“Thinner?” Bartlemy said.
“Yes.” Annie smiled. “More like a real wizard.”
Bartlemy laughed. “And the Hackforths?”
“They just seemed so…sad. It’s a dreadful situation. I can’t believe Giles could be doing anything really evil—he’s just suffering.”
“He’s vulnerable,” Bartlemy pointed out. “He could be used.”
“Mm. Selena—his wife—thinks Damon could be possessed. At least—she said he was like someone possessed. Is that possible?”
“It depends. Possession is very rare. A spirit can easily inhabit an inanimate object, but to take over a living person, with a soul, that person must invite it in. Like hypnosis: you can’t be hypnotized to do anything you wouldn’t do of your own free will. Nobody’s mind can be controlled by another, magically or otherwise, unless, in some way, they allow it. It’s one of the Ultimate Laws, as old as Time. Few people are stupid enough to invite possession.”
“Damon’s a teenager,” Annie reminded him. Almost a joke, and wasted without Nathan to object to it.
“Nonetheless…”
Bartlemy suggested she stay for supper, and she called Nathan on his new cell phone to tell him to join them. (The phone had been a fourteenth-birthday present, on a Pay-As-You-Go deal that he had to fund from his allowance.) Over the meal, Bartlemy steered the conversation back to the Hackforths, and Father Crowley.
“He sees things,” Nathan said. “Everyone respects him. He knows stuff about all the boys, and nobody can work out how he knows it.”
“He certainly seems to know a lot about you,” Bartlemy said thoughtfully. “Or guess.”
“I can’t think where he got that business about me not being there in the night. Ned Gable noticed, but he wouldn’t have told anyone else, I know he wouldn’t. He’s not the tale-telling type.”
“A good headmaster should be omniscient about his pupils,” Bartlemy said.
“The worst thing about all this,” Annie remarked, “is that you start suspecting everybody, just on the strength of some perfectly innocent inquiry. It’s a lot worse than the trouble last year. We have too many clues, and no crime. Well, only a burglary that went wrong. What’s the collective noun for clues?”
“Like a gaggle of geese?” Nathan was intrigued. “How about—a muddle of clues?”
“An entanglement,” Bartlemy said. “At least for the moment. Have you found out any more about this new world of yours, or would you rather not say?”
“There’s a city,” Nathan said, “called Carboneck, or Wilderslee. I think one’s the city and one’s the kingdom, but I don’t know which is which. Most of the people have left, and the king’s an invalid. He picked up the sword, and it bit him—stabbed him, I mean—and now the wound won’t heal, and everything’s under a curse.”
“Stories don’t change”—Bartlemy sighed—“wherever you are. Does this king have a daughter?”
“How did you guess?”
“They always do.”
Before they left, Nathan remembered to mention Hazel’s meeting with Woody, and how he had told her the dwarf was still hanging about. “He can’t get the sword,” Nathan said. “In any case, there’s no proof it was ever here. But he might still be after the Grail, if he knows or suspects you have it.”
“The dwarf is another clue,” Annie said, “but to what?”
“Sometime,” Bartlemy concluded, “I shall have to talk to him. When he’s hungry enough, he’ll come here.”
“He kills rabbits,” Nathan offered, “but Hazel didn’t mention if Woody said he cooked them.”
“I must prepare a wild rabbit stew,” Bartlemy said, “and leave the kitchen door open. True dwarfs have an excellent sense of smell.”
“Perhaps he likes them best raw,” Nathan suggested. “Like Gollum.”
“Gollum never had my cooking,” Bartlemy said tranquilly.
REMEMBERING THE omniscience of Father Crowley, Nathan knew he mustn’t dream when he was at school. If he didn’t let his mind dwell on Carboneck (or Wilderslee), if he focused on math, history, cricket, if he fell asleep without thinking of the princess, then nothing would happen. He was very nearly sure of that. But math was sines and cosines, which bored him, and history was the Agricultural Revolution (dull), and even cricket allowed too much time for his thoughts to wander in the wrong direction. And in bed, with the lights out, when there was nothing to get in the way, the princess’s image rose up before him—not the most beautiful of women, he knew that, but somehow irresistible, if only to him. His memory of her was elusive, details came and went, he could never quite form a complete picture, but that simply made her more tantalizing, more enchanting, more special. He wasn’t in love with her—well, not very much—but he knew he had to help her, and even the Traitor’s Sword seemed only an adjunct to her story.
Inevitably, when the dream carried him back to Carboneck, he realized at once that he was in trouble.
He was visible. Not a solid being but a misty, ghost-like creature who would have to hide from general sight, more substantial than he had been in Frimbolus’s workroom but still far from real. And of course, he was wearing pajamas—the curse of travelers in other worlds, from the children who followed Peter Pan into Neverland to Arthur Dent on his galactic voyages. He wasn’t particularly fashion-minded but he really didn’t want to meet the princess for the first time as a pajama-clad specter. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” he said to himself with a sigh, surveying hazy legs in pants that were just too short. He was in an alleyway, it was twilight, and at least there was no one about. He began to walk uphill, hoping he was headed for the royal house.
After about twenty yards he found himself crossing a wider street, with light spilling from a half-open door a little way in front. A boy and a girl were standing in the light, deep in talk. The boy was maybe a couple of years older than Nathan, with lank black hair, a very thin face, and somber shadows under his eyes.
The girl was Princess Nellwyn.
Nathan got as near as he dared, hoping he blended with the softness of dusk, before slipping into the lee of a wall.
“You shouldn’t have come,” the boy was saying. “It gets dark early; there may be demons out.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Nell said staunchly. “Anyway, I had to.”
“We could’ve collected the physic in the morning—”
“Bronlee needs it now. I saw how ill she is. Frim—Dr. Quayne—said she should have the first dose tonight. It’ll bring the fever down and help her sleep without the delirium.”
“I’m grateful,” the boy said, sounding curiously reluctant. “Very grateful. But you shouldn’t have taken the risk…I’ll take you home.” Nathan thought he didn’t sound especially keen, though the distance couldn’t be far and Nell’s company was surely desirable.
“This is my city,” the princess said. “Nothing can hurt me here. Don’t you remember I’m a witch?”
“Mud pies into chocolate.” The boy grinned. “I remember.” And suddenly Nathan realized he was the same one who had taunted her in the garden, when they were both much younger.
“I can turn a nightscreech into a heartsong, and Urulation into lullaby,” she declared. “You needn’t look after me, but I might look after you. If you insist on tagging along…”
He hesitated, but courage or courtesy won out. “Wait a moment,” he said shortly. “I’m coming.”
He went inside, reappearing a few minutes later wearing a cloak with the hood thrown back and carrying a staff or walking stick with a spiked tip and a solid metal knob by way of a handle.
“It’s all right, Rosh,” Nell said, eyeing the stick dubiously. “I think…I’d be better alone.”
He ignored this, and they set off up the road together with Nathan following, keeping to the shadows and trusting they would hide him. His progress was complicated by the fact that Rosh in particular looked around frequently and once grabbed Nell’s arm, telling her, in an urgent voi
ce: “There’s something there!” When questioned, however, he couldn’t say what, or who, and Nathan, ducked into the slot between two houses, took care not to show himself. After that he was more cautious, staying well back from the pair, though it meant he couldn’t hear what they were saying. But he didn’t think they said much. The empty silence of the city was overpowering, swallowing some sounds, magnifying others, the kind of silence where you felt you were living in an echo chamber, and if you burped, or breathed too loud, or thought too loud, the silence would hear you.
They stopped a few yards from the palace gate. It was much darker now, a deep blue evening like a Dulac painting, with a single lantern burning outside the wall; its yellow glimmer might have been the only light in the city. The countless vacant houses changed with the growing night, becoming mysterious, crowded with shadows and potential. Nathan felt uneasy at the idea of those dark spaces waiting and watching behind him. But close to the light, the two he followed seemed relieved. He heard a murmur of words and saw Rosh, apparently on impulse, seize the princess in a clumsy embrace, still clutching his stick, pressed against her back. Nell gave a yelp of surprise, and then Rosh bent his head and kissed her.
He was flung back so violently, and with such force, he seemed to fly through the air, ending on the ground some yards away. A glitter of sparks in his wake betrayed the magic in Nell’s thrust. “Roshan Ynglevere!” she cried, panting slightly. “How dare you! I mean, how—how could you? We’re supposed to be friends—I’ve known you all my life—”
He was trying to stand up, hampered by his cloak, which appeared to have become twisted in his fall. “Friends grow up,” he said, with a huff in his voice. “Things change. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“Imbecile!” said the princess. “Not between us. Have I ever said anything’s changed?”
“You’re a girl—you’re quite pretty—well, not bad—and…”
“So you kissed me because suddenly you’ve noticed I’m a girl and I’m quite pretty?”
“Um…no…er, sort of…”
Wrong answer, thought Nathan, with a certain malicious satisfaction. All the wrong answers.
The princess was well away into a savage denunciation of Roshan’s manners (lack of) and intelligence (ditto) when Nathan became aware of something else. A soft, slithery noise from farther down the street—a noise with undertones of squelch and a suggestion of weightiness—a thickening in the darkness there—the impression of something large and bulky heaving itself slowly toward them. The watchful silence of the city altered, focusing on the unseen approach. Rosh and the princess were still arguing, oblivious to what was coming. You used magic, Nathan was thinking. The Urdemons come when you use magic—
He wanted to shout a warning but somehow his voice stuck in his throat.
Then they saw. It drew nearer to the light, humping itself awkwardly across the ground, a dim slug-shape with a head—or where a head should be—rearing up to six feet or more, dragging behind the dark gelatinous mass of its body. It had no face or eyes, but a mouth hole gaped suddenly, jagged with teeth, and the light shone down the endless tunnel of its gorge. Rosh picked up his fallen staff and pointed the spiked end, perhaps unaware that he was backing away. The princess stood stiffly in its path. She didn’t move—perhaps she couldn’t. Nathan looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing at hand, and he was probably too insubstantial to hold one. Briefly he noticed that he was glowing faintly in the presence of magic as he had done in Frimbolus’s workroom. He thought: I’m dreaming. I’m not solid. If the worst happens, I’ll wake up.
Then he ran out in front of the princess.
He heard a gasp that might have come from Nell, but he wasn’t looking at her. The Urdemon towered above him like a giant bloated worm, its ragged maw stretching wider, wider…A sound came from it like the roar of a hurricane, like the shrieking of a hundred banshees—the Urulation. Nathan clapped his hands over his ears. The mouth came swooping down toward him, jaws distended to swallow him whole. This was a moment when you needed an elvish starglass, and words like Elbereth! Gilthoniel!—but the only such words he knew were those he had heard his uncle utter, long before, to dismiss a spirit from the magic circle. He took his hands from his ears and reached out as though pushing the monster away: they shone pale and transparent against the blackness of its gape. “Vardé!” he cried, in the language of spellpower. “Envarré! By the Cup and the Sword and the Crown, begone!” His voice sounded different from usual, clear and strange, like a voice from another plane, another world.
There was a horrible moment when he thought nothing would happen.
Then the Urdemon flinched as if from a sudden cold, its body arched backward—shuddered—and the whole towering mass began to collapse like a blancmange in an earthquake, quivering, flailing blindly from side to side, dissolving inward with a series of hideous glooping, gurgling noises, until there was nothing left but a viscous black puddle that shrank and shrank to the size of a droplet. A bubble heaved, burst with a tiny plop!—and was gone.
Nathan, turning, saw the princess staring at him as if he were a ghost—which of course he was. She was obviously frightened, but she managed a smile, her lips moving on a phrase—probably thank you. But just when he wanted it most the dream was leaving him, slipping away, and all the princess would see was a phantom in pajamas too small for him who faded into the gloom without a word, leaving her alone in the dark with Rosh…
Nathan was flung back into his own world so rapidly he woke with a jerk, starting up in bed and looking wildly around as though he expected the princess—or the Urdemon—to be there still. But the dormitory was dark, and everyone slept, and he lay down again with his heart pounding and his head in a tailspin.
It was some time before he could sleep again.
Bartlemy spent much of that week reflecting on the dietary habits of dwarfs. They were meat eaters by repute; in fact, it was said they would eat animals no other intelligent life-form would touch, including weasel, rat, water vole, badger—the whole cast of Wind in the Willows, Bartlemy thought—lizard, and toad. The rarity of certain types of newt in the British Isles was attributable to the number of indigenous true dwarfs who survived here until the late Middle Ages, according to some Gifted historians. They didn’t enjoy fish or greens, but ate root vegetables like potato, rutabaga, and carrot (all dwarfs have good darksight, which may be the origin of the popular myth about carrots) and used wild herbs for flavoring. They were not fond of fruit but liked nuts and honey, and—rumor again—made various kinds of bread remarkable more for toughness and durability than appetizing breadness.
In between periods of reflection, Bartlemy cooked. He cooked with the window open, and the kitchen door, sending delicious smells wafting across the garden toward the woods—smells of potatoes roasting, or baking in their jackets, and onions softening in butter, and venison stewing in wine, and wood pigeons in honey, and wild rabbit with prunes, and various more unusual ingredients that had not found themselves on a menu since the days of ancient Rome. Sometimes he glimpsed eyes watching from the bushes, dark strange eyes with no whites—the eyes of the werepeople—but he never tried to ensnare the watcher, merely waiting for him to emerge, whenever he was ready. Hoover (and Annie) dined on exotic leftovers, but the dwarf did not come.
On Saturday, Nathan and Annie came to supper—what they ate they weren’t sure and didn’t like to ask, but it tasted wonderful—and Nathan told his mother and uncle about the Urdemon.
“Do you have to be so reckless?” Annie demanded, feeling proud and terrified in equal measure.
“Interesting,” Bartlemy commented, as always. “Clearly, the creature—like you—wasn’t fully substantial. The two of you met on the same plane—and words of power seem to work anywhere. The language of magic is multiversal. Even so, you aren’t Gifted in that way, so…Someone or something looks after you, as I’ve said before.” Nathan looked a little crestfallen, but Bartlemy concluded: “That doesn’t di
minish your courage in confronting the thing, you know.”
“Just don’t rely on supernatural protection, for God’s sake,” Annie said. “It may not be there next time.”
“The Urdemons turn up when the princess does bits of magic,” Nathan went on, “but I can’t believe she’s summoning them. I thought it might have something to do with the sword. Supposing they guard it, like the gnomons guarded the Grail?”
“I should have thought that was unlikely,” Bartlemy said. “These Urdemons appear to be native to…Wilderslee, did you call it? The sword—if it is the one we want—comes from Eos. And it has its own inhabitant, remember, or so they say. Of course, if whatever dwells in the sword is a spirit of similar type, then the Urdemons might well be drawn to it. But it would have to have a very potent aura indeed to wield such a powerful attraction.”
“Eric said the thing in the sword was an elemental, primitive but very powerful. The Grandir imprisoned it there by magic, a long time ago.”
Bartlemy considered this. “The Urdemons, too, would appear to be elementals, chaos-spirits who have no real form of their own but borrow the attributes of beasts, birds, weather, even humans, depending on their mood. However, even if they are drawn to the demon of the sword, you said they only appeared in the princess’s lifetime, which makes them fairly recent arrivals. A summons is indicated, and for a summons, there must be a summoner.”
“The princess would never—”
“I didn’t say it was the princess. She could be an unwitting catalyst. Whoever called them might have bound them to her without her knowledge.”
“That’s wicked,” Nathan said, using the word in its literal sense. “She feels so guilty…”
“You know how she feels, do you?” Bartlemy’s innocent blue gaze held the suspicion of a twinkle.
“I—yes.” Nathan missed it. “Who would do that? Could it—could it be the Grandir?”
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