They moved steadily up the final distance and mounted the rim. Dilvish dropped his scarf to his neck and refastened his belt when they stood upon level ground. Black snorted a wisp of smoke. The man they had rescued brushed at his black fur leggings. They faced the castle, which was now an inky silhouette against a dusky sky. The sun shone pale as a moon in high heaven.
"If my flasks are not all broken or lost, I'll fix us some wine and water," Dilvish said, moving around to Black's right.
"Good."
"My name is Dilvish."
"I am Weleand of Murcave, and I am beginning to wonder about this place."
"What do you mean?"
"It was my understanding that Tualua, who lies within, had undergone one of his periodic fits of madness—" He gestured widely, "—and so brought all this about with his unbridled energies and his dreaming."
"So it would seem."
"No."
"What, then?"
"Not all dreams are lethal—even those of his kind. Nor are all of them subtle. This entire belt about the castle strikes me as a carefully planned series of defensive deathtraps, not as the mongering wet dreams of a feebleminded demigod."
Dilvish passed him a flask and Weleand took a long pull at it.
"Why—and how—should this be?" he asked.
Weleand lowered the flask and laughed.
"It means, my friend, that someone has already taken control within. He has set this up to keep the rest of us out while he consolidates his power."
Dilvish smiled.
"Or while he recovers his strength," he said. "A tired, injured Jelerak may well have constructed such a defense to keep his enemies at bay."
Weleand took another drink and returned the flask. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stroked his beard.
"It may be as you say, only—"
"What?"
"Only I think not. This sort of thing is too primeval. He would have drunk deeply of this power and been healed. Then he would have had no need for such foolery."
Dilvish sipped at the flask and nodded slowly.
"That, too, may be true—unless he is extremely enfeebled and things have gotten out of hand. It is not unknown for an apprentice to turn upon his master either."
Weleand faced the castle and stared.
"I know of but one way to learn for certain what prevails within," he said at last.
He jammed his hands into pockets in his leggings and began strolling off in the direction of the castle. Dilvish mounted Black and followed slowly after him. He leaned forward and whispered a single word:
"Impressions."
"That man," Black replied softly, "may be a very powerful white sorcerer masquerading as something more sinister. On the other hoof, he may be as dark as my hide—but I do not believe that he is anything in between. And I am sure of the power."
As they moved on, the winds rose again and the mists came up off the ground. They were headed into a forest of tall, bleached, irregularly shaped stones. When they entered it, their footfalls grew silent upon the powdery talc that covered the ground, that swirled in occasional blizzards about them. The wind began to sing among the rocky towers—high-pitched and wavering. Glass flowers tinkled in the shadows of the monoliths' bases. Weleand trudged on, slightly hunched. Streamers of pale fog snaked along the pinnacles. Tiny points of white and orange light appeared, to dance and dart in the middle air. It reminded Dilvish of his recent trek into the far North, yet the temperature was not exceptionally chill. He watched the flapping of Weleand's brown cloak some twenty paces ahead. Abruptly the man halted, pointed off to his right, and laughed.
Dilvish came up beside him and stared. Up a stone alley, partly covered by a drift of talc, a moist-seeming, manlike shape was crouched on both knees and right hand; the left hand was raised, and there was a look of open-mouthed surprise on the upturned face. Moving nearer, Dilvish saw that the apparent moistness was actually a solid glassy sheen with a faint bluish cast to it. He also saw that the figure's trousers were pushed down around the knees.
Dilvish leaned forward and touched the upraised hand.
"A glass statue of a man relieving himself?" he said.
He heard Weleand's chuckle.
"He wasn't always a glass statue," the other stated. "Look at that expression! If we had a little brass plate, we could make him a caption: 'Caught with his pants down when the werewinds blew.' "
"You are familiar with the phenomenon?" Dilvish asked.
"Elimination or werewinds?"
"I'm serious! What happened here?"
"Tualua—or his master—seems to have incorporated the more brittle aspects of a transforming wind into the repertory. Such winds were said to be more common in the early days of the world—the breath of a drunken god, perhaps?—leaving behind such curious artifacts as are occasionally unearthed in the southern deserts. Occasionally, they can be quite amusing—such as this, or a pair once found near Kaladesh, now in the collection of Lord Hyelmot of Kubadad. Several books, now out of circulation, have been written, cataloging—"
"Enough!" said Dilvish. "Is there anything that can be done for the poor fellow?"
"Short of another werewind's coming along and retransforming him, no. And that's not very likely. So help yourself if you want souvenirs. He's very brittle. Here, I'll show you."
He reached toward the figure's ear. Dilvish caught his wrist.
"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, see
ming 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.
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