Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Not your idea, was it?"

  She glanced sideways at him. "No. Now, I can tell you're bursting with questions. Go ahead and ask. I'll answer what I can."

  "Thank you very much, ma'am. I just wondered . . . the men the goblin killed? Was that revenge? Magic justice?"

  Oothiana looked puzzled. "How do you mean?"

  "Were they the ones who killed the fairies in the village? Did Little Chicken's . . . er . . . power seek them out?"

  "Oh, no! The words don't work that way. And the man who did that . . . He has been punished."

  There was a strange intensity in that remark, and she quickly changed the subject. "You haven't asked what's in store for you."

  "I think I can guess. It isn't the weather, is it?"

  "What isn't?"

  "Mother Unonini told me about the Four. Jotunn raiders, Imperial legions, dragons . . . but she said that West's prerogative was the weather. It isn't, is it?"

  "No, it isn't weather. It's here, in Faerie. You know what it is. It's—"

  The proconsul's attention was diverted by a wall exploding just ahead. Milflor taverns were flimsy, airy structures like the houses, and one of them now collapsed, emitting a rolling ball of four or five imps and two or three jotnar. The noise increased considerably as more revelers emerged from the ruins in search of room to brawl, waving furniture and leaping into the fray. The proconsul shrugged her lovely shoulders and detoured around them.

  She walked in silence until Rap wondered if he had offended her, but then she said, "It's very evil, and completely unstoppable. West is always the most powerful of the Four, Master Rap. The Protocol says that when a warden dies, then the other three shall elect a successor, witch or warlock. Of course a very strong candidate may elect himself, as Zinixo did, but normally the vacant throne is filled by election. The exception is West. When the red throne becomes vacant, then the strongest of the three takes that one and leaves his former throne to a newcomer. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am. That wasn't what happened this time?"

  "No. Suddenly Ag-An was dead and Zinixo was warlock. Assassination's not rare for the other three, but it's only been done to West maybe six or seven times since Emine's day. West's strength comes from his prerogative, of course, although in this case he's also immensely powerful in his own right."

  They were going by the ships now. As Thinal had said, most were galleys, but there were also a few barks and argosies, and larger, awkward lateen-rigged vessels—none of them types that ever came to Krasnegar. Rap would have enjoyed looking at them had he not been more concerned by his own approaching death. "In his own right, ma'am?"

  Oothiana still did not look around. "Zinixo may well be the most powerful sorcerer since Is-an-ok, or even Thraine. Ag-An was no mean witch, yet he destroyed her and two guardian votaries single-handed. South and East didn't want Faerie to fall into the hands of an unknown, so they tried to take him out at once. He knocked them aside like puffballs."

  Again conversation was interrupted. A dozen drunken, half-naked jotnar were staggering along the road in line abreast, bellowing out a bawdy song, waving clubs that looked like table legs, and forcing everyone else to back up. Rap expected Oothiana to summon troops, but she barely seemed to notice the disturbance. Just before the mob reached her, all the rioters suddenly turned hard left. Roaring happily, the line went lurching into a tavern. The crowd dispersed, grumbling, and the road was clear. She had not missed a step.

  "By now, of course," the sorceress said, "the dwarf's unassailable. He'll hold the red throne for centuries. Only all the others acting together could kill him, and that would mean a pitched battle. He might even win it."

  "West's prerogative is the supply of magic," Rap said, "so now he knows hundreds of words?"

  "No. That isn't the way it works; four's the limit. But any sorcerer can be put under a loyalty spell by a stronger sorcerer. Then he's a votary, an aide. All warlocks and witches do it, but the others must hunt for people who already know words. West has a dependable supply. This is where they come from."

  "One fairy, one word?"

  She nodded.

  "Oh, then you . . . Beg pardon, my lady."

  She raised those glorious eyes to his, and he was astonished to see them glistening. "Yes, me. I want you to know, even if you can never understand completely. I can't help myself. Master Rap. I'm telling you all this because it doesn't matter and you deserve to know why you will suffer, but if talking might hurt my master's interests in any way, then I couldn't do it. I can't be disloyal in the slightest and I must obey any order he gives me; if he told me to kill myself, I would do it. I can't betray him."

  "You don't like him, though?" Rap said.

  "Dwarves," she said cautiously, "tend to be mean and suspicious and rapacious."

  "Could he not make you like him?"

  Oothiana walked a dozen paces in silence, and then her answer was very quiet. "Easily. Would that be kinder? You're going to hate me tomorrow, Rap. But he leaves my thoughts free because he values my advice, I think, or maybe just to see if I'm plotting something. He doesn't trust loyalty, whether it's occult or real. Your word is valuable, and my master told me to get it for him. So I must do as he says, even though I hate doing so."

  "And Thinal's, when you catch them, and Little Chicken's."

  "Especially Little Chicken's."

  Three words? The warlock could force them to share, and have three mages, then perhaps kill two of them to have one stronger mage. Add one more word to have a slave sorcerer . . .

  "So I become a slave?"

  She bit her lip with pearly teeth. "It's worse man that! He's more likely to force your word out of you for somebody else. Even if he had use for a faun . . . Pardon my saying this, but you're not a very typical faun. You're too big."

  Rap shivered, despite the heat. "But he could make me look like anything he wanted, couldn't he? An imp, a dwarf, an elf, even?"

  "Yes, he could. But another sorcerer would see the spell on you. That would be two spells, you see, and a glamour spell like that, an appearance spell, happens to be a conspicuous thing. A loyalty spell is much harder to detect. Unfortunately."

  Unfortunately! "So I tell my word and then I die?"

  She spoke without looking at him. "It may not happen right away. Perhaps not for some time. But I have to take you to jail now, and I expect that's where you'll stay."

  Again they walked for a while in silence, the lady watching the ground, ignoring the watercarts and hucksters plying their wares to the ships. Now that his farsight had been restored, Rap had trouble ignoring the ships. The jotunn in him had always been interested in ships. One of the galleys must be Gathmor's Stormdancer. But he was going to die soon, here in Faerie, so ships did not matter now. Magic just possibly might.

  "So a faun-jotunn cross won't be much use to him. How does he choose who gets elevated?"

  She glanced at him oddly. "You think clearly. Master Rap. Yes, he has trouble, because there is always a faint chance he will create a sorcerer more powerful than himself. That's why I said you might live quite a while yet; while he makes up his mind."

  In a cell! "Little Chicken . . . Why did the fairy do that? I mean, why did she die?"

  Oothiana hesitated. "I'm going to have to put a forbiddance on you, telling you all this. These are well-kept secrets you're learning!"

  "That's all right, ma'am. I don't know why you're telling me all these things anyway. But I do appreciate it!" he added hastily.

  She flashed another of her sad little smiles. "Perhaps because I enjoy speaking to an honest man for a change."

  Rap turned his face away quickly. She did not seem to be joking, either.

  "This way." She pointed, and headed across the road, which now branched, the left side going on along the waterfront and the moorings, the right angling up the hill. He could sense the shielding around the palace quite close by. On the skyline, still distinct, the roof and the upper level of the Gazeb
o formed a sinister all-seeing eye, bright in the rays of the sun setting over the mainland town.

  "What the fairy told the goblin was her name. Alone of all the peoples of Pandemia, fairies seem to have no magic, but they are born knowing their names and die if they ever speak them."

  "But why?" Rap blurted. Then he felt very stupid. Ask her why the sky is blue, dummy! That was how the Gods had made the world.

  Yet Oothiana did not seem to find the question stupid, "No one is certain. My master says—and he is a very powerful sorcerer, remember, so his wisdom is great—he suspects that a word is not truly a fairy's own name. What use is a name you can never use? He thinks they must be the names of elementals, a sort of guardian spirit . . ."

  Ah! Now Rap sensed something intelligible in the insanity of magic.

  "But he admits that even he is guessing," she concluded.

  Straight ahead the road reached a high wall of pointed timbers and an imposing gateway topped by the imperor's four-pointed star. This palisade was in much better shape than the feeble ruin around the town and it was an occult barrier, also, blocking farsight completely. Beyond the archway were trees, flowers, and parkland that showed only to his eyes.

  His chance to question might be coming to an end. He began planning his next query, but the proconsul forestalled him.

  "Why would a fairy ever tell his secret name to anyone? Two reasons. Master Rap. One is that life can sometimes become the less pleasant alternative. Intense pain applied long enough will persuade anyone to do anything, and may move a man faster when applied to his dear ones. Apart from their names, fairies are as human as imps, or fauns, or jotnar—and they dislike watching their children suffer."

  Rap remembered the bloodstains Little Chicken had found in the fairy hut. Whoever had done that had been punished—how? Why? He shivered. "And the second reason, my lady?"

  "That is a great mystery. Rarely, a fairy will volunteer his name, or her name, to certain persons, like your goblin friend. What exactly did she ask him?"

  "She asked all of us the same question—what our dream was."

  At the gate guards were lining up, snapping to attention, drawing swords to greet the proconsul. Blades flashed bright enough to hurt the eye of the beholder.

  "Most people don't know what they really want from life, Master Rap. We all think we know, but we often deceive ourselves in one way or another. We think we want to help a cause and secretly desire only power. We think we love, when what we feel is lust. We crave revenge and call it justice. Our self-deceptions are endless. Apparently the fairyfolk can always tell, and this is a curse upon them, for if a fairy meets someone who has a clear, driving, unswerving aim, then the fairy is driven, also—driven to tell his secret, occult name. You and the imp evidently do not have such an aim. You do not know what you are truly seeking. The goblin obviously does."

  "He told her he wanted to kill me!"

  "Then that is everything he wants from life. He would willingly die to achieve that one satisfaction, and the fairy recognized that. Whether she approved or disapproved would not matter; she could not escape her compulsion. She told him her name and so gave him a word of power to help him achieve his goal."

  "But," Rap protested, "I told her my—"

  "Then you lied. Unwittingly, I am sure, but either you do not want it enough, or you really want something else. The fairy would know your heart better than you. It is their only power, and their curse. Be silent a moment."

  She stopped before she reached the honor guard now flanking the gateway. The commander advanced a step and saluted an empty patch of air several paces in front of her. He waited, then made a ritual reply, and waited again. Puzzled, Rap glanced at Oothiana. She was smiling mischievously as she watched the farcical performance. Apparently the legionaries saw the governor as being accompanied by a large escort. The one-sided ceremony continued for a few moments, but finally the imaginary force was given formal permission to proceed, and Oothiana began walking again. Her humble prisoner trailed alongside, being equally honored by the stiffly saluting soldiers. He wondered if he was riding in an invisible coach drawn by imaginary horses.

  As he passed below the Imperial star, Rap lost his occult view of the town and harbor, and the palace grounds were revealed to his farsight. They surprised him—trees and folds in the hillside had been cleverly used to conceal many more buildings than he had suspected. Most were low wooden structures, largely open to the friendly climate. He identified stables and barracks nearby and grander mansions at higher levels. This was a garden palace, much more pleasant than Holinarn's bleak castle in Krasnegar, or the forbidding impish stronghold at Pondague, which he had glimpsed from afar while tracking Inos.

  As they rounded a bend and drew out of sight of the bewitched guards, Oothiana began to laugh. He turned to her in surprise.

  "I love doing that,” she said.

  He smiled. Suddenly she was no great lady, but a pretty girl, not so very much older than himself, sharing her mirth at the juvenile prank she had just played. Not as beautiful as Inos, of course, but fair enough, and human under the grandeur.

  "After hiding my powers so long," she said, "I enjoy being free to use them."

  "Doing sorcery, you mean?"

  "Yes, although that was only magic, and a small, illusion-magic at that."

  "I didn't know there was a difference."

  "Oh, yes. Magic is what a mage does. It's temporary. A sorcerer can also do sorcery, which is permanent, quite different. For instance—"

  Rap's farsight picked up the newcomer at the same moment as hers did. He wheeled around. The road was flanked here by a grassy bank smothered in pale-blue flowers. On the top of it stood a dwarf, who had certainty not been there a second earlier.

  He had chosen a vantage point where he could look down on them. On level ground he would not have reached to Rap's shoulder, but he was thick and broad, with the oversize head and hands of his race. His hair and beard were a metallic gray shade, curled like turnings from a lathe, and his face had the color and texture of rock.

  But if dwarves aged like the races Rap knew, then this one was in his sixties and therefore could not be Zinixo himself; moreover a warlock would not wear such obviously shabby work clothes and heavy boots.

  "Raspnex?" Oothiana said coldly. "I thought you were keeping watch."

  "Change of orders." He gestured over his shoulder with an oversize thumb. "He wants you. Now."

  Oothiana stiffened and drew a nervous breath. "In the Gazebo?"

  "In Hub. You have some explaining to do."

  Instantly all expression left the lady's face. That had to be magic, Rap thought.

  "I—yes," she said calmly. "All right. This is one of the intrud—"

  "Not wanted. I'll take care of him."

  Oothiana nodded, glanced at Rap as if about to say something, and just vanished. Rap jumped, then looked warily up at Raspnex, who was regarding him contemptuously.

  "Never liked fauns. Stubborn lot. Roisterers and spendthrifts."

  Rap could not see how humility would improve his situation much. "Will you let me go if I promise to be boorish and niggardly, like a dwarf?"

  Raspnex growled, an unpleasant grinding sound. "You told the lady your green friend wants to kill you, so I'd assume that—"

  "You were spying?"

  The older man scowled. "I was. Mind your manners, faun. You want to share a cell with him, or would you rather not?"

  "Share," Rap said. "He wants to kill me in public. He won't hurt me without an audience."

  "You pick odd buddies! Jail is along—"

  "I'm hungry," Rap said.

  The dwarf rubbed his beard, staring at Rap as if puzzled. Then he growled, "Come here, lad."

  Rap walked over and climbed the bank. He stopped as soon as his eyes were level with the dwarf's—two beads of gray flint staring out from a face of pitted, weathered sandstone. Even the wrinkles around those eyes looked more like cracks.

  "You know w
hat's going to happen!" His voice was a subterranean rumble. "How come you're not more scared?"

  Silly question. Rap would feel plenty scared if he let himself think about the matter. Fortunately, he hadn't had time yet to brood and screw himself up into a funk. "You're not dead till your heart stops," he said; one of his mother's little homilies. His heart was thumping pretty firmly right now.

  Raspnex pouted. "Kinda fancy the proconsul?"

  "Fine lady."

  A faint nod. "Not just faun. What else are you?"

  "Jotunn."

  "Gods, what a horrible mixture! Explains that flash of temper we saw, though, doesn't it? Still, might work. A jotunn would've tried something brainless, and a faun would've just sulked. How are you for stubbornness, with those bloodlines?"

  Rap had no trouble keeping his temper reined in when he knew he was being bated. The man had called him over to put him within punch-swinging range. Only idiots fell into traps that obvious.

  The dwarf grinned suddenly, showing teeth like quartz pebbles. "Here," he said. He held out a sandwich of black bread and hot, greasy meat.

  "Thank you, sir!" Rap grabbed the offering. As he bit into it, he noticed that some of it was already missing.

  "Don't thank me; thank the skinny recruit with the buck teeth. What're you smirking about?"

  Rap spoke with his mouth full. "Never thought I'd ever meet a better thief than Thinal."

  Raspnex chuckled. "Jail's that way, faun. Be off with you!"

  The jail was a long way north, at the end of the cape. Rap's feet knew the way and took him there, pacing unswervingly along the middle of the road, making confident choices at every branch or intersection. He remembered how Inos had been abducted by Rasha in the same manner.

  Three times carriages veered around him in clouds of dust and oaths. Other pedestrians were rare, but once he came face to face with a full maniple marching toward him. Apparently his ensorceled behavior was not unknown in those parts, for where a free man would have been mindlessly trampled into the dirt, the centurion bellowed for the lines to open, and Rap proceeded along a corridor of oak-faced legionaries heading in the opposite direction. Not one of them met his eye.