"So am I. There is something about you that appeals to me."
"But I can't believe that you actually desired it."
Hubert nodded. "We will return to this anon. Now we have more pressing business. We have merely to discover in what manner your father believes you will successfully negotiate an end to the border dispute. There has to be a way."
"Oh! In the press of circumstance I forgot. My father sent a gift for you. I know not its nature." She proffered a small package. She had been carrying it all along, unnoticed.
He accepted it. He unwrapped the binding strap, and it opened. It was a book.
"Perhaps the demands for the negotiation?" he said, perplexed.
"I do not know. He said it contained the answer."
He opened it. "It's a book of songs!"
She was as surprised as he. "Could he have given me the wrong package?"
"Not him."
They examined the book together. The marker indicated a page with a song titled "Generation." They read it, noting that it had only two parts, alto and tenor.
Hubert glanced at her. "Do you sing?"
"I do, but not in company. My range is too low."
"It is similar for me. My range is too high."
"You are a tenor?"
"Counter tenor. You are alto?"
"Contralto."
"Could you sing this part?"
"I think I could, with practice. It is rather challenging."
"Yes; it is the same for mine." He closed the book. "Sing a note."
She sang a note, sustaining it. Her voice was steady and resonant. After a moment he joined her, singing the same note. It matched hers in quality.
"My father wants us to sing together?" she asked dubiously. "How could that accomplish anything meaningful?"
"You are not familiar with this song?"
"I am not."
"I have heard of it, from my grandfather. It is considered magic. If two people can sing it correctly, the magic will manifest. At least that is the story."
She considered. "Maybe I have heard of it, at least by reputation. A song almost impossible to sing properly, but magnificent if managed."
"There is something else my grandfather mentioned, though I doubt I believe it."
"That only a person capable of singing it can even see the notes?"
"Yes." Hubert snapped his fingers, and a courtier entered the chamber. "What do you think of this?" he asked, showing the open book.
The man looked at him in perplexity. "Sire, that page is blank."
"So it seems. Thank you."
The courtier departed, mystified.
"So it's true!" Hertha said in wonder. "It's magic."
"Sit by me," he said. They took seats on the couch. "Do you think we could sing it correctly together?"
"We might. It might take some practice."
"It might indeed," he agreed. "If we can handle the finale, we can do the complete song. Let's try that much."
They sang the finale. At the end, their voices quavered, straining. Hubert took Hertha's hand and squeezed her fingers lightly, encouraging her. Then they managed the final note.
"Oh!" she said, sinking down as if exhausted. "That was special."
"It was," he agreed. "I think this is the answer to the problem between our kingdoms. Your father wants peace as much as I do, because war is expensive. This may be the mechanism."
"I do not understand."
"We are well matched musically, at least in our difference from others. Your voice is low; mine is high. I do not think your father is mocking us. You are my descant singer, whom I have long sought, as it seems he knew."
"Descant? I still do not understand."
"He believes that we should be together. That would of course render the boundary dispute academic."
"Together?"
"I may choose to marry you."
She shook her head. "Tease me not, please. I do not look or sound like a nubile princess!"
"I agree. You do not look or sound like a princess…" He paused, taking her hand again. "You look and sound like a queen."
She gazed at him in dawning wonder.
Above the two as they sang, swirling colors formed in the air. It had to be magic. The others stared, amazed. They all knew that magic existed, but it was rare and generally practiced only by specialists who had the talent and dedication. For amateurs to do it was remarkable. They had of course won the singing contest, for whatever kingdom it counted for; the virtue of their performance made that clear. But to evoke magic—that was something else.
The song continued, coming to its finale. The colors intensified, forming into a picture of two people. The two of them, singing! Except that in that image he was handsome and she was lovely. It was like a painting that flattered them.
Then came the conclusion. His voice rose, and her voice fell, until they crossed each other, she entering the tenor range, he the alto. This inversion was almost unbelievable: that they could do it, or that they would do it.
The figures in the image came slowly together as if about to kiss.
A shift, as he rose one more note and she fell another. Now they were a full octave apart, he above, she below. As they held it, the surrounding theater seemed to vibrate. There was, indeed, magic.
The figures in the image kissed. The song ended. The picture exploded into a shower of sparks.
And, below, Hubert and Hertha kissed.
There was dead silence as the audience realized what was happening. Nobody kissed a princess without her father's permission, because that suggested that she belonged to someone other than her father. Eyes turned again to the King of Yostec.
The king simply sat there as if oblivious. How could this be?
The long kiss finished. Then Hubert slowly put his hands to Hertha's hood and drew it off her head. There was a collective gasp.
She wore the crown of Xonia. Not her own.
Hubert put his hands on her cloak and drew it off. Her gown came into sight.
It was the gown of betrothal. The two were to marry. No one was more astonished than the younger princesses.
Now at last the King of Yostec stood and spoke, "We will presently adjourn to the royal hall for the betrothal party," he announced. "I'm sure everyone will want to congratulate the happy couple, not to mention the magical alliance between our kingdoms. Fear not; we have kegs of wine."
Clearly he had known all about it, and approved. It would be long before others fathomed how he had engineered this coup. Which hardly mattered, considering the wonder of the magic and the allure of those kegs.
© 2014 by Piers Anthony
* * *
Piers Anthony is one of the world's most popular fantasy authors, and a New York Times bestseller twenty-one times over. His Xanth novels have been read and loved by millions of readers around the world, and he receives daily hundreds of letters from his devoted fans. In addition to the Xanth series, Anthony is the author of many other best-selling works, including non-fiction.
The Peacemaker
Rachel A. Brune
The Nova walks into the room. Then he glides into the room. The next time, he tries coming in through the window. The producer wants to make it look as natural as possible, so they do it a few more times from a couple of different angles.
Then it's my turn. For this episode, they've dressed me in what my PR guy tells me is my signature outfit. Black dress slacks, black sports coat, white button-down shirt, and skinny black tie, nicely contrasted by the scruffy black Chuck Taylors and about a half a day of forgetting to shave or brush my teeth after the last beer.
At least the shoes are comfortable. I walk in, picturing myself in slo-mo, like a reject extra in some Quentin Tarantino film. Which would probably pay more. We do it a couple times, and I can't even pretend to be interested in what lies behind door number two.
The next take, the guy with the Steadicam gets right up in my face. They're going for the reaction shot. Something in that r
oom was put there just for me. I shrug and open the front door to the house I share with five other people who wish they were somewhere else too.
Jack .
Did I say his name out loud? I don't think so. My mouth is too full of spit and bile.
Nevertheless, my former partner turns his head in my general direction. His DAC—digital access camera—is sort of tilting to one side. They're a bitch like that, always sliding around no matter how much effort you make with the straps and clips and duct tape.
I'm acutely aware of the silence surrounding us, and the ice that threatens to well up in the cavern between us. I got nothing. Somewhere some editor is cussing me out. The last time I saw Jack, everyone thought he was going to die.
That sudden anger, the flash of pure fury that always seemed to come from a deep, cold place inside me, veils my eyes momentarily. I come back to myself on the back porch, staring silently at the ocean, just the tiniest hint of frost glistening on the wrought iron railing. I don't know how I got out here, but the camera followed me, and I guess I'm going to make the highlights reel this week.
Wilmington Beach. A second-rate vacation spot of some local fame. Chances are if you live in North Carolina or West Virginia, your grandparents spent at least one vacation here.
It's a sort of cut-rate picturesque type of place, which is how the producers are able to afford the big house on the shore. Not big enough to give us enough space, but enough to insure that the week's conflict can be featured in as many different rooms as possible. Viewers get bored apparently. Our viewers more than most.
I'm still not sure why people are watching this shit. None of us are famous anymore. The house, the show, the prize—this is just how far we've fallen. A couple of us do guest spots on other shows, but the rest, like me, were just C-List enough to get offered a big house, annoying roommates, and a chance to give America a front seat to our inevitable decline.
After the cameras go off, the producer, a kid who introduces himself by the Hollywood moniker of The Big Show, tells me that Jack is going to be staying. He's our new housemate. But don't worry, because he'll be chemically sedated the whole time. Heavily sedated. I have nothing to do with that.
Or maybe I do.
I head into the kitchen. Wolf-Boy's at the grill. He outgrew the juvenile tag twenty pot-filled years ago, but it's one of those things. You get tagged, and what are you going to do? Not like The Big Show who everyone, except the guy who rolls the credits, calls Bob. He picked his own nickname and good luck trying to make it stick when you do that. Sometimes you work a brand and sometimes that's not what happens.
My hands are clammy. I'm not good at this. The adrenaline starts to rush, and then I want the ice to come, and then I remember where I am and get a beer from the fridge. It's hard, ignoring my former partner sitting across the house from me, eyes fixed on no particular place, DAC just about falling off the end of his temple on his flimsy elastic strap.
"You want a burger?" Wolf-Boy's voice has a growl to it. He smokes about a pack and a half a day. He does it to sound cool. And maybe die quicker.
"No." The beer will hold me over until I heat up some of yesterday's Thai delivery.
I'm more interested in whatever the hell Venus is doing. American Venus. Her looks earned her that particular appellation, and the feminists had a field day with it. She is a cheery beacon of love. All the time. At first I thought it would wear off.
I sit and watch. She hums to herself as she bedazzles her DAC with black and gold rhinestones and little skull stickers. Wolf-Boy brings his slab of steak dinner to the table, seared on one side and mostly bleeding all over. He has this habit of playing his role to the hilt, but there are no cameras here, at least none that we know of.
"Wolfie." Her voice is as sweet as her face. "You know I'm vegetarian."
"It's my dinner, babe," he says. "You don't like it, go glue your little doily in the living room."
The rush of her anger under the cheer is manna from heaven, hot nectar from an American goddess. I feel the familiar itching in my palms, and clench my fists, squelching the desire to offer her the opportunity to bask in the calm I could bring. She looks up and smiles. I don't know if she realizes how close I came to getting kicked out already. Or maybe she does, and that's why she's smiling.
Venus starts to hum again, her pitch way, way off. Wolf-Boy's ears twitch in agony and then I'm treated to the molasses hate that burns its way through his lanky form.
Jack sits in the corner, nodding in time to the tuneless song Venus continues to sing. Gracelessly, I push my chair back. Pouring the rest of the beer out, I toss the empty bottle in the sink and stalk out of the room. I know that later we'll have to "talk" about this little "incident" and how it made the Lovely Venus feel, but for now I have to get out of here.
I'm standing on the porch again. Jack comes up, uncomfortably close. I can feel him breathing on my cheek. Something is rotten deep inside him, something that won't be solved by brushing his teeth. It's the chemicals they have him on. They've reached all through him, folding him into their bioengineered embrace. His eyes try hard to focus and I think I see recognition in there, but it could be my imagination and I don't really want to think about what happened. I wish I hadn't tossed the beer.
I can't say I was surprised to see him here. I'd wondered when he would show up. They'd been bringing in some of the other sidekicks every couple of weeks. No one expected any of them to win, but they might get one of us to break the code. If that happened, their prize money would be just as real, and they'd probably need it more than we did. A guy like the Nova, he'd been in cheesy martial arts movies since the '90s and with a little Miracle Hair he could keep going for another decade or so.
"Jack. You in there big guy?"
My voice startles my former partner. Instead of focusing on me, though, he cranes his head to look up at the weather-beaten wood planks of the ceiling. I leave him standing there and head down to the ocean. It's freezing this time of year, and the water feels like heaven on my bare feet.
I made the big time when Strongman had his break with reality on a platform at Grand Central Station. One moment he had been fighting something with way too many tentacles that had slithered up one of the tunnels from the East River, the next he was demolishing anything that looked at him sideways. And given that he was shouting something about the walls having eyes, there wasn't much left of that venerable landmark by the time I heard the call over the scanner.
I got out there in time to drop him in his tracks before he finally brought the roof down on himself and about 200 other tourists, commuters and groupies who had rushed to see their hero beat down some tentacle ass. That's not to say there weren't casualties.
Prior to that, I had been working as a cop. It wasn't quite an alter ego, since nobody was quite sure what I could do. Even me.
After that, I took a couple of gigs in international security, corporate negotiations. Wasn't as flashy as some, but seemed a good fit. Every once in a while, I got caught up in something the heavy hitters had going on, but mostly I had my steady gig at the NYPD.
Jack volunteered to be my partner once it became obvious that I was something more than a cop. We didn't call them sidekicks. Partner was better. He was there to keep me down to earth, to call me back whenever the ice tried to lead me too far. I tasted the emotions of the crowd, or the negotiators, or the nemesis du jour, and encased them in the cold quiet of calm order.
They called it The Peace, and me The Peacemaker. I remember shivering in the pleasure of its path through my fingers.
End of the week. Time for the "house meeting." We sit and throw one-liners at each other, competing to see who can get the prized spot of rage and potential loss of control that will be cut into the trailer for that week's show.
I dread these things. They wreck my calm.
As I suspected, Venus launches into a rant about the respect for personal life choices, to be free from others' tyranny toward lower species. Here Wolf-Boy
growls, as though worried she is including him in that category. She probably is.
The Nova interrupts. "Not everyone can live on wheatgrass and dingleberries."
"I don't think that's a very helpful remark." Venus is conspicuous in her choice of "you" language. "It makes me feel very hurt when others don't respect Mother Nature."
"It's a fucking cow," says Wolf-Boy. "The only thing she was mother of was about a dozen calves they bred from her until it was time to turn her into hamburger."
The emotions spark back and forth. I struggle to stay abreast of them, holding myself above the waves. I sense the guy with the Steadicam inching closer.
"Back off, Cletus." I stand up and take a breath. I get ignored.
The Nova jumps back into the conversation, raising his voice. Venus gets a hurt face on, lowers her voice, puts the pout in her lower lip. Wolf-Boy lights up another cigarette like he's not supposed to.
I sit back down and watch Jack as he tracks back and forth, following the pitch and tone if not the conversation. It must be like someone is randomly turning a volume knob in his brain.
"Listen up, people." I stand again and raise my hands, a neutral gesture, completely misinterpreted. Venus squeals and cowers. Wolf-Boy leaps straight into the air and comes down behind the low partition that separates the living room from the kitchen space. He crouches by the refrigerator.
Cletus gets closer, and I have an audience of one bright staring glass eye. There is a moment in which I can already hear the cheesy swell of foreboding strings they are going to layer over this moment. I put my hands down, force myself to draw the calm back in.
"We just have to work together." It's definitely an anticlimactic moment. Venus sits back on the couch and readjusts her cleavage.
Wolf-Boy tries to get something started again, but then Jack wanders off, Venus gets a call on her cell—which was supposed to be on silent—and the meeting kind of drifts away. It doesn't make for exciting television, but what are you going to do?
Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #3 Page 2
