by Terry Brooks
Whitsell stuck his head through the door. “I’m going out for a bit,” he advised. “That guy I told you about, the one who’s going to provide the rest of the money we need to get you back to Virginia, is down at the motel waiting to talk to me. Then we’ll be coming back here for the interview. If you check out, we’re all set. So maybe you’d better get yourself ready.”
Abernathy blinked and sat up. “Are you sure all this is necessary, Mr. Whitsell? I feel rather uncomfortable with the idea of talking about myself and having pictures taken. I doubt that the High Lord … uh, my friend, would approve.”
“There you go with that High Lord’ business again,” Whitsell snapped. “Who is this guy, anyway?” He shook his head wearily when Abernathy just stared at him. “Look, if we don’t talk to the man with the money and let him take your picture, we don’t get the money. And if we don’t get the money, we can’t get you back to Virginia. As I told you before, the money Elizabeth gave you just isn’t enough.”
Abernathy nodded doubtfully. He wasn’t sure he believed that anymore. “How much longer until I can go?”
Whitsell shrugged. “Day, maybe two. Just be patient.”
Abernathy thought he had been patient long enough, but he decided not to say so. Instead, he stood up and started for the bathroom. “I will be ready when you return,” he promised.
Whitsell left him there, passed back through the living room, pausing to scratch Sophie’s ears affectionately, went out the side door into the carport, and got into his old pickup. Abernathy watched him go. He knew he was being used, but there was no help for it. He had no one else he could turn to and nowhere else he could go. The best he could do was hope that Whitsell would keep his word.
He walked into the living room and peered out the window long enough to see the pickup back out the driveway and turn up the street.
He paid no attention at all to the black van parked across the way.
Somewhere down the hall, the old clock ticked methodically in the stillness. Abernathy stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at himself. Four days were gone since he had escaped Michel Ard Rhi and Graum Wythe, and Landover seemed as far away as ever. He sighed and licked his nose, rethinking his options. If this business of the interview and the pictures didn’t produce results, he guessed he was simply going to have to bid Davis Whitsell good-bye and strike out on his own. What other choice did he have? Time was running out on him. He had to find a way to get the medallion safely back to the High Lord.
He cleaned his teeth, brushed his fur, and studied himself some more in the mirror. He was looking much better than he had on his arrival, he decided. Eating and sleeping like a regular person did wonders for one.
He toweled his paws absently. Too bad Mrs. Whitsell had felt it necessary to leave. He couldn’t understand why she had been so upset …
He thought he heard something and started to turn.
That was when the immobilizing spray hit him in the face. He staggered back, choking. A cord wound about his muzzle and a sack came over his head. He was lifted off his feet and carried out. He struggled weakly, but the hands that held him were strong and practiced. He could hear voices, hushed and hurried, and through a small tear in the sack he caught a glimpse of a black van with its rear doors open. He was tossed inside and the doors slammed shut.
Then something sharp jabbed into his backside, and he was engulfed in blackness.
LOVE SONG
Day slipped away into evening in the country of the River Master, and the fairy folk of Elderew put aside their work and began to light the lamps of the tree lanes and pathways in preparation for the coming of night. All through the massive old trees which cradled their city, they darted—along limbs and branches, up and down gnarled trunks, through steadily lengthening shadows and thickening mist. Sprites, nymphs, kelpies, naiads, pixies, elementals of all forms and shapes, they were the creatures of the fairy world that surrounded the valley of Landover, creatures who were exiled or had fled from lives in which they had found no pleasure, though such lives had lasted an eternity.
The River Master stood at the edge of a park fronting his hidden forest city and mused on dreams of paradise lost. He was a tall, lean man, dressed in robes of forest green, a sprite with grainy, silver skin, gills at the side of his neck that fluttered gently as he breathed, hair that grew thick and black on his head and forearms, and an odd, chiseled face with eyes that were flat and penetrating. He had come into Landover at the time of its inception, bringing his people with him, exiled forever by choice from the mists of fairy. Mortal now, in a sense he had never appreciated in his old life, he lived in the seclusion of the lake country and worked to keep its earth, water, air, and life forms clean and safe. He was a healer sprite, capable of giving back life where it had been stolen. But some wounds refused to heal, and the irretrievable loss of his birth home was a scar that would always be with him.
He walked a few steps closer to the city, conscious of the guards who trailed at a respectful distance to allow him his privacy. Five of eight moons glimmered full in the night sky, colors bright against the black—mauve, peach, jade, burnt rose, and white.
“Paradise lost,” he whispered, thinking still of the haunting dreams of the fairy mists. He looked around. “But paradise gained, too.”
He loved the lake country. It was the heart and soul of his people, the exiles and the wanderers who had banded with him to begin anew, to discover and build for themselves and their children a world of beginnings and ends, a world of no absolutes—a world they could not find within the mists. Elderew lay hidden within marshlands, deep within a sprawling maze of forests and lakes, so well concealed that no one could find a way in or out without the help of its denizens. Those who tried simply disappeared in the mire. Elderew was a haven from the madness of those in the valley that could not appreciate the value of life—the land barons of the Greensward, the trolls and gnomes of the mountains, the monsters driven from fairy who still survived after a millennium of war. Destruction and misuse of the land was the trademark of such beings. But here, in the sanctuary of the River Master, there was peace.
He watched a dance procession begin to form at the edge of the park before him, a line of children draped in flowers and bright cloth and bearing candles. They sang and wound their way along the paths, over the waterway bridges, and through the gardens and hedgerows. He smiled as he watched them, content.
It was better now in the lands beyond the lake country, he reflected, than it had been before the coming of Ben Holiday. The High Lord of Landover had done much to heal the breach that existed between the disparate peoples of the valley; he had done much to encourage preservation and conservation of the land and its life. Holiday judged rightly—as the River Master did—that all life was inextricably bound together and that if one tie was cut, others were endangered as well.
Willow had gone with the High Lord, Willow his child—chosen, she claimed, in the manner of the sylphs of old, by fates that were woven in the grasses on which her parents lay at her conception. Willow believed in Ben Holiday. The River Master found her belief enviable.
He breathed deeply the night air. Not that his opinions mattered much these days with the High Lord. Holiday was still angry with him for attempting to trap the black unicorn and harness its powers some months back. Holiday had never been able to accept the fact that fairy power belonged only to fairy creatures because they, alone, understood its use.
He shook his head. Ben Holiday had been good for Landover, but he still had much to learn.
There was a small disturbance off to his left, and it brought him about. Onlookers to the dancing of the children had moved rapidly aside as a pair of his marsh sentries stalked out of the gloom of the lowlands mist with a singularly frightening creature between them. Hardened veterans, their grainy wood faces as fixed as stone, the wood nymphs nevertheless kept a fair amount of distance between themselves and their charge. The River Master’s guards started to close about him instantly, b
ut he quickly waved them back. It would serve no purpose to show fear. He stood his ground and let the creature approach.
The creature was called a shadow wight. It was a form of elemental whose physical self had been ravaged at some point in its existence for an unspeakable deed or misuse so that, while it did not die, all that remained of it was its spirit. That poor life was consigned to an eternity of nonbeing. It could sustain itself only within shadows and dark spots, never within light. It had been denied its body and so had no real presence. What presence it possessed it was forced to construct from the debris of its haunts and the remains of its victims. A succubus, it stole life from others so that it, in turn, could survive, thieving and robbing from the lost and dying as a scavenger would. There were few of these horrors left in the valley now, most having perished with the passing of the ages.
This one, the River Master thought darkly, was particularly loathsome.
The shadow wight came to him on spindly, warped legs that might have belonged to an aged troll. Its arms were the limbs of some animal; its body was human. It possessed gnome hands and feet, a human child’s fingers, and a face that was a mix of ravaged parts.
It bore in one hand an old woven sack.
It smiled, and its mouth seemed to twist in a silent scream. “Lord River Master,” it said, its voice an echo of empty caverns. It bowed crookedly.
“It came to us without being brought,” one of the sentries informed the River Master pointedly.
The Lord of the lake country people nodded. “Why have you come?” he asked the wight.
The shadow wight straightened unsteadily. Light passed through its misshapen body at the ragged joining of its bones. “To offer a gift—and to ask one.”
“You found your way in; find your way out again.” The River Master’s face was as hard as stone. “Life will be my gift to you; ridding yourself from my presence will be your gift to me.”
“Death would be a better gift,” the shadow wight whispered, and its empty eyes reflected the distant candlelight. It turned to where the children still danced, wetting its lips with its tongue. “Look at me, Lord River Master. What creature that lived in all the worlds of all the times that are or ever were is more pathetic than I?”
The River Master did not respond, waiting. The wight’s empty gaze shifted again. “I will tell you a story and ask that you listen, nothing more. A few quick moments that might be of interest, Lord River Master. Will you hear me?”
The River Master almost said no. He was so repulsed by the creature that he had barely been able to tolerate its presence this long. Then something caused him to relent. “Speak,” he commanded wearily.
“Two years now have I lived within the crawl spaces and dark spots of the castle of Rhyndweir,” the shadow wight said, edging a step closer, its voice so low that only the River Master could hear. “I lived on the wretches the Lord of that castle cast into its keep and on those poor creatures who strayed too far from the light. I watched and learned much. Then, this past night gone, a ruined troll brought to Rhyndweir’s Lord a treasure to sell, a treasure of such wondrous possibilities that it surpassed anything I had ever seen! The Lord of Rhyndweir took the treasure from the troll and had him killed. I, in turn, took it from the Lord of Rhyndweir.”
“Kallendbor,” said the River Master distastefully. He bore no great affection for any of the Lords of the Greensward, Kallendbor least of all.
“I stole it from his sanctuary while he slept, stole it from beneath the noses of his watch because, after all, Lord River Master, they are only men. I stole it, and I brought it to you—my gift for a gift in return!”
The River Master fought back the wave of revulsion that passed through him as the shadow wight laughed hollowly. “What is this gift?”
“This!” the wight said and pulled from the sack it carried in its withered pink hand a white bottle with red dancing clowns.
“Ah, no!” the River Master cried in recognition. “I know this gift well, shadow wight—and it is no gift at all! It is a curse! It is the bottle of the Darkling!”
“It calls itself so,” the other said, coming closer still, so close its breath was warm against the River Master’s skin. “But it is indeed a gift! It can give the bearer of the bottle …”
“Anything!” finished the River Master, shying away despite his resolve. “But the magic it employs is evil beyond all words!”
“I care nothing for good or evil,” the wight said. “I care only for one thing. Listen to me, Lord River Master. I stole the bottle and I brought it to you. What you do with it now is of no concern to me. Destroy it, if you wish. But first use it to help me!” Its voice was a hiss of despair. “I want myself back again!”
The River Master stared. “Back again? That which you once were?”
“That! Only that! Look at me! I cannot bear myself longer, Lord River Master! I have lived an eternity of nonbeing, of shadowlife, of scavenging and horror beyond all words because I have had no choice! I have stolen lives from every quarter, thieved them from every being that is or was! No more! I want myself back; I want my life again!”
The River Master frowned. “What is it that you expect me to do?”
“Use the bottle to help me!”
“Use the bottle? Why not use it yourself, shadow wight? Haven’t you already said that the bottle can give the bearer anything?”
The wight was trying to cry, but there were no tears in its ruined body. “Lord River Master, I—can—give—myself—nothing! I cannot use the bottle! I have no being and cannot invoke the magic! I am … only barely here! I am only a shadow! All the magic in the world is useless to me! Look at me! I am helpless!”
The River Master stared at the shadow wight with newfound horror, seeing for the first time the truth of what its existence must be like.
“Please!” it begged, dropping to its knees. “Help me!”
The River Master hesitated, then took the sack from the creature’s extended hand. “I will consider it,” he said. He signaled back the watch. “Wait here for a time while I do so. And be careful you work no harm on any of my people, or the choice will be made for me.”
He moved away a bit, holding the sack loosely, slowed, and looked back. The shadow wight was crouched upon the earth, huddled like a broken thing, watching him. He had not the power to heal such a being, he thought wearily. And if the bottle’s magic should give him such power, had he even the right to try?
He turned sharply and walked away. He passed from the park into the city, passed by the dancers and the merrymakers, walked down pathways and along garden rows, lost in the barren landscape of his thoughts. He knew the power of the Darkling. He had known of its power for years, as he knew of the power of most magics. He remembered the uses to which it had been put by the old King’s careless son and the dark wizard Meeks. He understood the way such magic wove brightly colored ribbons about its holder and then turned them suddenly to chains.
The greater the power, the greater the risk, he reminded himself.
And power such as this could do almost anything.
He reached the edge of the city before realizing where he was. He stopped, looked back momentarily for his guards, found them trailing at a respectful distance as always, and promptly dismissed them. He needed to be by himself. The guards hesitated, then were gone.
The River Master walked on alone. What should he do? The bottle was his if he chose to help the shadow wight. It never occurred to him simply to keep the bottle and send the wight packing; he was not that sort. Either he would keep the bottle and help the wight as it had asked, or he would give the bottle back and dismiss the unfortunate creature from his life. If he chose the latter, there was nothing more to consider. If he chose the former, he must decide whether he could use the magic to aid the wight—and perhaps even himself in some way—without falling victim to its power.
Could he do that, he wondered?
Could anyone?
He stopped within a cleari
ng of Bonnie Blues that rose twenty feet above him and screened the night skies in a webbing of deep azure silk. The sounds of the city trailed after him, faint now and distant—laughter, singing, the music and dancing of the children. The old pines were close at hand, the grove in which the wood nymphs danced at midnight, the place where he had first met Willow’s mother …
The thought trailed away in a wash of bitter memories. How long had it been? How long since he had seen her? He could still see her so clearly, even though he had been with her only that one night and lain with her only that once. She was the muse that tortured his soul still, a wondrous, nameless creature, a wood nymph so wild that he could never hope to possess her, not even for a single night more …
And then it came to him, a design so dark that it engulfed him as if he had been submerged in ice water.
“No!” he whispered in horror.
But why not? He stared down suddenly at the sack that contained the magic bottle—the bottle that could give him anything.
Why not?
The bottle needed testing. He must know if he could control it. He must know if he could help the shadow wight as it had asked him or if the magic was too strong to control. What harm, then, in indulging himself just this little bit, just this once.
Why not ask the Darkling to bring him Willow’s mother?
He went hot and cold at the same time, warmed by the thought of her presence after so long an absence, chilled by the prospect of using the magic thus. Ah, but the heat was so much stronger! He longed for the nymph as he had longed for nothing in his life. It had been seemingly forever! Nothing was so missing from his life as what she could bring to him …
“I must try!” he whispered suddenly. “I must!”
He walked swiftly through the woodlands, through the great, silent trees where only the night sounds could reach him, until at last he stood within the grove of old pines. The stillness there was pervasive, and it was only in his mind that he could hear the children’s laughter and see Willow’s mother dance once more.
