At the end of their trek, John was led into a large, rectangular room, sizable umber tapestries covering the walls, clerestory windows spaced around the lofty ceiling. John saw a square stone hearth at this end of the room, what looked like volcanic stones at the hearth's core, a framework of iron rods built over the stones, pots suspended from the framework. Cooking pots were hooked on tripods to be warmed over the fire -- except there were no logs under the kettles -- and no fire. Still, there was hot food somewhere, nourishing smells wafting through the room.
At the other end of the chamber was a trestle table, white cloth covering it, a single plate at the table's far end, a knife and spoon beside it, two, silvery glasses by the plate. And there, standing to one side, nearly hidden behind a jutting buttress, was shy little Platinia.
With the accustomed flourish, the butler led John directly to the table, bowed and motioned for John to go along the table and sit at its head. "And where is the plate for Platinia?" John asked.
"The ... what, great Lord?" The man was clearly shocked. John had obviously blundered in some way.
Once started, though, a bluff must be played out. "From now on, Platinia is to eat at the table." Just then, John had another thought. What he needed most was information about this "reality," something he wasn't likely to get from the girl. So, go for broke! "And you are to dine with me, as well."
"But ... Lord ...!"
"Though uncommon, this is my wish."
"Yes, great Mage," said Chryses, clearly confused, but taking unpleasant orders like the trained functionary he was.
At the room's fringe, John now became aware of other people, carrying ... trays. Serving women, by the look of them. Old and young. Dressed rather like Platinia, in simple tunics, but in brown instead of black. All as silent as shadows.
The butler waved his hand to gain the attention of the servants, the women stopping whatever they were doing to listen.
"Two more plates at the table," he ordered in his high, old man's voice. And was obeyed. Quickly -- efficiently -- an old woman disappearing to return with the required plates and table ware.
Her task finished, the servant stood against the wall with the others, the butler speaking again: "Melcor is dead. This is the Mage ...."
"John-Lyon."
"Now master of Hero castle. His orders are to be obeyed." For all their silent ways, there was an excited whispering at that -- until the butler put up his hand for quiet. Again, Chryses was instantly obeyed. If the staff are that fearful of offending the butler, John thought, Melcor must have inspired terror. ... Had the old man said castle? Yes. And that "fit," too.
"Shall we sit?" John asked, his turn to wave Platinia to a place near the far end of the table, the butler to take his position along the table's other side.
After they were seated, the serving women -- were they all known as "slaveys"? -- approached with what looked like plates of cooked vegetables. From iron-looking roast pans set on trivets over the hearth, other women transferred meat to trays. A strong looking old lady, using a cloth to protect her hand from the hot, wire handle, brought over a large, black kettle containing what seemed to be meat stew. Smelled like it, too.
Since the slaveys were busy serving, it was time for an important question. "Tell me, Chryses, I'm looking for a cat. A cat named Cream. A white Persian, to be exact. Have you seen such an animal about the castle?"
"There are cats, sir. Many cats."
"But I'm interested in only one, a particular cat. White, fluffy, long fur. Large, orange eyes."
"I ... do not know, lord."
"You haven't seen a cat like that?"
"Ah ... no. I have felt cats along the floor, but ..."
"You'd know her if you saw her. There can't be any other cat here just like her."
"I am certain of that, Lord. But ... I cannot see ..."
"What?"
"I am blind." So, that was it!
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. You move about like you're anything but blind." For the first time, John was close enough to Chryses to examine the old man's eyes, John shocked to see the pupils covered with white tissue ... No. ... The man's eyes looked more like the pupils had been dug out, gray-white scar tissue covering the indentations.
"I know the castle, Lord. I have been here ... forever." The old man shrugged.
"And may I ask how you lost your sight?" John wanted to know but also wished to stall until the others began to eat so he could observe the table manners here.
"Melcor, Lord. I failed my master for which he withered my eyes."
"He ... what?!"
"It was entirely my fault, Lord. I never failed him again." The man was actually defending that brutal act! "And he allowed me to stay. My sight is not necessary here." John was about to protest -- but thought better of it. He was the stranger here. When in Rome ....
"And the serving women work for Melcor?"
"We all belonged to Melcor. We belong to you, now."
"Sort of go with the castle?"
"Lord?"
"Never mind. Shall ... we eat?"
They ate, John hanging back until he saw there were no special taboos about eating.
Though things seemed to be going well, John was uncomfortable, in part, because he had a constant urge to pull down his tunic so that the garment covered his knees. When you're used to wearing pants, a tunic just wouldn't "cover it."
After ladling food on their individual plates, the serving women left the pots and trays on the table, John and company expected to serve seconds to themselves.
And so the three of them ... ate. The food was ... food ... meat, vegetables, gravy.
Surprisingly, John found that he was hungry, eating more than he thought he could (the condemned man ate a hearty meal?) What he needed to do, though, was start some conversation: to find out about the castle, Melcor, the girl, the butler, the servants -- everything about the world he'd entered so suddenly. "Tell me about the castle, Chryses," John asked as soon as he'd taken the edge off his hunger, not only Platinia but also Chryses responding best to direct commands.
"It was built in the long ago, Lord, after the Hero had departed this world, it is said, on this very mountain."
"The Hero? Did he have a name?" That got a strange look from Chryses.
"But, great Pfnaravin, surely you remember ..."
Apparently, Platinia had told the butler that Pfnaravin had arrived.
"I am not Pfnaravin." John had decided -- again -- that he couldn't let them believe that myth. No matter what advantages accrued to the name, he would have to live with being himself.
"But ...?"
"Call me by my name, John Lyon."
"Yes, master. Yes, John-Lyon," said Chryses, the butler as eager to please as the girl. And no wonder. Giving offense in this world could cost you your eyes!
"I would also appreciate it if you would just answer my questions; no matter how strange they might seem to you. Know that I have my reasons for asking them."
"Yes, John-Lyon."
"Good. Now -- does the hero have a name?"
"No, John-Lyon. He is just ... the Hero."
"Could he have had a name at one time?"
"That is possible. But it was in the long ago ..."
"I see. And he disappeared?"
"Yes. In the ..."
"I know. In the long ago." Chryses nodded his head, seriously, John busying himself with cutting another bite of meat, feeling he would get more from Chryses by not looking at him directly. A silly thought since the old man was blind.
"The castle was built later. It is named Hero Castle, after the ..."
"Hero." This was going to take some time, apparently. "And how did the Hero get to be a Hero?"
"What ...?"
"What did the Hero do to make him so great?"
"Ah ... He went to another world and came back, bringing the ideas that have ordered the world forever more." Said with awe. Reverence.
"Ideas like ..."
"How t
o mine metal. How to build in stone. All the ideas of the world."
John thought that over, taking another bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully. Did this mean that the construction of this castle came from one of the Hero's "original" ideas. If so, John had a good idea when the Hero had been traveling.
"And how did the Hero leave? Though John tried to ask this casually, he was more than interested in the answer.
"In a shaking of the earth, it is said." Though that answer made sense, it was a disappointment.
As they'd been talking, John was aware that the light was failing, the servants moving about the room's walls to light torches thrust out of holders around the chamber. And that was ... peculiar. The way the servants seemed to be lighting the torches. John had expected to see them carrying a candle from torch to torch, igniting each torch, in turn, like a candle lighter lights a tier of candles at a wedding. Or if they didn't have candles in this primitive civilization, that a servant would carry a torch about the room, using it to fire the other torches. But they were doing something else. In fact, just how the servants were igniting the torches was something of a mystery. It seemed that they were simply looking at the torches, the torches lighting on their own.
Once more, John was confronted with how much he needed to learn about this culture. Perhaps, even now, he was dreaming and would wake up. ... But he didn't think so. Everything was too real. He'd never dreamed anything in this kind of detail.
At any rate (dream or reality) as the outside light failed, the torch light took over, the room cozy in the dancing, golden flames of the wall torches. But ... back to the conversation.
"And this castle is in Stil-de-grain?" Again, a puzzled look from the Butler. John should know that, too. "Let me say again that I will be asking strange questions. I may do that for my own reasons, may I not?" What seemed to work best with these people was an imperious manner. Go with what worked.
"Of course, Lord."
"Then tell me about Stil-de-grain."
"Tell you ... what ... Lord?" The old man was frustrated -- which he had a right to be. If Stil-de-grain was some kind of country as John thought, John's invitation to discuss it was rather like asking someone to tell you everything there is to know about the United States -- in five minutes.
"How is it governed?"
"Why, by the king." The butler cleared his throat as people do when totally surprised, the servant pulling on his short mustache.
"What is the name of the king?"
"Ah," the old man said, seeming to brighten. "That would be the same king who ruled when you ...." He stopped, fear showing on his face.
"Let us say that I am both John Lyon and a traveler who has been away from home so long that I have forgotten much. Let us say that I no longer trust my memory to be accurate; that so many things have happened to me I will need your cooperation in remembering the slightest details of my former life."
"Lord ... I do not know what to say. Some great tragedy has befallen you ... I ....." Nervously, the old fellow run both hands over his frizzy hair.
"I'll come to myself in time. But for now ..."
"Yes. Of course. I see that, sir. Ask me anything. I will help!" Desperate to give satisfaction.
"Stil-de-grain is a country, then?"
"It is a Band, mighty Lord, one of the inner Bands of the world, located in the ideal center of the ...."
"And a Band is a country?" John didn't like to interrupt, but time for table talk was growing short. Platinia had stopped eating, was looking along the table at him, as amazed by his questions as Chryses.
"That would be another name for a Band, sir."
"And Stil-de-grain has a king, whose name is ...?"
"King Yarro. A most mighty king. He has reigned these many thousand full-lights."
"A full light could be called a day?"
"That would be another name, sir."
"Please, if you would, give me a brief history of Stil-de-grain."
"A history ...?"
"Just the basics. Start from the beginning. When was the nation founded?"
"I believe it was by the Founders."
"The Founders?"
"Those who made our world."
"Would another name for the founders be gods?"
"I do not think so, lord. Of course, I am a man without the education of a Mage." Again, pulling at the mustache, a gesture John could now read as representing thought. "There are the Founders and there are gods."
"Tell me about the Founders, then."
"They came from the sky, in great birds -- iron hawks. So say all legends. They made our world, a mighty circle, which in turn, they carved into the bands."
"Would these bands, these countries, be like a ribbon, long and narrow?"
"They are that, Lord, but circular. The band of Stil-de-grain, as the other bands, have their circumference around the world."
"Circular? There are bands within other bands?" The old man nodded solemnly. Now John was getting somewhere! What the man was describing was an "archery target" world. John wondered if, like men of the middle ages, the people here believed their world was flat. "And you said that Stil-de-grain is one of the inner bands?"
"Quite so, my lord. Most blessed of the bands. For the climate of Stil-de-grain is excellent for the production of crops. Stil-de-grain, led by its mighty king, Yarro, aided by its great Mage, Melcor, is a rich band. The richest of the bands of all the world." Suddenly the old man looked confused. "But Melcor is dead. The slaveys have confirmed it. I did not think that could happen. And I must ask, will you, Lord, be our new Mage? Melcor's Crystal was not found." Crystal? What could he be talking about? Ah.
"You mean this?" John was about to reach inside his tunic and pull out the circle of yellow glass on its chain, remembering just in time, that Chryses was blind. It was easy to forget that; the old man as much at home in the castle as if he was sighted. "What I mean is, the disk of clear, yellow stone on the chain, the one that Melcor wore?" John would have said glass, but he wasn't sure this culture had glass. The old man nodded seriously. "That is the Crystal?" Again the nod. "And having that Crystal makes you a Mage?" Again the nod. So, this clear disk of glass -- Crystal? -- was some kind of badge of authority. "As for me becoming the new Mage, we will have to see about that."
"Do you wear the Crystal, lord?"
"Yes."
"Then you are the new Mage. Mage .... John-Lyon ...." Though Chryses didn't like it, he'd used the new name.
"We will see about that," John said. The last thing John wanted was to make some kind of Mage-commitment before he found out what the privileges and, more importantly, the duties of a Mage might be. Nothing good was likely to happen to Mages who couldn't perform.
"And there are other band-countries?"
"Yes."
"And they are...?"
"Malachite, Realgar and Cinnabar."
"Four in all, counting Stil-de-grain?"
"Well ...."
"There are additional bands?"
"None that should be spoken of, my Lord."
"Just this once, indulge me." The rigid old man didn't want to do that. "There are just us three. We will not tell others."
"There is the land called Eye-land at the center. But no one since the Hero has ever journeyed there. That is the legend. And there is ... there is the ... Black band."
"That it's name? Black band?" The old man was painfully uneasy with this subject, rubbing the side of his decidedly aristocratic nose with a long, tendoned finger. Even more reason for John to learn about it.
"In the beginning, before the Band Wars ... it was known as Azare, lord. But we do not speak of it. Evil comes from there."
"I see. Six bands in all, then?"
"Eye-land is not a band. It is ... Eye-land. The land of the shining Crystal of full-light, some say." Though that last comment about a shining Crystal passed John by, he did feel he was beginning to understand something about this place.
"Give them to me again in order, p
lease, from the center to the rim."
"The black band, that is the evil Azare, then Malachite, Stil-de-grain, Realgar and Cinnabar."
"With Eye-land at the center, inside Azare?"
"That is exactly so, lord."
"Do each of the band-countries have kings?"
"Of course."
"And each has a Mage -- like Melcor -- who aids the king?"
"Yes. All but the evil band, the evil one being both Mage and king."
"And how did that happen and how did that band get to be evil?"
"It came about before the Band wars. For in those days, Ghyityuekifgm was King of Azare. And he Mhgwqazx." Bad as communication between them had been, it was suddenly worse, as if John were hearing static in the old man's conversation. "But Ygw down-light. And so, uywxa."
"I don't understand," John said, confused -- alarmed. But only got a wave of Chryses' hand for an answer. Somehow, in that single motion, John understood that the old man had also ceased to understand John. But ... why!?
"Ytykeg," said Platinia, the elder apparently understanding that.
"Xzy."
"Wpuyv uz. Yxw."
Glancing nervously around the room, John noticed the windows were completely black, torch light the room's only illumination.
With difficulty, John forced his mind back to this new language problem. What's more, it had taken all this time for him to think of the obvious question: to ask how he'd been able to understand these people at all? Not only did they come from a foreign country, but also from a foreign world. He'd been so stunned, first by finding Platinia in his house, then by appearing here, that he hadn't even asked himself how it was that Platinia could speak English. Had she learned it by watching "through John's eyes" after Melcor had tapped into John's "ghost hand?" Did that explain her childish vocabulary? Maybe. Even if that was some kind of explanation for her understanding English, what about the butler? He'd been speaking English also, and at a considerably higher level than the girl.
Now that John's mind was clear enough to function at least a little, what was really strange was that he had ever comprehended these people! Something was clearly wrong here -- another gross understatement.
Under The Stairs Page 11
