The Complete Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

  "No. Let him be."

  Weleand shrugged and dropped his arm.

  "At least it is refreshing to learn that whoever is behind it all has a sense of humor," he remarked.

  He turned away then, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and resumed his travel.

  Dilvish and Black fell into step behind him again. Long minutes passed and the lights drifted, the wind continued its song unbroken—

  "Black! Go left!"

  "What is it?"

  "Do it!"

  Black turned immediately, passing between two pale spires and around a third. He halted.

  "Which way?"

  "Left. Back farther. I saw it by one of those little lights. I think I saw it… Straight ahead now, then right. Back in there."

  They slid in and out of shadows. Weleand was lost to sight. One of the lights descended, moved by, transforming a grotesque rock crop they were passing into something else, shining and fair…

  "Gods!" Dilvish cried, sliding to the ground, moving toward it. "It cannot be—"

  He leaned very close, straining his eyes against the shadow which shrouded the figure.

  "It—"

  He reached out and carefully, almost delicately, touched the face, moving his fingers slowly over the features. Another light moved unsteadily toward them, dropping, retreating, wobbling along. Black, who nearly always stood stock-still when at rest, shifted from foot to foot.

  The light steadied, moved forward and upward once again.

  "—is!" Dilvish breathed as the glow fell upon the features he caressed.

  He fell to his knees and lowered his head for several moments. Then he looked up again, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.

  "But how can it be—here—after all these years?"

  Black made a wordless noise and moved forward.

  "Dilvish," he said, "what is it? What has happened?"

  "In that other life, before the doom was laid upon me," Dilvish said, "long before… I—I loved an Elvish maid— Fevera of Mirata. She stands before us. But how can that be? So much time has passed, and this changing land is a recent thing… She is unchanged. I—I do not understand. What mad turn of fate can it be—to find one for whom I had given up hope—here, frozen for eternity? I would give anything to restore her."

  The wavering point of light had floated away while he spoke, though sunlight pale as that of the moon now fell nearby. Other lights drifted, and a strange shadow moved toward them.

  "Anything? Is that what you said?" came the deep and now-familiar voice of Weleand.

  The man came forward, seeming taller now in the half-light, and entered the triangle formed by Dilvish, Black, and the statue.

  "I thought that you said nothing could be done for such a one," Dilvish stated.

  "Under ordinary circumstances, that is true," Weleand replied, reaching out to touch the lady's frozen shoulder, where she stood with her hand upon the bridle of a gleaming horse, looking upward. "However, in view of your extraordinary offer…"

  His left hand shot forward and fell upon Black's neck.

  Black emitted a wail and reared, fires dancing in his eye sockets. Weleand's hand, retaining contact, slid across his chest and onto his wavering leg.

  "I know you!" Black cried, and a diminutive bolt of lightning leaped from his mouth, veered away from Weleand and charred the ground nearby.

  Then Black grew immobile and the fires died in his eyes. A glossy sheen fled across his hide. The girl sighed and collapsed against her horse. The horse whinnied and moved its feet.

  Weleand immediately stepped past Black, turned to face the new tableau, and seized the corners of his cloak behind him as he bowed.

  "As you requested," he said, smiling. "One may take the place of another, Lord Dilvish—and in this case, I was able to throw in the lady's horse. You've come out ahead. One good turn, as they say—"

  Dilvish rushed forward, but the man was suddenly swept backward and up, as if he were a leaf in the singing wind, to rise, spiraling among the stony towers, cloak extended like a great dark wing behind him, to wheel away to the northeast and out of Dilvish's sight.

  He turned toward Black, who stood balanced upon his hind legs, a statue out of dark ice, and he extended his hand. Black swayed and began to topple.

  Chapter 4

  Baran of Blackwold paced within the small chamber. Several old volumes lay opened on the table beside the wall. All the paraphernalia for conjuring lay spread upon the floor, and he found his way without glancing down as he walked.

  A tall mirror with a grayish cast to its glass hung within an elaborately wrought iron frame, chased about with figures both animal and human, engaged in acts of a mainly violent nature. An elongated orange-gold form swam within the depths of the mirror, as a fish in a shaded pool. It was not a reflection of anything within the room. The paraphernalia had already been used.

  "I charge thee, speak," Baran said in a low voice. "You have had ample opportunity to explore the mechanism of the mirror's operation. Tell me of it."

  A musical, almost cheerful voice chimed in the vicinity of the glass:

  "It is very intricate."

  "I already knew that."

  "I mean to say that I see how it functions, but I do not understand how the effects were wrought. The spells involved are incredibly subtle."

  The figure seemed to be swimming toward the surface. It grew. It turned. Its body was obscured by its shining, elongated head, which rushed forward until it filled the entire glass—triangular-eyed, gilt-scaled, small-mouthed, above a tiny, pointed chin, below a broad forehead, its three small horns thrusting forward from amid a soft and stirring mane of feathers or of flame.

  "Release me now," it requested. "It is a doorway to other places, from other places. There is no more that I can tell you."

  Baran halted and raised his head, hands clasped behind his back. He regarded it and smiled.

  "Try," he said. "Try describing to me the mechanism of its defense. Every guardian I have set within it to prevent its functioning has vanished in a matter of days. Why is this?"

  "I find it difficult to suppose. The spells lie dormant now, awaiting the proper key. Yet it is as if there were a stirring within their depths, as if something very cold might be moved to strike to clear the way, should it be blocked."

  "Are you capable of blocking it?"

  "Yes."

  "What would you do if the cold thing struck?"

  "I do not like that cold."

  "But what could you do?"

  "Defend against it with my own fires, if I were here."

  "Would such a defense be successful?"

  "I know not."

  "Could you not explore that aspect of the spell and tell me how to negate it?"

  "Alas! It lies too deep."

  "I charge you, by all the names which draw you here, remain within the depths of the glass. Prevent its functioning to transport anyone or anything into or out of this place. Defend yourself to the fullest extent of your ability and power against the cold thing, should it move to destroy you or expel you."

  "Then I am not to be released?"

  "Not at this time."

  "I beseech you: reconsider. It is dangerous in here. I do not wish to go the way of the others, who are no more."

  "You are trying to tell me that the mirror cannot be blocked for long periods of time?"

  "I fear that this may be the case."

  "Then tell me this, since you are regarded wise: not long ago, in the Tower of Ice, the one called Ridley succeeded in blocking a mirror such as this indefinitely. How did he manage to defeat its ends?"

  "I do not know. Mayhap he employed a guardian far greater than myself to set his will against its workings."

  "That would not be practicable. The power involved would have to be enormous—or else his skill of an extraordinary subtlety."

  "Either may well have been the case, or both. One hears of that one even in my domain."

  Baran shook his head. />
  "I cannot believe that such skill and force lay within his hands. I once knew him."

  "I did not."

  Baran shrugged.

  "You have heard my charge. Remain within and block the functioning of the key. If you are destroyed in the process, your successor will continue the work. If I lack the skill or the power, I possess an infinite supply of those such as yourself."

  "You cannot!" it cried.

  Then it began to wail, a rising, ear-filling note.

  "Silence! Return to the depths and do as I have bidden you!"

  The face spun away, dwindled, diminished, became a darting thing within the mirror. Baran began retrieving his magical gear and stowing it within bins, chests and drawers.

  When the room was cleared, he fetched a basket and a chamber pot from an armoire which stood beside the single window. He placed these before the mirror and kicked a small bench into position near them. Then he crossed the chamber and unbolted the door.

  "You," he said, when he had opened it. "Get in here."

  A young male slave, clad in colorless tunic, leggings and sandals, sidled into the room, eyes darting.

  He cringed as Baran reached for his shoulder.

  "I'm not going to hurt you—unless you fail to perform your task. In fact, I've provided everything necessary for your comfort." He drew him toward the bench. "There is food and water in that basket. The reason for the pot is that you are not to desert this station for any reason."

  The young man nodded quickly.

  "Look into that glass and tell me what you see."

  "The—the room, sir. And ourselves…"

  "Look more deeply. There is one thing there which is not present here."

  "You mean that little bright thing, moving—way in back?"

  "Exactly. Exactly. You must keep your eye on it at all times. Should it vanish, you must come and tell me immediately. You must not go to sleep, no matter what—so I will send another slave to relieve you later, before you grow weary. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, m'lord."

  "Have you any questions?"

  "Supposing you are not in your chambers?"

  "Then my man will be. I will keep him informed as to my whereabouts. Is there anything else?"

  "No, sir."

  Baran returned to the armoire and took out a broom and a fistful of rags. Returning, he cast these down on the floor before the servant.

  "Now, brand my words upon your brain, young man, if you dream of one day reaching a respectable old age and dying in your sleep. It is unlikely that the queen will pass this way. In the event that she should, however, you must under no circumstances tell her what you are about, or that I have set you to it. Snatch up those rags, this broom, look guilty. Say that you were set to cleaning this place. Should she inquire further, say that you found this food here and could not contain your hunger. Understood?"

  The man nodded again.

  "But might she not punish me for this, m'lord?"

  "Mayhap," Baran replied, "though it would in no way compare to the agonies I will inflict if you tell her. But should you bear it with fortitude, I will reward you with a better position."

  "M'lord!"

  Baran clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Fear not, I doubt she will be by."

  He moved to the table, where he closed the books, and took them up under his arm before he departed, whistling.

  Semirama, wondering what the world was like in this day, beyond the walls of Castle Timeless, beyond the changing land, looked up in her wanderings through halls and galleries to discover that she had found her way back to her own apartments. She seated herself upon a heap of furs atop a heap of cushions, her eyes focusing slowly upon the intricacies carved into an ebony screen across the large chamber. Something aromatic smoldered within a brazier to her left. Tapestries depicting court scenes and hunting scenes covered much of the wall space. The room's six windows were narrow and high. Animal skins lay upon the flagged floors. The bed was large, canopied, of a dark wood crowded with carvings. Semirama fingered the chain about her neck and tasted her bright lower lip. She heard a sandal shuffle—someone moving from the chamber behind the dark screen.

  A stout, plain woman, her hair well into the gray of middle years, looked about the right-hand edge of the screen.

  "Madame?" she inquired. "I thought I heard you enter."

  "You did indeed, Lisha."

  "May I fetch you anything, do anything for you?"

  Semirama was silent for several moments, considering. "A small glass of the tawny wine from —Bildesh? I forget where it comes from. You know the one I like," she said.

  Lisha entered the room and crossed to a cabinet set against the far wall. A clinking of glass ensued. Shortly, she returned with a glass on a silver tray which she set upon a small table to Semirama's right.

  "Anything else, ma'am?" she asked.

  "No. I think not." She raised the glass and sipped. "Were you ever in love, Lisha?"

  The other woman reddened and turned her eyes away.

  "I suppose I once was. That was a long while back."

  "What happened?"

  "He was taken for a soldier, ma'am. Died in his first engagement."

  'What did you do?"

  "Cried a lot, as I recall. Grew older."

  "You know that I was queen long ago in a city that no longer exists? That Jelerak summoned me back from the land of the dead because my family knew the language of the Old Ones, because he needed an interpreter when the one who serves him here began acting strangely?"

  "So I heard. I was here the day he called you back. I first saw you that same evening. They brought you to me, still asleep, some hours later, to take care of. It was three days before your eyes focused, before you spoke."

  "That long? I never realized. It was only a week later when poor Jelerak went off and we were left to our own devices. So many months ago…"

  " 'Poor Jelerak'?"

  Semirama turned and studied her servant, frowning.

  "I find your reaction puzzling. It is not the first time I have met it. He was always a kindly man. You act as if this were not so."

  Lisha began to finger her sash. Her eyes darted.

  "I'm only a servant here."

  "But why this reaction from so many? You can tell me."

  "I—I have heard that long ago he was as you have said…"

  "But that he is no longer?"

  Lisha nodded.

  "Strange… the things that time does to us," Semirama mused. "I had heard things about him, even near my own end. I did not believe them, however. But then, I was too occupied with thoughts of another to pay much heed to such matters. My husband was busy with his concubines and my heart lay elsewhere…"

  Lisha brightened, her eyes returning to her mistress's face.

  "Yes…" said Semirama, regarding the designs of the ebony screen, raising her glass for another sip. "I loved a man of the Elvish kind—he who went off to Shoredan and slew the mighty First, Hohorga, against whom even Jelerak had struggled in vain. Selar was his name. He was slain immediately himself, on completion of the deed…"

  "I have… heard of him, ma'am."

  "I should have killed myself then, but I did not. I lived for several years afterward. I consoled myself with other lovers. I died in my sleep. Thinking back now, it had to be foul play. My husband, Randel, I suspect. I was weak." She laughed simply. "If I had known I was to be resurrected, I would surely have done it."

  She stretched and sighed.

  "You may go, Lisha."

  The woman did not move.

  "You—you would not be thinking of doing yourself harm now—would you, m'lady?"

  Semirama smiled.

  "Gods bless you, no. Too much time has passed for such a gesture to have any meaning. I am no longer that girl. I grew a bit weary over other matters, and my mind turned to the foolishness of youth. Go now, and fear not. I wanted a willing ear. That is all."

  Lisha nodded and turn
ed.

  "If you need anything more, just call."

  "I will."

  She watched the woman leave. After a time, she drew upon the chain around her neck once again, raising a small, octagonal, bluish metal locket, inlaid with darkened silver. This she opened, to regard the countenance graven within.

  It was a full-face view of a young man—long pale hair, slightly sharp-featured, piercing eyes, a short chin- beard, an appearance of strength or determination in the width of the brow, the line of the mouth.

  She looked for a moment, touched it to her lips, closed it, let it fall. She finished her drink.

  Rising, she wandered about the room, picking up small objects and replacing them. At length, she crossed to the door, found herself again in the hall, stood undecided a moment, began walking.

  For over an hour she padded through chambers, along galleries, up and down stairs, meeting no one, occasionally encountering the transitory dreams of her charge, as in the room she found which had been transformed into an undersea grotto, the hall through which a hurricane blew, the corridor, blocked with ice, the inky hole in the middle of the air which opened upon nothing, though soft, exotic music emerged from it. At one point, her way was strewn with flowers; at another, with toads. A storm raged within the main hall; a gentle blue rainfall descended within its antechamber.

  Gradually, she found her feet turned, climbing, bearing her in the direction of the room of the Pit. But she was of no mind to speak with Tualua now, even in search of memories of times gone by. Am I the last, she wondered, not for the first time, the last person in the world who can converse with him?

  She moved along the gallery outside his chamber. She paused to look out and down. There was a dark area off to her right, as if night had prematurely domed those far rocky acres. To her left, the land was in a state of flux once more, rippling as if under heat waves, upheaving itself, changing colors. The fogs had retreated eastward, where they formed a great yellow wall.

  She moved forward and seated herself upon the wide sill, a cushion at her back. There was nothing living in sight below.

  What are the cities like now? she thought. How much have they changed?