“I have a plan,” he said.
Mavin nodded, her mouth full. She would listen, the nod said, but she didn’t feel it necessary to stop chewing.
“You will go to the aerie,” he said, ticking this point off on one palm with a bony finger. “Seek the Healer. Tell the ones there you have been Harpy bit, need Healing, and have a message for the High Wizard Chamferton – his Demesne is threatened from the north. That should get their attention. Someone there will know where the supposed High Wizard is. Insist that a message be sent immediately. Can you ride horseback?”
The question seemed a meaningless interpolation, and it took her a moment to respond. “After a fashion. Why?”
“There is a farm a little east of here where you can borrow an animal in my name. Ride hard as you can to get to the aerie by early afternoon. They will send a messenger back here – to my loving brother, Dourso – that messenger arriving by evening. If the message is properly portentous, Dourso will leave here at once for the aerie, arriving there about midnight. It may be Valdon will go as well, but in any case Dourso will go. That will be enough for my purposes.”
“What am I to do there? Merely wait? Or depart again?”
“Well, you are to find the Healer, as I said. You must not let that Harpy bite go untended. The mouths of the creatures are poisonous as serpents’. It is not precisely venom which they hold, but some other foulness which comes from the filth they eat when they are in Harpy shape.
“So, you find the Healer, in private, and tell her I sent you. Say ‘Arkhur’ so she will know which Wizard you speak of. After she has Healed you, secrete yourself somewhere within sight of the aerie. It may be you will want to see the end of this matter.”
“How will I know when that is?”
“You’ll know,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You will know.” He pulled her to her feet and pointed the direction to the farm he had mentioned. She wiped one hand upon her trousers, cradling the other in her shirt, and awkwardly tied back her hair. Proom had his head cocked in question, and she nodded to him. Yes. She wanted the shadowpeople to come with her. No further word or action was needed. They were packed and ready to go within moments.
She found the farm without trouble. The farm wife heard her out, then went to the paddock and whistled to a sleek brown horse which came to her hand, nuzzling her and her pockets.
“Prettyfoot,” cooed the wife. “Will she carry the nice lady and her pet? Hmmm? High Wizard wants us to help the nice lady. Will Prettyfoot do that? Oh, wuzzums, she will, won’t she?”
Mavin stared in astonishment at this, but Proom – the only one of the shadowpeople to have accompanied her into the yard – stood nose to nose with Prettyfoot and seemed to sort the matter out. The farm wife went so far as to try to pet him. Proom growled deep in his throat, and her gesture became a quick pat of Prettyfoot instead.
“She’ll go best for you at an easy jog,” she said, suddenly all business. “Not fast, but steady. When you’re arrived where you’re going, turn her loose and she’ll find her way back to me. I trust you not to abuse her, woman, you and your pet. The High Wizard has not often asked a favor before, though we owe him much at this farmstead.”
Mavin promised, helped with the saddle and bridle, and got herself and Proom astride, Proom bounding up and down behind her, making her dizzy by tugging at her sides, Then they were away, and Mavin merely sat still while Prettyfoot jogged off toward the north, tirelessly, and happily for all Mavin could tell. They stopped briefly only once, to drink from a streamlet they crossed, and it was still early afternoon when she saw an aerie towering above a low hill. If she were to talk of threats from the north, she would have to arrive from the north, so she circled widely to the east before dismounting, tying the reins loosely to the saddle and patting Prettyfoot on her glossy flanks. The little horse shook her head and cantered back the way she had come, seemingly still untired. Mavin memorized the animal’s shape. It was one she thought she might have use for in the future.
She left Proom in the trees with a stern injunction to stay where he was. Previous experience had taught her to verify this, and she walked part of the distance to the tower backwards, making sure he was not following her. She had no doubt the rest of his family would be with him by the time she returned. If she were able to return. She was staggering rather badly, and her arm felt like a stone weight.
The fortress was as she had seen it last, brooding upon its high plinth, the sun flashing from the narrow windows, the stairway making a pit of darkness into the stone. She approached it as she had before, hammering upon the heavy door with her good hand, hearing the blammm, blammm, blammm echo up the stony corridors within. It was some time before there were other sounds, pattering, creaking, and then the squeak of a peephole opening like an eyelid in the massive wood.
“I come with an important warning for the High Wizard Chamferton,” she intoned in her most officious voice, somewhat handicapped by the fact that the world was whirling around her. “Tell him Mavin is here.”
“Babble babble, Wizard not at home, babble, grumph, go away.”
“When he learns you have disregarded my warning, he will want to know the name of the person who told me to go away. I have no doubt he will repay you properly.” She saw two faces at the peek hole but knew there was only one person there. She held up one finger and saw two. “Healer,” she begged silently. “Please be at home.”
Scuttle from inside, a whiny voice trailing away into distant silence, then the approach of heavier feet. “What do you want?”
“I bring a warning for the High Wizard. First, however, I must make use of his Healer.”
The door creaked reluctantly open. “High Wizard isn’t here.”
“The High Wizard is somewhere,” Mavin snarled. “I have no doubt you know where to find him. Best you do so very quickly. Before giving the message, however, I need to see the Healer. Now!”
Orders were shouted in a surly voice. A search took place. There was running to and fro and disorderly complaints. “Is she in the orchard? Beggle says look in the melon patch. Get Wazzle to come up here.”
Mavin sat herself wearily. The world kept fading and returning. At last they found her. Mavin retreated with her into the privacy of a side room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.
“Harpy bit?” the Healer questioned. “Nasty. Here, give me your hand.”
“Arkhur sent me,” whispered Mavin, dizzy, distracted, sure there were ears pressed to the door.
“Ahhh,” murmured the Healer, gratified and moist about the eyes. “Is he well?”
“Now he is. Now that his Face is taken down from its pole.”
“That is good news. Be still, please. I am finding the infection.” She nodded at the door, indicating listeners. Mavin sat back and relaxed. There were a few peaceful moments during which the pain lessened, becoming merely a slight twinge, a memory of pain. The throbbing which had pounded in her ears was gone. She sighed, deeply, as though she had run for long leagues.
Then they had done holding hands. The Healer passed her fingers across the wound, already half healed, then across those shallow scrapes around Mavin’s ears. These, too, she Healed, making them tingle briefly as though some tiny, marvelous creature moved about raking up the injured parts and disposing of them.
“Now, what’s afoot?” the Healer asked, brushing the tips of her fingers together as though to brush away the ills she had exorcised. “What can I do?”
“A message must be sent to … the High Wizard Chamferton telling him his Demesne is attacked from the north.” This was loudly said.
“Ah. Do we know who attacks?”
“The attacker is unspecified,” murmured Mavin. Better let Dourso respond to some unknown threat than discount a threat he might know to be false. Loudly: “Unspecified but imminent. He should return here as soon as possible.”
“A messenger sent to him now will reach him by dusk. If he left there at once, the … High Wizard
might return here by midnight.”
“Whatever,” Mavin yawned. “Now, if you have no further need of me, I will take my leave. Send the message quickly, please. Much may depend upon it.”
The Healer gave her one keen glance, then moved away, opened her door to give firm orders to some, quick instructions to others. As Mavin left the place she saw two riders hastening away south in a cloud of dust. She rubbed her face. The area around her ears itched a little, and she smoothed her hair across it self-consciously. Shifters did not make much use of Healers. It had not been as bad an experience as she had thought.
Proom was where she had left him, Proom and his family and his friends. A much wider circle of friends than heretofore. They seemed to enjoy the afternoon, though most of it was spent watching Mavin sleep and explaining to the newcomers that this was, in fact, the Mavin of which many things were sung. Undoubtedly something of interest would occur very soon, and the newcomers were urged to pay close attention. Mavin heard none of it. She had decided to sleep the afternoon away in order to be up and watching at midnight
Night fell, and there was a foray for provisions followed by small fires and feasting. Smoke rose among the trees, dwindled to nothing and died. Mavin rose and led the shadowpeople forth to find a good view of the aerie. Even as they settled upon their perch, Dourso came clattering up to the fortress with Valdon and Valdon’s men making a considerable procession upon the road, two baggage wagons bringing up the rear. A large, grated gate opened at ground level to admit the wagons, the horses and most of the men. Valdon and Dourso climbed to the door Mavin had used, and not long afterward she saw lights in the highest room of the tower.
“May neither of them have time to get their breath back,” Mavin intoned, almost enjoying herself. She had found a grassy hollow halfway up the outcropping on which the aerie stood. She could see the road, the aerie, the doorway – even the roof of the melon patch gleaming a glassy silver in the moonlight. “Now Dourso will be looking north to see what comes.” She sipped at the wine the Healer had given her, offering some to Proom. He took a tiny taste and handed it back, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Well, beasty,” she commented, “to each his own taste. I’ve never really liked those stewed ferns everyone cooks each spring, though most people consider them delicious. Now. What’s that upon the road?”
It was an ashen shadow, a bit of curdled fog, a drift of clotted whey. It moved not with any steady deliberation but in a slow, vacillating surge, like the repeated advance of surf which approaches and withdraws only to approach once more. Though Mavin sharpened her eyes, she could see no detail. It came closer with each passing moment, the shadowpeople staring at it with equal intensity.
“Lala perdum, dum, dum,” Proom whisper-sang. “Ala, la perdum.”
“I don’t know what perdum is.” Mavin stroked him. “But I’m sure we’re going to find out.”
“Perdum.” Proom shivered as he climbed into Mavin’s lap. She had seen him thus disturbed only once before, many years ago in the labyrinth under Hell’s Maw, and she closed her arms protectively around him. “It’s all right, Proom. Whatever it is, it isn’t coming for us.”
The cloud came nearer, still in its clotted, constant surge and retreat. She peered in the dim light, suddenly knowing what it was. “Faces,” she cried. “All the Faces. There must be thousands of them. And they have their eyes open!”
Through the milky cloud she could make out Arkhur’s form on horseback, with the striding Harpy behind him as he set the pace for the floating Faces in their multitude. Proom whispered from her lap, a hushed, horrified voice. She could see why. The mouths of the Faces were open as well, hungering.
From the high tower the northern windows flashed with light, now, again, again. Whoever watched from there did not see the threat approaching on the southern road. Mavin had time to wonder how the Faces would assault the fortress, or whether they would simply besiege the place. She did not wonder long. The cloud began to break into disparate bits, a hundred Faces there, a dozen here, here a line trailing off up the stony plinth like a dim necklace of fog, there a small cloud gathering at the foot of the great door. There was no frustration of their purpose. The door presented no barrier to their paper thinness. They slipped beneath it easily, as elsewhere they slipped through windows and under casements, between bars and through minute cracks in stone. Within moments all were gone.
Silence.
Silence upon the height, the light still flashing to the north.
Silence within the aerie, the stables, the armories.
And then tumult! Screams, shouts, alarm bells, the shrill wheeing of a whistle, the crashing sound of many doors flung open as people tried to flee.
Did flee. Down the steps of the fortress, out of the great gates. Beating with arms and hands as though at a hive of attacking bees while the Faces clustered thickly upon those arms, those hands, around mouths, clamped upon throats. A man ran near the hollow where Mavin sat, screaming a choked command as a Face tried to force its way into his throat. It was Valdon, all his arrogant dignity gone, all his Princely power shed, running like an animal while the Faces sucked at him with pursed, bloody lips, to be struck aside, only to return smiling with manic pleasure as they fastened upon him once more.
Mavin turned away, unsure whether she was fascinated or sick. On the flat below ran a half-dozen others, Dourso among them, so thickly layered with Faces it was only their clothes which identified them. Some of Valdon’s men. Some of Dourso’s. Yet even as these ran and choked and died beneath the Faces, others walked untouched. The Healer, quiet in her white robes, came down the steps to stretch her hand toward Arkhur, to cling first to his hand and then to his body as though she had not thought ever to see him again. So, thought Mavin. So that is what that is all about. Something in her ached, moved by that close embrace.
Valdon had fallen. One by one the Faces peeled away, eyes closed once more, mouths shut. Misty on the air they hung, fading, becoming a jelly, a transparency, a mere disturbance of sight and then nothing. Unable to stop herself, she went to the place the body lay, prodded it with her foot. It swayed like a bundle of dried leaves, juiceless, lifeless.
“There are two ways to dispose of the Faces,” said Chamferton’s voice from behind her. “To dissolve them in running water, or to let them regain whatever life was taken from them. Come in and we will see what has been done.” He turned toward the fortress and Mavin followed, the shadowpeople staying close by her feet. The Harpy stalked behind them without a sound, but still Mavin shuddered to come near her. They passed up the great stairs, through the door, down a long, echoing corridor to stop before a narrow door behind an iron grate. On this door, Chamferton knocked slowly.
“Who’s there,” quavered an old voice. “Who is it there?”
“Who is it there?” Chamferton responded.
“I?” asked the weak old voice, wonderingly. “I? Why I am Rose-love of Betand…”
Behind them the Harpy slumped dead to the floor.
“What’s in there?” asked Mavin, not really wanting to know.
“The tombs of my Demesne,” said Chamferton. “Healer? Will you have her taken out of there and up to her sister’s room? Chances are she will not live out a year, but such time as it is, it is hers. Recovered from Dourso’s blood and bone.
“None of the Faces has lost life. The Faces themselves are gone. Valdon and Dourso are dead. Foulitter is dead. Only Pantiquod was left behind at the lake, and she fled before I could bind her. I believe she has gone to the south, Mavin. It is unlikely she will return to the north.”
Mavin heard him without hearing him. She wanted to believe what he said.
They found the room Mavin remembered from her prior visit, and there were summoned the people remaining in the place, many of them suffering from wounds or minor enchantments. Some were Healed, some disenchanted, wine was brought, and while the shadowpeople roamed about the room, poking into everything – surprisingly free of the place, inasmuch as Mavin ha
d never seen them enter human habitation before – Chamferton turned the talk to Singlehorn.
“It will be a search of many days, I fear,” he said in a tired voice, obviously not relishing further travel. She saw the way his eyes searched the shelves, the corners, knowing that he found it defiled and would not be content until he could replace it as it had been. “A search of many days.”
“No,” Mavin said. “It shouldn’t take that long. I could find him almost at once if I could only tell the shadowpeople what he looks like. I can convey only so much in mime. Trying to describe the beast is beyond me.”
The Healer had followed all this with interest, though never moving from Chamferton’s side. For his part, he seemed to be conscious of her presence as he might be conscious of his own feet or ears, giving her no more of his attention than he paid those useful parts. She laid her hand on his arm.
“Old Inker is still here, Arkhur. Couldn’t he do a picture for the little people?”
So in the end it was very simple. Mavin described while an old, sleepy man drew a picture, this way and that until he had it right; then he put it in her hand and staggered back to his bed.
“I will come with you,” offered Chamferton without enthusiasm, examining a pile of books.
“No,” she said, knowing he would be little help. If he came with her, his mind would be here. “The shadowpeople will find him. I have only to follow. But I would like to know one thing, High Wizard, before I go.”
“If I know whatever it is.”
“What is the tower? The one where you were dropped? What are the shadows? Why did Himaggery want to find it, and how did he get in without being eaten?”
He stared at her for such a time that she felt he had stopped seeing her, but she stood under that gaze neither patiently or impatiently, merely waiting. Proom and his people were lying quietly about, silent for once, perhaps composing a song to memorialize the destruction of the Lake of Faces.
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