in command.
The two women, Forsk had not seen. If they were there, so much the better. If not, Forsk could not be blamed. The captain of the Wanderer had not reported their presence.
The ship's side bumping along the dock, Forsk woke from his reverie. "Attention!" he commanded, the soldiers straightening. On the dock, laborers paused to watch -- the workers eager for any excuse to lay down their burdens.
There was a grating sound as the wooden gangplank was slid out and over the ship's railing, the walk board thudded onto the dock, a pier-man fitting its end against one of the dock's slip fittings.
At the top of the gangway was John-Lyon. On the deck behind him, Forsk could see Coluth, ready to disembark.
Striding down the crosshatched gangplank, smiling, approaching, stopping before him, was ... John-Lyon. "Ah, Forsk. Nice of you to meet the ship."
Before Forsk could stop himself, Forsk had saluted -- a mistake that could mean arrest in the new Stil-de-grain!
Forsk found himself sweating. Even though he'd been told it was safe to ignore John-Lyon's rystal-magic, he was still afraid.
"And Nator?" asked John-Lyon.
"He was ... unavailable."
"I see. Now that the war's over, the Army Head is busier than ever, I suppose." Said in a satiric way.
Forsk found he could hardly speak. Always, he had been in awe of John-Lyon.
Forcing himself, Forsk said: "My orders are to conduct you and Navy Head, Coluth, to the palace."
"That would seem to be the thing to do," said John-Lyon, still in that mocking tone.
John-Lyon turned. Called up to ship deck. "Coluth? We're wanted at the palace, it seems."
At that, the Navy Head and captain of the ship shambled, loose legged, down the gangplank, coming to a halt just back of John-Lyon.
"Also the guard, Whar," Forsk added.
The Mage looked sad. "There was an accident. Whar was drowned."
"Also the man, Golden, if you please."
"Golden!" John-Lyon called.
Receiving no answer, John Lyon turned; looked up at the deck. "Golden!"
John-Lyon turned back to Forsk. "He was there a minute ago."
"That is not a problem," Forsk said, the Army Head's voice sounding small even to him, and coming from afar.
Forsk forced himself to rally.
"First squad! Board the ship to find and to escort the man called Golden. Also the two women."
Having second thoughts, Forsk turned to the First squad leader. "Sassu, do you know this Golden?"
"I know him," the squad leader said with an impertinent grin.
"Then execute my order."
With that, the first squad, at a hand signal from its under Head, marched up the plank to the ship's deck.
Preliminary actions underway, the next part of Forsk's duty came hard. John-Lyon was a man of power, no matter what was thought of him.
"Sir," Forsk said, gently. "It is my painful duty to arrest you on the charge of treason."
"What!?" cried John-Lyon, his face rigid, his odd green eyes flashing with surprise.
"I also place Navy Head, Coluth, under arrest. Also Golden."
"Have you lost your mind!?" shouted John-Lyon.
"It is not my order, sir, but that of the new Mage."
"New Mage .....!" John Lyon's mouth snapped shut. His face red. Strangely, John-Lyon then began fumbling inside his robe. An action that frustrated him further.
Making a hand signal to the remaining soldiers to form a close escort squadron around the prisoners, Forsk waited for the rest.
It was only then -- after a length of time -- that all went wrong!
Though the women were located, an extensive search of the ship could not turn up the man, Golden. And he was known to be on board!
Since Forsk had been given strict instructions also to arrest John-Lyon's aide, failing to find Golden was a matter for much worry!
Few knew as well as Forsk what failure to obey an order meant in the new Stil-de-grain!
-25-
As Zwicia stroked the glowing disk with her bird claw hands, the purple surface of the large crystal cleared, images appearing deep within.
She looked closer, mumbling to herself as the crystal spell embraced her.
With a small, rational corner of her mind, she realized where she was.
Hero Castle.
Knew what had happened.
The new Mage had arrested John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, the new Mage who also called himself Pfnaravin.
Now, she was to look into the future for the new Mage.
Except that ... he was not ... new. The new Pfnaravin was the old ... Robin.
Zwicia was confused. Which ... did not bother her. Confusion went with crystal-sickness,
a condition caused by staring into the purple Weird-disk lying flat before her on the rough table in her drafty, torch-lit room.
Then, as the specters in the disk thickened into the illusions of reality, she forgot about Pfnaravin. Forgot about the room. Herself. The world. Forgot everything but the flicker of those fascinating images forming before her old, tired eyes. Phantasms moving deep within the watery disk.
She saw ....
Golden.
And ... sailors from the ship. Though they were not on the ship.
They were walking in a dark hall ... of stone.
Tracing the crystal's edge with her twisted fingertips, her claw-like nails splaying beyond the crystal's thin, iron frame, she saw that the men had torches.
The men, Golden leading, were ... creeping ... slowly and in secret ......
There.
At the hall's end ... men ....
Knives!
Zwicia screamed!
Knives! She had seen knives! Thrown by Golden!
Men lay ... dead. In small pools of blood.
A large, wooden door. Golden was opening it.
Inside was ... darkness.
Darkness.
Darkness ... and ....
Leaned forward, the Weird stroked faster, the static building on the dry surface of the disk of luminescent glass.
She could see ... men. In front of black, stone-block walls in the vastness of a room. Standing ... no. Chained! Chained to the walls.
In the faint glow of Golden's torch, she could see .... the old soldier ... Leet.
Beside him, also chained, Coluth. Nator.
The apparitions faded.
Faded.
Until she no longer remembered what she had seen. Only that it had been a vision of the past. How far into the past, she could not say.
Sweating, Zwicia tried to break the crystal's power.
But already, another shadow-wraith was looming within the crystal's depth. This time the glow-frame showed the future.
Platinia.
Platinia with John-Lyon.
In a room. A round room. A dark room, slashed with light. A high room.
John-Lyon was ... attacking ... the wall .....
Could that be?
Mumbling, the old, purple robed woman stroked faster, the bulging veins on the backs of her dead-dry hands writhing like newly dug worms.
The tableau steadied.
Cleared.
From a wall, John-Lyon was lifting out a ... something.
A something, made of shiny metal. Like a large insect.
He was bending down to put ... the something ... on the floor.
Behind him was Platinia. Walking ... gliding, toward John-Lyon.
He did not see her.
In her hand, another something.
A small, thin something.
A knife!
In her hand, a knife! Raised!
Zwicia's screams broke the power of crystal-sickness, Zwicia awakening to find herself in the fearful present.
Sweating!
Shaking!
Again, she had seen the vision.
The one of knives.
The one of knives and death!
* * * * *
In the last glow of amber up-light, with a soft rattle, the rope spun up. Far above, there was a metallic click, a scrape, then silence as the grapnel dug into stone behind the battlement of Hero Castle. Below in the half light of a muffled torch, Orig stretched the rope taut. Threw his weight into it to make sure it would hold.
Though this attempted rescue had gone less smoothly than that of Coluth and of Leet, Golden's tiny band had encountered little difficulty. Unless you counted a subtle ... thickening ... of the air near the castle's outer wall. Possibly caused by a miasma from the depths of the dry moat.
The escape from the dungeon had gone well because of Golden's knowledge of the palace.
Earlier, in disguise, he had slipped into the stronghold. (Even in times of crisis, the suppliers of food and drink must have access to the fort.)
Once within, he'd become a priest, newly sent from Malachite to warn the odorous chief priest about John-Lyon's powers of escape. In this way, had Golden been responsible for John-Lyon's incarceration in the iron cage .....
Standing beside Golden was the silent seaman, Philelph. Dressed in a leather mariner's tunic and laden with gear, Philelph prepared to climb the rope to gain the upper works of the castle. Orig, similarly burdened, would follow. Then Golden, a coil of thick rope attached to his belt. (It was Golden's skill plus the belt rope attached to a small, land anchor that had gotten them across the moat.) Once atop the outer wall, a loop of rope twirled over a spiked stone finial would make it an easy high-walk to the top of the second wall. From there, a rope to a tower pennant standard ........
Nator was somewhere back of them, shadowing an advancing army they'd detoured around that afternoon. His army.
Leet was on his way to Malachite, to warn his people of the insanity gripping Stil-de-grain.
By this time, Coluth must have scaled the raised drawbridge on the right, climbing to the elevated edge of the bridge to jam the mechanism so that the drawbridge could not be lowered. Better that the advancing army be kept at bay while John's party was securing the castle from within.
Secure Hero Castle?
A dream more than a possibility.
For holding the castle against them was the new Mage with all his crystal-power and his fanatic guards.
Perhaps Golden had been wrong to leave John-Lyon's Mage-gem behind. Hidden in Xanthin Palace. John-Lyon knew how to work the crystal's magic; could have used his Mage-crystal to fight off their many enemies. It was just that ... with the destruction of Golden's dream of using the green disk to become King of Malachite ... possessing the Stil-de-grain crystal had become his last hope to gain the throne!
* * * * *
As she had crouched once before behind these same curtains at the far end of the great room of Hero Castle, Platinia was hiding now, kitchen knife in hand. Waiting for the wild priests to finish their religious dance. Even from this far away and from behind the tapestry, their loud cries hurt her ears!
Down-light had come, several torches in their torch rings lighting the banquet hall.
Leading the jumping, wailing priests was their color-banded chief, who had also been in this place when John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had returned from the horrible, other world.
Thinking of John-Lyon, Platinia felt cold, then hot. She was sad, but also glad she was too far away to see him at room center.
How did John-Lyon lose his crystal? Which Mage was the true Pfnaravin? She did not know. All that was important was that John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had learned her secret. That she was an Etherial. Since men who learned of her power to strengthen their emotions had all hurt her to make her serve them, she would never be safe until such men were dead.
For a time, she had believed that, since he had lost his golden crystal, John-Lyon no longer had power over her.
But in this, she had been wrong.
Though he lacked Mage-magic, she could not keep her thoughts away from him. Even after he was caged, she felt ... a weakness spread throughout her body when she thought of him. As if she were someone else when he was in her thoughts. As if he had bound her to him by some strange power, making her feel that she could not live without him.
Never had she felt this way about a man. Never!
Though the new Pfnaravin did not know she was an Etherial, he had made her his property. Was this because he sensed her power? If so, she must kill him, too. As she had killed the Mage, Melcor. As she had killed every man who learned of her Etherial power. Every man but John-Lyon.
Not that she had not tried her best to kill John-Lyon, the first time, when he had come before. After that failure, she had tried to get the Malachites to kill him when he came the second time. The next time, by stabbing him with his wide knife.
The last time on the trip to Azare. Hearing John-Lyon-Pfnaravin t
alk to Coluth -- she had learned the importance of the ... fuse ... to the Mage's plan to destroy the evil Auro. In the ship's hold at night, it had taken her small fingers a long, hard time -- the tips bleeding -- to loosen the knot around the fuse sack. She had done it, though. Had then slipped the fuse out of the sack, put in another rope, and tied the sack-knot back again.
And she had done more. After the boat had landed in the black band, she had strengthened the feelings of confidence she had found in John-Lyon's mind, making him less fearful of the evil Mage. This was why she wished to continue with John-Lyon, through the dark, dead woods, until the end. To give John-Lyon the courage that would cause his death!
But all these plans had failed! Even without the fuse, John-Lyon had destroyed the evil Mage.
Recent proof of John-Lyon's force was that the new Pfnaravin had also failed to kill him. Even when the new Pfnaravin had struck the caged John-Lyon with a green burst of Mage-magic! Truly, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin -- with or without his magic crystal -- was hard to kill!
Her only hope was that she knew a secret. That John-Lyon could be killed. This, she knew because she had almost killed him with the other knife. Everyone had said that if that knife had gone between his ribs, he would have ... died!
She had learned since then. Learned which way to hold the blade so that it would penetrate his heart.
Now she had a final chance to make him dead!
Shorn of his crystal, he would suspect nothing of her plan. After the priests had finished this night's dance, by the light of the one torch left burning far away, she would slip from behind the curtain. Slide quietly through the night-dark dining hall to the cage of John-Lyon, the cage placed near the fire stone pit in the room's center. There, she would awaken John-Lyon. Say she had come to rescue him from the trap. (Since John-Lyon spoke no Stil-de-grain after down-light, she must use motions to tell him that.) He would come close to the bars. Then, perhaps when he was looking in a direction she had pointed out, she would stab him with all her strength. After that, if she could, she would reach through the bars and cut off his head. Surely, even a Mage would die with a cut off head. Melcor had died after slabs of rock had fallen from the ceiling and broken in his chest. And Melcor still had his head.
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 28
