by Ryk E. Spoor
“It is possible.” Keeping some rumor of the Prophecy’s existence from spreading would have been impossible, even though Iris had managed to keep its actual contents secret.
“Hmm-mmm-mmm! Well, then, I must consider carefully. You have had, no doubt, several tiring days waiting, for your blind was unknown to me or to the King’s Highwaymen; retire into my cave, therefore, and rest. You shall find a small side cavern to the left which holds something of mortal food and pallets suitable for your resting.”
The words were a clear dismissal, and Zenga and I bowed and moved off to find the indicated cave. It turned out to be a clean little stone room with a floor of swept white sand, illuminated by veins of gently glowing crystals. “What do you think, Lord Erik?” Zenga asked as we set down our packs.
“I think it’s a good start. He’s interested — cautious, but that’s only reasonable — and he knows that Iris Mirabilis is the only credible threat to Ugu and Amanita. At the same time, he has to know that the Nome King’s forces are some of the few remaining question marks in the strategic equation, and if I can convince him to join up, I’ll have seriously improved my position.”
“Do you think he’ll help?” She spread her own blanket over a pallet.
“I can only hope.”
We ate something and then got ready for sleep. I lay awake for some time, listening to Zenga’s slow and steady breathing (with an occasional almost ladylike snore). Finally, somewhere in the middle of the deep quiet, I drifted off.
I jerked awake as something poked me. Blinking, I could just make out the figure of Ruggedo standing over me in the now-dim light of the cavern. He gestured for me to follow and walked out. I took a moment to get my mental bearings, and then followed him to the cave mouth, where the brilliant stars shone down with just enough light to outline the old Nome in silver.
“Sit down, Erik Medon,” he said quietly. “I have been thinking, and trying to make decisions, and I find that I need to know more of what passes in your mind.” He took out a long pipe and filled it, lighting it with what appeared to be a live coal that he took from his pocket. For several moments he sat, quietly puffing out clouds of aromatic smoke (which, I noted with gratitude, fortunately drifted mostly away from me; I didn’t need an asthma attack right now).
Finally he spoke. “Let us suppose that I aid you, and that I can, in fact, find the way into my ancient homeland. You know that I am an exile. The best I can expect is to be quickly escorted out, or — if Kaliko wishes to indulge you — allowed to stay for exactly as long as you.”
I nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“Hmmm. Well, then, understand that while Kaliko is not a bad Nome — a good one in many ways, far better than ever I was, and I’ll make no bones about it — he is still King, and not a king ruled by sentiment. Backing by Iris Mirabilis, that is a good argument, and if you get close enough to present that part of your case, I think old Kaliko would listen. But it won’t be enough. Your friend from Pingaree –”
“If you bring us, I won’t introduce her that way. I’ll say she came with me from Gilgad.”
He raised one of the silvered brows. “Indeed?” He studied my face. “I see you must have some plan already. Well enough. For I suspect even if he favors you, Kaliko will wish to test you, and exactly how even I cannot guess. And some of his tests can be painful. Even lethal.”
I shrugged. “I have to take the chance.”
“But I do not, you see. You ask a great deal. A very great deal. While — as I suspect you know — the stories of the Mortal World distorted much, I am an exile in truth, by the hand of Oz itself. You ask me to risk my life for the sake of the country that took away my kingdom.”
I laughed quietly.
“You find that amusing?”
“You are testing me, Ruggedo. Or perhaps yourself.”
He tilted his head, a shadow against the night, and in the silence I could hear a deep, distant music, a sad yet proud march of rolling gongs and deep cello resonance and rumbling organ pipes. “Am I? Speak your insight, then, mortal man.”
“Today I saw you risk your own life in battle for the sake of mortals you had never before met. You left, with us, without even accepting their thanks. You have been doing this for… a long time. Hundreds of years, perhaps even longer than the Usurpers have been around. The Penitent is a legend, a symbol of hope. I suspect even Ugu and Amanita, or their Viceroys, have on occasion sent people to see if they could find you, root you out.
“You’ve admitted yourself what you were once like. You aren’t like that any more, and I don’t think you bear Dorothy and Ozma much ill-will for their intervention. Not now.”
He was silent, save for the Music of the Spheres that was at once so unlike, yet very much like, that of Polychrome, and then he gave a low laugh, echoed by a rippling rise of horns and drums. “True, true enough, my friend. I was a spoiled, selfish tyrant, and I gave them little choice, especially when even temporary loss of my memory did little to cure my habits of personality. Oh, I cursed them mightily at first… but exile has a way of wearing on a man, or Nome, and quiet isolation without pomp or servant or other amusement to distract you…well, thinking may occur without warning. The next thing you know, you’re musing on the past. And one day I suddenly, honestly found myself considering what they must have been thinking, and for a moment — just a moment, mind you — I felt rather guilty.”
He refilled his pipe. “But that sort of thing is rather like a pebble on a rocky slope. It can start an avalanche. And…well, you have seen and yourself described the results. No, I don’t resent their actions. Indeed, I owe them an apology, and thanks; alas that it is far too late now.”
“But it’s not. Not if you help me.”
He pursed his lips, blew out an impressive smoke ring that ascended towards the heavens. “Well, yes, so you say. And, I suppose, you mean it. But prophecies have a way of being misleading, and sometimes they can be simply wrong. Also…I am, after all, a Nome. We work for others when it is wise to do so. What do you offer me for the double risk of escorting you? Double in that not only might I anger the current Nome King, but that in helping you I name myself your ally in the eyes of the Usurpers — and they are mighty and fell opponents, as well you must know.”
“I offer you redemption, Penitent.” My tone was deliberately hard. “You have been seeking to redeem your actions by doing charity, by rescuing others, and that’s all well and good. But your actions for centuries were selfish and injurious, and on a grand scale. You tried to conquer other nations, and nearly succeeded. You had to be forcibly ejected from your throne to come as far as you have.
“Now you have a chance to truly make up for your sins. Help to restore the throne you would have taken to its rightful rulers; rescue those who have — as you admit — saved your own soul from a bitter and dark prison of your own making. That’s what I offer you.”
He looked up at me, eyes glittering thoughtfully. “You have a gift of speech, mortal. And your words have a ring of truth, indeed they do. Yet… I have much reason to fear, and more: though Kaliko is King, still the Nomes are my people. If your mission succeeds, you intend to bring them into this war, to pit their arms and the might of that which was my kingdom against the even greater might of Oz. Even with the aid of the Rainbow Lord and whatever powers you yourself wield, the ending is far from certain. What is your offer that would make this risk worth it?”
I studied him myself in silence, until I saw that even he began to fidget uncomfortably. “Ruggedo the Red, are you truly penitent? Would you protect the people of Gilgad, and the Nomes your native people, and of Oz, and all of Faerie?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, and I could see he recognized the deadly serious tone in my voice, and that I was speaking not an idle question but something more on the lines of an oath. He nodded, slowly. “I have learned the lesson that solitude had to teach, and the truth of the stone and wind. I am a part of the world, and my bitterness was a poison t
o it, and to me. Yes, I would protect them all, if it were in my power.”
“Do you mean that? If it were in your power? For here you have little power, save the native magic of the Nomes and the strength of your arm. Had you the power, would you return to that which you once were?”
His eyes glared into mine. “No!” Then his gaze fell. “But … you have no reason to believe that. No one does. And truly they would be fools to do so.”
“I may be a fool, then.” His gaze snapped back up to me. “I believe … I have to believe… that a man, or Nome, can change. As good men have gone bad, bad men can be redeemed. And the worst sin would be to refuse the redeemed the chance at the rewards of redemption.”
“What… what are you saying?”
“That I will offer you one more thing. If you will help me — if you will stand beside me, whether I win the support of the Nomes or no, whether any allies follow me otherwise or whether I am alone at the last — if you will do this, then if the Usurpers are thrown down, to you will be returned that which in the end lost you your throne, and made your kingdom less than it was. The Magic Belt, that which held your power and protected yourself and your realm, taken from you by Dorothy Gale.”
He stared in disbelief. “Do you believe you can even make such a promise?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do. Ozma has always been one to favor redemption. More, if I have freed Oz, I do not think they would deny me any boon; and if I am dead, they would not dishonor my memory by making me a liar in death.”
“You…” His voice was low, and I thought I caught a trace of roughness in it that was not the sound of his stone-born heritage; crystal chimes echoed behind the bass and drums. “You would trust me with that power? That I would not fall back into darkness?”
“Someone must trust to allow another to be worthy of it. And I always rather liked you, even in the distorted pictures I was given. There was something more than a simple villain there, and what I have seen here is something much greater.”
He bowed so low his face nearly touched the stone. “Then I promise you, Erik Medon. I shall walk with you, yea, even to the Grey Palace that stands where once was the Emerald City, even if you and I be alone when that time comes. And if you win through, then… then I shall leave the payment of that debt to Princess Ozma. You have offered me your trust; I shall repay that with my own.”
We shook hands, and I could feel the strength of stone in that long-fingered grip. It was a solemn moment.
And then his face stretched in a devilish grin. “But before any of that matters more than foolish words, my mortal friend, you’ll have to get past Kaliko — and that, mark my words, will be a pretty task indeed!”
Chapter 33.
The grey-brown stone rose high above our heads as we traversed the barren canyon, only the unnatural flatness of the surface under our feet hinting that this was a pathway and not one of a thousand other arroyos in the rugged, almost lifeless mountains of the Nome territory. “So, are we going to run into a giant with a hammer?” I asked.
Ruggedo chuckled. “Nay, Lord Erik. Even though the guardian machines I had were somewhat more fearsome than your writer portrayed, still eventually it was decided that they were more the cause of trouble than its solution. I suspect you can guess why.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but with that hint… I laughed, the sound echoing down the dead canyon. “Two reasons, I’d say.”
Zenga’s laugh echoed after my own. “Oh, of course! Such a wonder would draw many to see it, to think of how it worked, perhaps to try to pass so they could seek out its creators to build more for their own cities.”
“And,” I continued, “it would also be a challenge, like a gauntlet thrown down, a dare. And you’d have a lot of people — young and stupid, or simply the sort that like to take on any challenge — coming here just to prove they could get past your sleepless mechanical guards.”
“You know your people’s foibles well,” Ruggedo agreed, a faint smile tugging at his beard, which I could just make out under the hood; he hadn’t pulled it up quite so far as he did for his standard “Penitent” disguise. I suppose he figured it didn’t matter.
Something caught my eye; I glanced in that direction, but saw nothing. But something seemed to move now on the other side. Yet there was nothing there. Zenga stopped, looking around, uneasy, yet not able to spot anything.
I concentrated, pretending I was looking through a telescope. I used to do that a lot when I was young, an amateur astronomer, and I’d learned a technique all naked-eye astronomers learn: averted-eye vision. The center of your field of view isn’t quite as sensitive to certain details, especially low-light, texture, and movement, as the area just a little bit off the center. Avert your eye, just that tiniest bit, and concentrate, and you could suddenly see a tiny bit of detail you missed — banding on Jupiter, a bit of structure in a nebula.
And now I saw it: faint, impossible movement, vague outlines so blurred as to be like the shimmer of heatwaves above pavement, like the ghostly shapes you might see, “floaters” inside your own eye. “I think we’ve been noticed.”
Zenga still clearly couldn’t follow them, but something was making her uneasy. Ruggedo glanced up at me, following my eye movements. “You have spotted them? You follow their motions, even within the rocks which are theirs to traverse as though air? Your perceptions are excellent, for a mortal.” He continued to walk forward, unconcerned. “Yes, indeed, we have. This is far the preferable way of guarding our lands. It is difficult to traverse these mountains; harder still to find the few canyons out of thousands that conceal one of the entrances to the kingdom. And if a mortal finds his way that far, they travel through a deserted land, with nothing they can see, and yet somehow they feel as though they are watched, followed, endangered. They return home, with tales of the terrible dead land of the Nomes, a place haunted by ghosts or worse.”
“And if they actually keep going?”
“They will not find an entrance unless we choose to show it to them. And if they bring sufficient men and tools to try to force the issue…well, you have not come here without the knowledge that we can indeed fight. Here, in our homeland, none would be foolish enough to challenge the Nome King.”
Zenga gasped, and I whirled.
Behind us were twelve or more figures, no taller than Ruggedo, in stone and metal armor, with glittering spears and sharp swords already out. Zenga had her weapons out as well, but I touched her shoulder gently. “No. We are intruders. They have every right to be cautious.”
More had appeared in front of us. Ruggedo threw back his hood. “A good day to you, Krystallos.”
The lead Nome, in armor edged with gold and silver, spat contemptuously. “Exile. And now, I see, a traitor. Leading these mortals by the secret ways?”
“I seek –” I began.
“Be silent, mortal!” Krystallos snapped, and I saw the weapons raised higher. “What you seek is of no interest to us whatsoever, and if you do not die in the next few moments it will be only because we are in a merciful mood — a mood which will not be improved if you argue. This is a matter of the Nomes alone.”
“Tsk, Krystallos,” the once-King of the Nomes said with a cheery smile, as though weapons were not aimed at us all, “you are so unwelcoming to one long away from the homeland. And to accuse me of treachery, now, that’s a harsh and cruel term.” His tone abruptly shifted. “And one that I might answer with stone and steel, if you insist on using it again!”
“You? YOU would dare a challenge of combat?” The disbelief on Krystallos’ face was plain, and it shifted to pure humor as he laughed. “Oh, now, my former King, it seems your exile has, at the least, made you able to appreciate a jest or two.”
Ruggedo chuckled with him. “Oh, there are many jests I have learned to appreciate, my old friend. But if you do not withdraw that most unfortunate characterization, I will show you a jest too grim for laughter.”
Whatever position Krystallos held — guar
d captain, I guessed, or at least some officer fairly high in their ranks — it was certainly not given to the stupid. His laugh cut off abruptly and he glared — slightly up — into Ruggedo’s eyes. “Grim, yes, for one who spent his ages on the throne in indolence and tyranny.” He studied his former ruler for a moment. “Yet…exile has at the least hardened your hands and you carry a warstaff. Perhaps you would not embarrass yourself. Very well, I withdraw — with reservations — that characterization. Explain yourself, then, exile.”
Ruggedo gestured to us. “These mortals seek an audience with the King. They do so not for crass reasons of business, nor from idle impulse, but for reasons good and sufficient, I think, to justify the risk. I have come here to guide them, through the maze, past the enchantments that would mislead or conceal. Think you I do not know what I risk? A tyrant, yes, a bully, a loud and arbitrary monarch, yes, all of these I was, but not an utter fool, nor one easily swayed. Would I come here, perhaps to my death, for reasons inadequate to the risk?”
Krystallos turned his spear idly between his fingers, obviously thinking. He glanced at me finally. “Very well, mortal. What is it you seek?”
“As he says, an audience with King Kaliko. My reasons… are ones I hope he will find compelling. I think he will.”
The gaze switched to Zenga. “And you?”
“I travel with Lord Erik to assist him, and support him.”
“Do you.” The tone was neutral, but I noticed his eyes shifting their gaze across her clothing, armor, weapons, and I suspected he recognized the origin of some of our equipment.
