by Terry Brooks
“Well, find one, confound it!” Ben cut him short. He started to elaborate, then stopped, glancing instead at the others. “How much sense does this make to anyone else? Abernathy? Willow?”
Abernathy did not answer.
“I think you have to consider carefully what is at risk, Ben,”Willow said finally.
Ben put his hands on his hips, looked at them each in turn, then gazed out wordlessly into the gardens beyond. So he had to consider what was at risk, did he? Well, what was at risk was the thing that had made him King of Land ver and kept him there. It was the medallion that summoned the Paladin, the knight-errant who served as the King's champion and protector—his champion and protector on more than one occasion already. And it was the medallion that let him pass back and forth between Lan-dover and other worlds, including the one he had come from. That's what was at risk! Without the medallion, he was in constant danger of winding up as just so much dog meat!
He regretted that last comparison almost immediately. After all, what was also at risk was Abernathy's permanent future as a canine.
He frowned blackly. What had begun as a fairly uneventful day was turning into a quagmire of unpleasant possibilities. His memory tugged at him. Ten months ago, he had been tricked into conveying the old wizard Meeks back into Landover when he had thought his worst enemy safely exiled. Meeks had then used his considerable magic to steal Ben's identity and the throne and—most important of all—to convince Ben that he had lost the medallion. It had almost cost Ben his life—not to mention Willow's— to discover what had been done to him and to defeat the old troublemaker once and for all. Now he was King again, safely ensconced at Sterling Silver, comfortably settled, the reins of kingship firmly in hand, his programs for a better life nicely underway, and here was Questor Thews playing around again with the magic!
Damn!
He stared at the flowers. Gardenias, roses, lilies, hyacinths, daisies, and dozens of variations of other familiar species along with a truckload of ground cover and flowering vines—all spread out before him like a vast patchwork quilt, scented and soft as down. It was so peaceful here. He didn't get to enjoy the garden room that often. This was his first morning in weeks. Why was he being hounded like this?
Because he was the King, of course, he answered himself. Let's not be stupid here. This wasn't a nine-to-five job. This wasn't why he had left his profession as a successful trial lawyer in Chicago, Illinois, to apply for the position of High Lord of Landover, a kingdom of magic and fairy folk that wasn't anywhere near Chicago or anywhere else anyone there had ever heard about. This wasn't why he had chosen to alter his life so completely that he was no longer even recognizable as the person he had been in his old world. He had wanted to change all that; that was why he had come here. He had wanted to escape the pur-poselessness of being who and what he had become—a bitter and reclusive widower, a disillusioned practitioner of a profession that had lost its character. He had wanted a challenge that would again give meaning to his existence. He had found that here. But the challenge was constant and not circumscribed by time or place, by need or want. It was simply there, always new, always changing; and he understood and relished the fact that he must always be there to meet it.
He sighed. It was just a little difficult sometimes.
He was conscious of the others watching him, waiting to see what he would do. He took a deep breath, inhaled the mix of fragrances that filled the noonday air, and turned to face them. Whatever doubts he'd had were gone. The decision wasn't really all that hard after all. Sometimes he just had to do what felt right.
He smiled. “Sorry to be so touchy,”he said. “Questor, if you need the medallion to make the magic work, then you've got it. As Willow said, I have to consider the risks involved, and any risk is worth helping Abernathy get back to himself.”He looked directly at his scribe. “How about it, Abernathy? Want to take the chance?”
Abernathy seemed undecided. “Well, I don't know, High Lord.”He paused, thought, looked down briefly at his body, shook his head, and looked up again. Then he nodded. “Yes, High Lord, I do.”
“Splendid!” Questor Thews exclaimed, promptly coming forward. The others murmured, hissed, and chittered their approval. “Now, this won't take a moment. Abernathy, you stand here, right in the center of the room, and the rest of you stand back a bit behind me.”He adjusted them accordingly, beaming all the while. “Now then High Lord, please give the medallion to Abernathy.”
Ben reached for the medallion where it rested about his neck and hesitated. “You're certain about this, Questor?”
“Quite certain, High Lord. All will be well.”
“I mean, I can't even speak or write Landoverian without the medallion!”
Questor brought his hands up quickly in a gesture of reassurance. “Here, now. A simple spell will solve that problem.”He motioned briefly, muttered something, and nodded in satisfaction. “There we are. Go ahead. You can take it off.”
Ben sighed, took off the medallion, and handed it to Abernathy. Abernathy slipped it carefully about his shaggy neck. The medallion lay against his tunic front, sunlight dancing off its polished silver surface, detailing the etching of a knight riding out of an island castle at sunrise—the Paladin riding out of Sterling Silver. Ben sighed again and stepped back. He felt Willow come up beside him and take his hand in hers.
“It will be all right,”she whispered.
Questor breezed back about Abernathy again, adjusting him first this way and then that, telling him all the while that things would take only a moment. Satisfied at last, he moved directly in front of the scribe and took two careful steps right. He tested the air with a wet finger. “Ah!” he declared mysteriously.
He brought his arms high out of the gray robes, flexed his fingers, and opened his mouth. Then he paused, his nose twitching. One hand dropped quickly to rub at it in irritation. “Dratted sunshine tickles,”he muttered. “Pollen does nothing to help, either.”
The G'home Gnomes crowded close again, pressing up against the wizard's robes, their ferret faces peering out at Abernathy in anxious anticipation.
“Could you move those creatures back?” the dog snapped and even growled a bit.
Questor glanced down. “Oh. Well, yes, of course. Back now, back with you!” He shooed the gnomes away and resumed his stance. His nose twitched again, and he sniffed. “Quiet, please!”
He began a long incantation. Bizarre gestures accompanied words that brought frowns of puzzlement to the faces of his listeners. They edged forward a pace or two to listen: Ben, a lean, fit man of forty standing firm against the advancement of middle age; Willow, a child in a woman's body, a sylph, half-human, half-fairy; the kobolds Parsnip and Bunion, the first thick and stolid, the second spindle-legged and quick, both with sharp, glittering eyes and teeth that suggested something feral; and the G'home Gnomes Fillip and Sot, furry, unkempt ground creatures that appeared to have just poked their heads up from their earthen dens. They watched and waited and said nothing. Abernathy, the focus of their attention, closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
Still Questor Thews went on, looking for all the world like some scarecrow escaped from the fields, his recitation seemingly as endless as the complaints of the G'home Gnomes.
Ben was struck suddenly with the incongruity of things. Here he was, until recently a member of a profession that stressed reliance on facts and reason, a modern man, a man from a world where technology governed most aspects of life, a world of space travel, nuclear power, sophisticated telecommunications and a hundred-and-one other marvels —here he was, in a world that was all but devoid of technology, fully expecting a wizard's magic to transform completely the physiological makeup of a living creature in a way that the sciences of his old world had barely dreamed was possible. He almost smiled at the thought. It was just too bizarre.
Questor Thews’ hands swooped down suddenly and then up again, and the air was filled with a fine silver dust that sparkled and shimmere
d as if alive. It floated in breezy swirls all about Questor's hands for a moment, then settled over Abernathy. Abernathy saw none of it, his eyes still tightly closed. Questor continued to murmur, his tone changing, growing sharper, becoming more a chant. The silver dust swirled, the light of the room seemed to brighten, and there was a sudden coldness in the air. Ben felt the G'home Gnomes shrink back behind his legs, muttering guardedly. Willow's hand closed tighter about his own.
“Ezaratz!” Questor cried out suddenly—or something like it—and there was a brilliant flash of light that ricocheted off Ben's medallion and caused them all to flinch away.
When they looked back again, there stood Abernathy— unchanged.
No, wait, thought Ben, his hands are gone! He has paws!
‘Oh, oh,”Questor said.
Abernathy's eyes blinked open. “Arf!” he barked. Then, in horror, “Arf, arf, arf!”
“Questor, you've turned him completely into a dog!” Ben exclaimed in disbelief. “Do something!”
“Drat!” the wizard muttered. “A moment, a moment!” His hands gestured, and the silver dust flew. He resumed the incantation. Abernathy had discovered paws where his hands had been. His eyes had snapped wide open and his muzzle had begun to quiver.
“Erazaratz!” Questor cried. The light flashed, the medallion flared, and the paws disappeared. Abernathy had his hands back. “Abernathy!” the wizard exulted.
“Wizard, when I get my hands on you… !”the scribe howled. Clearly, he had his voice back as well.
“Stand still!” Questor ordered sharply, but Abernathy was already advancing on him, moving out of the ring of silver dust. Questor moved quickly to stop him, brushing at the dust where it formed a screen between them. The dust darted away from him as if alive and flew suddenly into his face.
“Erazzatza!” Questor Thews sneezed suddenly.
A well of light opened up beneath Abernathy, a cloudy brightness that seemed to fasten about the dog's legs with tiny feelers. Slowly, the light began to draw Abernathy down.
“Help!” Abernathy cried.
“Questor!” Ben screamed.
He started forward and tripped over the G'home Gnomes, who had somehow edged in front of him.
“I… I have him… High Lord!” Questor Thews gasped between sniffles. His hands tried desperately to regain control of the swirling dust.
Abernathy's eyes had opened even wider, if that were possible, and he was struggling to climb free of the pooled light, calling out to them frantically. Ben tried to untangle himself from the G'home Gnomes.
“Be… calm!” Questor urged. “Be… ca… ah, ah, ah … ACHOOO!”
He sneezed so hard, he lurched backward into Ben and the others and knocked them all sprawling. The silver dust flew out the windows into the sunlit gardens. Abernathy gave one final cry and was sucked down into the light. The light flared once and disappeared.
Ben pushed himself up on his hands and knees and glared at Questor Thews. “Gesundheit!” he snapped.
Questor Thews turned crimson.
“Well?” Ben demanded. “Where is he? What's happened to him?”
Questor Thews didn't seem to have a ready answer, so Ben diverted his attention from the flustered wizard long enough to help Willow up, then turned quickly back again. He wasn't angry yet—he was still too shocked—but he was going to be very angry any second. Abernathy had disappeared just as surely as if he had never been—vanished, just like that. And, of course, Ben's medallion, the medallion that protected the kingship and his life, the medallion Questor had assured him would be perfectly safe, had vanished as well.
He changed his mind. He wasn't going to be angry after all. He was going to be sick.
“Questor, where is Abernathy?” he repeated.
“Well, I… the fact of the matter is, High Lord, I… I am not entirely certain,”the wizard managed finally.
Ben seized the front of the wizard's robes. He was going to be angry after all. “Don't tell me that! You've got to get him back, damnit!”
“High Lord.”Questor was pale, but composed. He didn't try to draw away. He simply straightened himself and took a deep breath. “I am not sure yet exactly what happened. It will take a little time to understand…”
“Well, can't you guess?” Ben shouted, cutting him short.
The owlish face twisted. “I can guess that the magic misfired, of course. I can guess that the sneeze—that wasn't my fault, you know, High Lord, it simply happened—that the sneeze confused the magic in some fashion and changed the result of the incantation. Instead of transforming Abernathy from a dog back into a man, it seems to have transported him instead. The two words are quite similar, you see, and the magics likewise are similar. It happens that the results of most incantations are similar where the words are similar…”
“Skip all that!” Ben snapped. He started to say something further, then caught himself. He was losing control of the situation. He was behaving like some B-picture gangster. He released the front of the wizard's robes, feeling a bit foolish. “Look, you think that the magic sent him somewhere, right? Where do you think it sent him? Just tell me that.”
Questor cleared his throat and thought a moment. “I don't know,”he decided.
Ben stared at him, then turned away. “I don't believe this is happening,”he muttered. “I just don't believe it.”
He glanced momentarily at the others. Willow stood close, her green eyes solemn. The kobolds were picking up a planter that had been knocked over in the struggle. There was dirt and broken flowers scattered in a six-foot circle about them. The G'home Gnomes were whispering together anxiously.
“Perhaps we should…” Willow started to say.
And then there was a bright flash of light from the spot where Abernathy had disappeared, a popping sound as if someone had pulled a cork free, and something materialized from out of nowhere, spun wildly about, and came to rest on the floor.
It was a bottle.
Everyone jumped, then stared. The bottle lay there quietly, an oval-shaped container about the size of a magnum of champagne. It was corked and wired tightly shut and it was painted white with red harlequins dancing on its glass surface, all in varying poses of devilish gaiety, all grinning madly.
“What in the world is that?” Ben muttered and reached down to pick it up. He studied it wordlessly for a moment, hefting it, peering into it. “Doesn't appear to be anything inside,”he said. “It feels empty.”
“High Lord, I have a thought!” Questor said suddenly. “This bottle and Abernathy may have been exchanged— transposed, one for the other! Transpose sounds like transform and transfer, and I think the magics are close enough that it is possible!”
Ben frowned. “Abernathy was exchanged for this bottle? Why?”
Questor started to reply and stopped. “I don't know. But I am quite positive that is what happened.”
“Does this help determine where Abernathy is now?” Willow asked.
Questor shook his head. “But it gives me a starting point. If I can trace the source of the bottle, then perhaps …” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Odd. This bottle seems familiar.”
“You've seen it somewhere before?” Ben wanted to know immediately.
The wizard frowned. “I am not sure. It seems as if I might have and at the same time it seems I must be mistaken. I do not quite understand it.”
Along with just about everything else, Ben thought rather unkindly. “Well, I don't give a hoot about this bottle,”he declared, “but I do care about Abernathy and the medallion. So let's find a way to get them back. Whatever it takes, Questor, you do it and do it quickly. This mess is your responsibility.”
“I realize that, High Lord. You need not remind me. It was not my fault, however, that Abernathy tried to move out of the incantation's sphere of influence, that the dust flew into my face when I tried to stop him, and that I thereupon sneezed. The magic would have worked as it was intended to work if I had not…”
Ben impatiently brushed the explanation away with a wave of his hand. “Just find him, Questor. Just find him.”
Questor Thews bowed curtly. “Yes, High Lord. I will begin at once!” He turned and started from the room, muttering, “He might still be in Landover; I will begin my search here. The Landsview should help. He should be safe for the moment in any event, I imagine—safe even if we do not reach him immediately. Oh! Not that there is any reason he shouldn't be safe, High Lord,”he added, turning hastily back. “No, no, we have time.”He started away again. “The sneeze was not my fault, drat it! I had the magic perfectly under my control, and… oh, what is the point of belaboring the matter, I will simply start looking…”
He was almost through the door, when Ben called after him, “Don't you want this bottle?”
“What?” Questor glanced back, then hastily shook his head. “Later, perhaps. I have no immediate need for it. Odd, how familiar… I wish my memory were a little bit better on these things. Ah, well, it cannot mean much if I cannot summon even a faint recollection…”
He disappeared from view, still muttering—the Don Quixote of Landover, searching for dragons and finding only windmills. Ben watched him go in frustrated silence.
It was difficult to think about anything beyond the lost medallion and the missing Abernathy, but there was nothing to be done about either until Questor reported back. So while Willow went into the gardens to pick fresh flowers for dinner and the kobolds went back to their work about the castle, Ben forced himself to resume consideration of the latest complaint of the G'home Gnomes.
Intriguingly enough, the gnomes were no longer so anxious to pursue the matter.
‘Tell me whatever you have left to tell me about the trolls,”Ben ordered, resigned to the worst. He settled himself wearily in his chair and waited.
“Such a beautiful bottle, High Lord,”said Fillip instead.
“Such a pretty thing,”echoed Sot.
“Forget the bottle,”Ben advised, remembering for the first time since Questor had departed that it was still there, sitting where he had put it down on the floor next to him. He glanced at it in irritation. “I'd like to.”
