The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. “Suh, are yo preparin’ some trick ah should know about? Should ah be ready with mah swords?”

  “No, Roseroar. No tricks.”

  She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head.

  Jon-Tom started windmilling his arms, loosening up. Grelgen immediately retreated several steps and raised the wand threateningly. “All you need is to learn this magic,” he said brightly. “A regular program of aerobics. Not only will it reduce your unnatural craving for protein, it should bring back your old aerodynamic figures.”

  “What does that mean?” asked one of the younger fairies.

  “It means we’ll be able to fly again, stupid,” replied one of the Elders as he jabbed the questioner in the ribs.

  “Fly again.” The refrain was taken up by the rest of the crowd.

  “It’s a trick!” snapped Grelgen, but the weight of opinion (so to speak) was against her.

  “All right.” She tucked her wand under one arm and glared up at Jon-Tom. “You get your chance, man. If this is a trick to buy time, it better be good, because it’s going to be your last one.”

  “It’s no trick,” Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat starting to trickle from beneath his arms. And he hadn’t even begun yet.

  “Look, I’m no Richard Simmons, but I can see we need to start with the basics.” He was aware he had the undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He took a deep breath, thankful for the morning runs which kept him in decent condition. “We’re going to start with some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips … watch those wings, that’s it. Ready.” He hesitated. “This would work better if we had some music.”

  Grelgen grunted, turned, and barked a command. There was a brief delay. Several small figures made their way through the enchanted mob and took up positions atop the stone wall. Each carried a delicate instrument. There were a couple of flutes, a set of drums, and something that resembled a xylophone which had been in a bad traffic accident.

  “What should we play?” piped one of the minuscule musicians.

  “Something lively.”

  “A dance or roundelet?” They discussed the matter among themselves, then launched into a lively tune with faintly oriental overtones. Jon-Tom waited until he was sure of the rhythm, then smiled at his attentive if uncertain audience.

  “Ready? Let’s begin! Imitate me.” He dipped. “Come on, it’s not hard. One, two, three, and bend; one, two, three, and bend; … that’s it!”

  While Jon-Tom’s companions looked on, several hundred fairy folk struggled to duplicate the human’s movements. Before too long, groans and moans all out of proportion to the size of the throats they came from filled the air.

  Grelgen was gasping and sweating. Her orange chiffon gown was soaked. “You’re sure that you’re not actually trying to murder us?”

  “Oh, no.” Jon-Tom was breathing a little hard himself. “See, this isn’t an instantaneous kind of magic. It takes time.” He sat down and put his hands behind his neck, wondering how far he could go before Grelgen gave up. “Now, this kind of magic is called situps. Up, down, up, down … you in the back there, no slacking, now … up, down …”

  He worried constantly that Grelgen and her colleagues would become impatient before the new exercise regimen had time to do its work. He needn’t have worried. The enchanted folk took weight off as rapidly as they put it on. By the second day the most porcine of the villagers could boast of shrunken waistlines. By the third the effects were being felt by all, and by the fourth even Grelgen could stay airborne for short flights.

  “I don’t understand, mate,” said Mudge. “You said it ’tweren’t magic, yet see ’ow quick-like they’re shrinkin’ down!”

  “It’s their metabolic rate. They burn calories much faster than we do, and as soon as they get down to where they can fly again, the burning accelerates.”

  The results were reflected in Grelgen’s changing attitude. As the exercises did their work, her belligerence softened. Not that she became all sweetness and light, but her gratitude was evident.

  “A most wondrous gift you have given us, man. A new kind of magic.” It was the morning of the fifth day of their captivity and a long time since any of the enchanted folk had suggested having one of their guests for supper.

  “I have a confession to make. It’s not magic. It’s only exercise.”

  “Call it by whatever name you wish,” she replied, “it is magic to us. We are starting to look like the enchanted folk once more. Even I,” she finished proudly. She did a deep knee-bend to prove it, something she couldn’t have imagined doing five days earlier. Of course, she did it while hovering in midair, which made it somewhat easier. Still, the accomplishment was undeniable.

  “You are free to go,” she told them.

  Roseroar stepped forward and cautiously thrust out a paw. The invisible wall of fire which had kept them imprisoned had vanished, leaving behind only a little lingering heat. The tigress stepped easily over the tiny stone wall.

  “Our gratitude is boundless,” Grelgen went on. “You said you came to us for help.” She executed a neat little pirouette in the air, delighting in her rediscovered mobility. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “We need directions to a certain town,” he told her. “A place called Crancularn.”

  “Ah. An ambiguous destination. Not mine to wonder why. Wait here.” She flew toward the village, droning like a wasp, and returned several minutes later with four newly slimmed Elders. They settled on the wall. Between them, the four Elders held a piece of parchment six inches square. It was the biggest piece of writing material the village could produce.

  “Crancularn, you said?” Jon-Tom nodded at her.

  She rolled up the sleeves of her burgundy-and-lime dress, waved the wand over the parchment as she spoke. The parchment twisted like a leaf in the wind. It continued to quiver as a line of gold appeared on its surface, tracing the outlines of mountains and rivers, trails, and paths. None of them led directly toward the golden diamond that shone brightly in the upper-lefthand corner of the parchment.

  Grelgen finished the incantation. The parchment ceased its shaking, allowing the concentrating Elders to relax their grip. Jon-Tom picked the freshly inscribed map off the grass. It was warm to the touch. One tiny spot not far from a minor trail fluoresced brightly.

  “The glow shows you where you are at any time,” Grelgen informed him. “It will travel as you travel. Hold fast to the map and you will never be lost.” She rose on diaphanous wings to hover near his shoulder and trace over the map with her wand. “See? No easy journey from here and no trails directly to the place.”

  “We’re told Crancularn moves about.”

  “So it does. It has that characteristic. But the map will take you there, never fear. This is the cartography of what will be as well as of what is. A useful skill which we rarely employ. We like it where we are.”

  Jon-Tom thanked her as he folded the map and slipped it carefully into a pocket of his indigo shirt.

  Grelgen hovered nearby. “Tell me, man. Why do you go to Crancularn?”

  “To shop for something in the Shop of the Aether and Neither.” She nodded, a grave expression on her tiny face. “We’ve heard many rumors,” he went on. “Is there something dangerous about the shop?”

  “Indeed there is, man. Included among its usual inventory is a large supply of the Truth. That is something most travelers seek to avoid, not to find. Beware what purchases you make. There are bonuses and discounts to be had in that place you may not find to your liking.”

  “We’ll watch our step,” he assured her.

  She nodded solemnly. “Watch your hearts and souls as well. Good luck to you, man, and to your companions. Perhaps if you return by a similar route we can show you the Cloud Dance.” She looked wistful. “I may even participate myself.”

  “Dancing in the air isn’t as difficult as dancing on the ground,” said Folly.

  Grelgen grinned a
t her. “That depends on what you’re doing in the air, infant.” With great dignity she pivoted and led the four Elders back to the village.

  They were free, Jon-Tom knew, and so again were the enchanted folk.

  XII

  THE MAP LED THEM out of the narrow defile that was the enchanted canyon. Music and rhythmic grunts followed them as they left behind a village full of fairies aerobicizing like mad. Grelgen had a long way to go before she looked like Jane Fonda but she was determined to out perform her subjects, and Jon-Tom didn’t doubt she had the willpower to do so.

  Several days’ march through game-filled country brought them over the highest mountain pass and down onto the western slopes. Despite Grelgen’s insistence that the journey the rest of the way to Crancularn would not be easy, they were beginning to relax. Since leaving behind the enchanted village they had encountered no dangerous animals or sapients, and food was plentiful.

  Ahead lay the desert. Jon-Tom felt certain they could cross it in a couple of days. All was well.

  No more bad dreams bothered him, and he awoke refreshed and at ease. Fallen leaves had made a comfortable, springy bed. They were now back into deciduous forest, having left most of the evergreen woods behind.

  He pushed his cape aside. A few wisps of smoke still rose from the remains of last night’s fire. Roseroar snored softly on the far side of the embers while Mudge dozed nearby. That in itself was unusual. Normally the otter woke first.

  Jon-Tom scanned the rest of the camp and sat up fast.

  “Jalwar? Folly!”

  The woods did not answer, nor did anyone else.

  He climbed to his feet, called again. His shouts roused Mudge and Roseroar.

  “Wot’s amiss, mate?”

  Jon-Tom gestured at the campsite. “See for yourself.”

  Mudge inspected the places where the missing pair had slept. “They aren’t off ’untin’ for breakfast berries. All their gear’s gone.”

  “Could they have been carried off?” Jon-Tom muttered.

  “Why would anybody bother to sneak in softly and steal that pair away while leavin’ us snug and in dreamland?” Roseroar said. “Makes no sense.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. So they left on their own, and with a stealthiness that implies premeditation.”

  “What?” she growled in confusion.

  “Sorry. My legal training talking. It means they planned to sneak out. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Which way would they go?”

  “Maybe there’s a town nearby. I’ll check the map.” He reached into his pocket, grasped air. A frantic, brief search proved that the map was well and truly gone.

  “Mudge, did you …?”

  The otter shook his head, his whiskers bristling in anger. “You never gave it to me, guv’nor. I saw you put it up yourself.” He sighed, sat down on a rock, and adjusted his cap, leaning the feather down at its usual rakish angle. “Can’t say as ’ow I’m surprised. That Corroboc might ’ave been a class-one bastard, but ’e knew wot ’e were about when ’e named that girl.”

  “Ah’ve been suspicious of her motives from the beginning,” Roseroar added. “We should have sold the little bitch in Snarken, when we had the chance.”

  Jon-Tom found himself staring northwestward, through the thinning forest toward the distant desert. “It doesn’t make sense. And what about Jalwar? He’s gone, too, and that makes even less sense. How can he get anywhere without our help and protection?”

  Mudge came and stood next to his friend, put a comforting paw on his shoulder. “Ah, lad. ’Ave you learned so little o’ life since you’ve been in this world? Who knows wot old Jalwar promised the girl? ’E’s a trader, a merchant. Obviously ’e made ’er a better offer than anything we ’ave. Maybe ’e were bein’ marooned on that beach by ’onest folk ’e’d cheated. This ain’t no world for takin’ folks on faith, me friend. For all we know Jalwar’s a rich old bugger in ’is ’ome town.”

  “If he wanted Folly to help him, why would they take the map? They wouldn’t need it to retrace the trail back to Snarken.”

  “Then it’s pretty clear they ain’t ’eadin’ for Snarken, mate.” He turned and stared down the barely visible path. “And we ought to be able to prove it.”

  Sure enough, in the dew-moistened earth beyond the campsite the two sets of footprints stood out clearly, the small, almost dainty marks of Jalwar sharp beside Folly’s sandalprints. They led downslope toward the desert.

  “’Tis plain wot they’re about, mate. They’re ’eading for Crancularn. That’s why they stole the map.”

  “But why? Why not go theah with the rest of us?” Roseroar was shaking her head in puzzlement.

  “You’re as dense as ’e is, luv. Ain’t it plain enough yet to both of you? Jalwar’s a trader. They’re goin’ to try and buy up the ’ole supply o’ this medicine ’is sorcerership needs so badly and ’old it for ransom.” He stared at Jon-Tom. “We told the old fart too much, mate, and now ’e’s bent on doin’ us dirty.”

  “Jalwar, maybe …” Jon-Tom mumbled unhappily, “but I can’t believe that Folly …”

  “Why not, mate? Or did you think she were in love with you? After wot she went through, she’s just lookin’ out after ’erself. Can’t blame ’er for that, wot?”

  “But we were taking care of her, good care.”

  Mudge shrugged. “Not good enough, it seems. Like I said, no tellin’ wot old Jalwar promised ’er in return for ’elpin’ ’im.”

  “What now, Jon-Tom?” asked Roseroar gently.

  “We can’t turn back. Map or no map. I suppose we could go back to the village of the enchanted folk and get another one, but that would put us weeks behind them. We can’t lose that much time if Mudge’s suspicions are correct. They’d beat us to the medicine easily. I studied that map pretty intensively after Grelgen gave it to us. I can remember some of it.”

  “That ain’t the ’ole of it, mate.” Mudge bent and put his nose close to the ground. When he stood straight again, his whiskers were twitching. “An otter can follow a scent on land or through water if there’s just enough personal perfume left to tickle ’is nostrils. This track’s fresh as a new whore. Until it rains we’ve got a trail to follow, and there’s desert ahead. Maybe if we pee on the run we can overtake the bloody double-crossers.”

  “Ah second the motion, suh. Let’s not give up, Jon-Tom.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of giving up, Roseroar. I was thinking about what we’re going to do when we do catch up with them.”

  “That’s the spirit!” She leaned close. “Leave the details to me.” Her teeth were very white.

  “I’m not sure that would be the civilized thing to do, Roseroar.” Despite the deception, the thought of Folly in Roseroar’s paws was not a pleasant one.

  “All man actions are dictated by man society’s code of honah, Jon-Tom,” she said stiffly. She frowned at a sudden thought. “Don’t tell me that after what’s happened heah yo still feel fo the little bitch?”

  He was shouldering his backpack. “We still don’t know that she went with Jalwar voluntarily. Maybe he forced her.”

  Mudge was waiting at the edge of the campsite, anxious to get moving. “Come on now, mate. Even if you exclude age as a consideration, the girl was bigger and stronger than that old ferret. And she could always have screamed.”

  “Not necessarily. Not if Jalwar had a knife at her throat. Look, I admit it looks like she went with him voluntarily, but I won’t condemn her until we know for sure. She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  Mudge spat on the ground. “Another o’ your otherworldly misconceptions.”

  “It’s not otherworldly. It’s a universal truism,” Jon-Tom argued.

  “Not in this universe it ain’t.”

  Roseroar let them argue while she assumed the lead, glancing occasionally at the ground to make sure they were still on the trail, scanning the woods for signs of ambush. For the moment she preferred to ignore both of her argumentative
companions.

  From time to time Mudge would move up alongside her to dip his nose to the earth. Sometimes the footprints of their quarry would disappear under standing water or mix with the tracks of other creatures. Mudge always regained the trail.

  “Must ’ave took off right after the last o’ us fell asleep,” the otter commented that afternoon. “I guess them to be at least six hours ahead of us, probably more.”

  “We’ll catch them.” Jon-Tom was covering the ground easily with long, practiced strides.

  “Maybe that ferret weren’t so old as ’e made ’imself out to be,” Mudge suggested.

  “We’ll still catch them.”

  But the day went with no sign of girl and ferret. They let Roseroar lead them on through the darkness, until accumulating bumps and bruises forced Jon-Tom to call a halt for the night. They slept fitfully and were up again before the dawn.

  By afternoon the last trees had surrendered to scrub brush and bare rock. Ahead of them a broad, hilly plain of yellow and brown mixed with the pure white of gypsum stretched from horizon to horizon. It was high desert, and as such, the heat was not as oppressive as it might have been. It was merely dauntingly hot. The air was still and windless, and the shallow sand clearly showed the tracks of Jalwar and Folly.

  It was a good thing, because the sand did not hold their quarry’s spoor as well as damp soil, and Mudge had increasing difficulty distinguishing it from the tracks of desert dwellers as they started out across the plain.

  “I ’ope you remember that map well, mate.”

  “This is the Timeful Desert, as I remember it.”

  Mudge frowned. “I thought deserts were supposed to be timeless, not timeful.”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t name it.” He pointed toward a low dune. “The only sure source of water is a town in the middle of the desert called Redrock. The desert’s not extensive, but it’s plenty big enough to kill us if we lose our way.”

  “That’s a comfortin’ thought to be settin’ out with.” The otter looked up at Roseroar. “Any sign o’ our friends, tall tail?”