by Terry Brooks
“Get to the point.”
Cordstick nodded quickly. “Well, we thought it best to detain him, my Lord. We knew you would want to question him about his interest in your family, not knowing, of course, what his purpose might be. So we sent guards to take him prisoner and hold him for questioning.”
He stopped again, looking around the room as if help might be found among the suits of armor and racks of sharp weapons. Laphroig rolled his eyes. “Yes, you took him prisoner. And?”
“After we had done so, we discovered he was not a man at all, but a kobold. Why anyone would confide anything in a kobold, I couldn’t say. Perhaps they didn’t, but it was enough, it seemed to me, that he was asking these questions. I thought that holding him was the better choice, if it came to a choice about what to do with him, kobold or not, and …”
Laphroig held up his hand. “You are trying my patience, Cordstick, and I have very little of it to spare this morning. Who is this kobold? Do we know his name?”
Cordstick looked miserable. “We do. Now, after seizing him. It is Bunion. He is the King’s man, a creature of some renown.”
Rhyndweir’s ruler was angry, but not surprised. Of course the High Lord would try to find out what he could now that he knew Laphroig’s intentions regarding his daughter. But that sort of thing couldn’t be allowed. Not even by the King. Not in Laphroig’s own lands.
“There may be unpleasant repercussions from this business, my Lord,” Cordstick ventured. He bit his lip. “Perhaps we should let him go.”
“Perhaps not,” Laphroig answered at once. “Perhaps we should torture him instead and discover the truth behind this intrusion into the affairs of Rhyndweir. Perhaps we should make an example of him so that Ben Holiday will think twice before he sends another of his spies into our territory.”
Then he hesitated, holding up one hand quickly to stay Cordstick’s departure.
Torturing one of the High Lord’s people, he thought suddenly, would in all likelihood complicate his plans for marriage with the High Lord’s daughter. Perhaps discretion was the better part of reprisal in this situation. Yet it galled him that Holiday would feel free to send someone to spy on him in his own barony, no matter what the situation might be. He stewed about it for a moment, thinking that if the kobold simply disappeared—as others who had troubled him had—no blame could attach to him.
“Where is this creature?” he asked his aide.
“Downstairs, in one of the anterooms, safely under guard,” the other replied with a confidence that immediately troubled Laphroig.
“Take me to him,” he ordered. “I’ll decide what to do with him once I’ve seen him for myself.”
Drawing his black robes about him, tilting his head so that his slicked-up black hair cut the air like a shark fin, he swept through the door to the halls beyond, leading the way and forcing Cordstick to hurry to catch up to him. With his scribe barely managing to regain the lead, they ascended from the weapons room to the upper receiving chambers, moving from those reserved for invited guests to those well back and better fortified. Always best to take no chances with those who sought to work mischief in your realm, Laphroig was fond of saying.
But apparently chances had been taken in this case, Rhyndweir’s Lord realized as they approached the holding chamber and saw the door standing ajar. Rushing forward now, the two burst inside and found all four guards hanging by their heels like ornaments from the drapery cords, gagged and bound and weaponless.
Of the kobold, there was no sign.
Laphroig wheeled on a terrified Cordstick. “Call out the guard and find him!” he hissed. “Immediately!”
His scribe vanished as if by magic, and Laphroig stalked from the room in fury, leaving the guards hanging where they were.
It took barely an hour to determine that Bunion was nowhere in the castle, but that before departing he had located and thoroughly searched Laphroig’s office and its records. Another might not have been able to determine that anything was amiss, so neat and tidy was the room in question. But Laphroig was immediately suspicious, and after tamping down his rage sufficiently to act on his suspicions had gone directly to his private chambers. There he had discovered that safeguards he had personally installed and were known only to him had been disturbed. His protections had been breached and his personal files and papers examined.
Laphroig sat down for a time to think things through while waiting on the search for the kobold to be completed. He didn’t think the creature could have found anything of value, since he made it a point not to keep anything that might give him away. There were no records on his acts, nothing to show that he had dispatched those family members who had stood in his way. There were no notes or revealing pictures or anything of the like. There was nothing that could have helped the kobold in his efforts to discover what role Laphroig had played in the deaths of his family.
He paused, a chill running down his spine.
Unless …
He went at once to the bookshelves set in the stone wall to one side of the writing table and looked. Sure enough, the book on poisons was gone—the book that had provided him with the recipes for the nectars necessary to dispatch his wife and son. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He had kept the book only because he thought he might have need of it again sometime. The poisons he favored most were underlined in that book, and the poisoner’s notes on the details of their usages were written in the margins. He had forgotten about that, thinking that no one would ever have reason to look at one book shelved among so many.
But the kobold had. How it had found it in the short time provided was a mystery he could not solve. In any case, the damage was done.
He waited until Cordstick appeared with the unsurprising news that Bunion had escaped completely, and then he ordered the four guards still hanging in the library to be cut down and hung from the castle walls instead. Cordstick, grateful that he wasn’t the one sentenced to hang, carried out the order swiftly, wondering if perhaps it was time to look into another line of work. If he hadn’t served the family for so long that it no longer felt as if he belonged anywhere else, he might have packed his bags then and there.
As it was, he simply made it a point to stay out of his master’s
way.
It was nearing sunset when he had cause to go in search of Rhyndweir’s Lord once more. He felt some small confidence in doing so this time, having news of a different sort to offer up. Although his master kept his counsel close and private, Cordstick knew him much better than he suspected. It was inherent in the nature of his service that he should be able to do so, because knowing the mindset of the master you served had saved more than one servant’s neck over the years.
He found Laphroig in his office, slumped in his reading chair with the lights off and the curtains drawn. His black clothes were a rumpled mess, and his black hair was sticking up all over the place. His pale face looked ghostly in the near darkness.
“My Lord,” Cordstick ventured tentatively.
“Go away” was the miserable response.
“I have news I think you should hear,” Cordstick pressed gently, careful to remain just outside the doorway.
A short silence followed. “About the kobold?”
“No, my Lord. About the Princess Mistaya.”
Laphroig was on his feet at once. “The Princess? Close the door! Come over here where we can talk privately. Shhh, shhh, keep it quiet now. Just you and me. Tell me quick—what is the news?”
Cordstick had judged his master rightly. He closed the door to the chamber and hurried over to stand next to him, bending close and speaking in a whisper. “Our spy at the King’s court sends news that isn’t known as yet by more than a handful of people. The Princess Mistaya has disappeared. The King and his Queen are looking for her everywhere.”
“Well, well,” Laphroig murmured, his mind racing with possibilities.
“If you were to find her, my Lord …,” Cordstick began.
“Yes
, that would make the High Lord beholden to me in a way he could not ignore, wouldn’t it?” Laphroig finished. He was smiling so broadly that for a moment he assumed a frog-like visage. “Yes, yes.”
He put his hand firmly on his scribe’s thin shoulder. “You must find her, Cordstick.” His grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Before anyone else has a chance to.”
Cordstick nodded in agreement, shuddering inwardly at the other’s rather hideous smile. “As you wish, my Lord,” he managed before scurrying from the room.
LIBIRIS
It is not true that things are never as bad as they seem or that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence or that there is a silver lining inside every cloud. These are things we wish were true, but which are more often than not false hopes. So it was with little surprise that as Mistaya and her companions crested the final hill leading up to Libiris, she found all her fears of what awaited her fully realized.
“Oh, no,” she murmured, just softly enough that the others could not hear her, and swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat.
Libiris was like something out of a particularly nasty nightmare. It rose against the darkening horizon as if seeking to imitate Dracula’s castle: stonework all dingy and windswept, mortar cracked and in places crumbling, windows mostly dark and shuttered, and parapets spiked with iron lance heads and lined with razor wire. Towers soared skyward as if seeking to puncture holes in the heavens, and the heavy ironbound wooden doors facing toward her were locked and barred in a way that left no room for doubt about how visitors could expect to be greeted. If this building was intended as a library, she thought, the builders had a peculiar way of showing it. Libiris had the look of something that had been built with the intention of keeping people out, not letting them in.
Things didn’t look much better as Mistaya shifted her horrified gaze away from its rugged walls, which oddly enough cast shadows in all directions, a phenomenon she would not have believed possible. Woods surrounded Libiris, dark and deep and unfriendly, the trees leafless and skeletal, the limbs withered, and the forest floor littered with deadwood and bones. She had to look twice and carefully to be certain of this last, but bones there were, some collected in small piles, as if gathered by the wind like leaves. Spiky plants and thorny brush filled in the gaps between cracked and blackened trunks, and the smells were not of fresh greenery but of decay and mold.
It all looked, she thought suddenly, as Sterling Silver had been described to her when under the sway of the tarnish upon her father’s arrival years earlier. How odd.
“Let’s go home,” Poggwydd said at once and backed away.
She was half inclined to take him up on his suggestion. But instead she turned to Edgewood Dirk, who was sitting calmly next to her, washing his paws. “Is this really it?”
“Yes, it is.” The emerald eyes gleamed as they found hers. “Might you be thinking of taking the G’home Gnome up on his offer?”
She frowned. They could talk like this comfortably now because her irritating companions would no longer come near the cat. Neither Poggwydd nor Shoopdiesel approached within a dozen yards after the events of last night. Apparently overcome by either greed or hunger, they had attempted to lay hands on Dirk, probably with the intention of parting him from his skin. The effort had failed miserably. She still wasn’t sure what had happened, since she had been asleep at the time. A flash of light had awoken her in time to watch both Gnomes run screaming into the night. Today, returned from wherever they had fled to, their fingers burned and their faces blackened, they had made it a point to stay well clear of Edgewood Dirk.
“If I were to leave and go elsewhere, would you come with me?” she asked anxiously.
“No, I would not. I have business here that I must attend to.”
“Business? What sort of business?”
“That is for me to know.” Dirk’s voice tone was insulting. “A cat never discusses his business with humans, not even Princesses. A cat never explains and never apologizes. A cat never alibis. You must accept a cat as it is and for what it is and not expect more than the pleasure of its company. In this case, you must remain at Libiris if you wish to share mine.”
She didn’t care to remain at Libiris or to share the pleasure of his company, but she didn’t really have a choice if she wanted to remain hidden from her parents. If she left Dirk, she left also the concealment that being with him offered. Her father would be quick enough to find her if she acted precipitously.
“What did you do to the Gnomes last night?” she asked, changing the subject. She hesitated. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
The cat yawned. “I don’t mind. I gave them a small sample of what it means to lay hands on a Prism Cat. No one is allowed to do that.”
“No, I imagine not.”
“Rather like your mud puppy. Magical creatures are not to be handled. We have our defenses, each peculiar to the species or, in some cases, to the individual creature. Touch us at your peril.” He glanced at her. “You weren’t thinking of trying, were you?”
She shook her head. “No, I was just curious. I don’t know anything about Prism Cats. I told you before that my father never spoke of you.”
Dirk glanced back at the G’home Gnomes, perhaps to reassure himself that they were still keeping their distance. “I shall speak for myself, then,” he said. “You need to know something of the character of the company you keep. My character is obviously impeccable, but a few words of further elucidation couldn’t hurt. I am a fairy creature, as you know. I live in the mists except when it suits me. I stay pretty much in one place except when I travel. I keep mostly to myself except when curiosity compels me to engage with others. Such as now, with you.”
“Curiosity about me?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
The cat regarded her. “Well, I should think it would be obvious. You are a very curious creature. I want to see what will become of you.”
“Become of me?”
“It would help this relationship tremendously if you would stop repeating my words back to me.” Edgewood Dirk rose and stretched. “As for what I did to your companions, I simply gave them a small demonstration of what happens when you misbehave around me. Watch.”
The Gnomes must have heard this because they began backing away hurriedly. Mistaya held her ground, unwilling to display anything remotely approaching cowardice. The Prism Cat ignored them, closing his eyes and arching his back, his body going so still that it seemed to have turned to stone. All at once, it began to glow, and then it did turn into something like stone, changing from fur and flesh to a crystalline form. Emerald eyes glittered out of planes of crystal that shimmered and reflected the forest and the first of Landover’s eight moons, which had risen in the east. It ceased to be immobile and began to shift about as if turned to clear liquid glass. He faced her for a long moment, and then the light of his body flooded back into his eyes and he became a cat again.
“There is a small sample,” he advised. “If you try to touch me, of course, there is more. Ask your foolish friends for details, when you have a moment. There is more to my magic than this, but I don’t think we have to dwell on it just now. It is sufficient to say that not much that walks on two legs or four can stand against a Prism Cat.”
Big whoop, Mistaya thought. The cat was so full of himself that there wasn’t room for a speck of humility. Irritated, she turned her attention back to the blackened structure in front of them. “So what do you suggest we do now?” she asked him.
The cat followed her gaze and cocked his head. “I suggest that you go up to the door and ask for lodging. Once inside, you can figure things out at your leisure.”
She glared at him. “Why don’t you go up to the door and ask them to let us in. You’re the one with all the magic!”
“Am I?” he asked mildly. He regarded her calmly for a moment, and then stretched anew. “No, I think you had better be the one to ask,” he said. “People get nervous when cats
speak to them. They are much more accepting of people than animals in these situations, I’ve found.”
“That seems a rather broad generalization, even coming from you. But I guess they can’t refuse a Princess of Landover, can they?”
“Probably not. However, I wouldn’t tell them who you are, if I were you. Which, thankfully, I am not.”
“Why not? I mean, why not tell them who I am?”
The cat blinked. “At the very least, they would let your father and mother know that you’ve arrived safely.”
She grimaced. He was right, of course.
“So I am just supposed to pretend that I’m some peasant girl out wandering the countryside, lost or whatever, and I’ve found my way here—poor, pitiful me—and I need shelter?”
She glanced into the darkness, where Poggwydd and Shoopdiesel sat huddled together, watching. “What about them?” she demanded, turning back again. “What am I supposed to say about … ?”
But Edgewood Dirk had disappeared.
She stared at the empty space he had occupied, not quite believing that he wasn’t there. Then she looked all around, searching the darkness. Nothing Not a sign of him. Anger flooded through her. He had abandoned her! Just like that! He had left her on her own!
“Fine!” she muttered, furious now. “Who needs you?”
She descended the hill in determined silence, not bothering to look behind her to see if the G’home Gnomes were following, knowing that they would be, resigned to the fact that she would probably never be rid of them. The descent took some time, and as she drew nearer to her destination she was able to determine that it did not improve in looks upon closer inspection. Everything seemed to be in disrepair and suffering from obvious neglect. No lights burned in the windows or from the towers, and the darkness suggested a total absence of life. Perhaps that was how things were these days at Libiris, she thought hopefully. Maybe its tenants had abandoned her. Maybe there was no one here anymore, and she wouldn’t have to beg for admittance. She would just have to find a way in—and the place would be hers for as long as she wished!
