A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  Daras showed a little more interest. “Perhaps…” he said, then finished, “perhaps you can read to me later.”

  “It'll have to be later. I'm for Wylandia tonight. Macol and Father are sending a delegation to Aldair. Father thought it might carry more weight if a Prince of the Blood went along.”

  “Not me, of course,” Daras said bitterly.

  “Be reasonable, Brother. You've no patience for diplomacy; action suits you better.”

  “It suits all men better.”

  Galan swallowed the casual insult by long habit. He'd long ago given up seeking approval from his older brother. He'd never quite given up wanting it. “We wouldn't want to do anything to endanger Ashesa.” Her name brought back a little of the envy he'd always felt for Daras. The first time Galan had ever seen Ashesa was barely a year before, when Morushe's royal family paid a state visit to Borasur. He'd spent a month afterward writing bad poetry and staring at the moon.

  “No,” Daras agreed, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Ashesa awoke in a room fit for a princess—a near perfect copy of her own. The big four-poster bed and the tapestry of the Quest of the Sunbeast were both in place; she was beginning to think she might have dreamed the whole abduction until she saw what was wrong. There were books, and they were not hidden.

  She got up, still a little wobbly, and examined the first of them. They weren't hers, of course. She checked a few pages of each, just enough to know they were real books. She closed the last one and checked the door.

  Barred.

  Someone's gone to a great deal of trouble to make me feel comfortable was all she could think. Her head still ached and it was easier not to think at all. There was an arched window in the east wall, and she looked out.

  The room was in a high tower somewhere in the mountains—somewhere, some mountains—and even in the dying light the view was breathtaking. The earth folded like a deflated bagpipe in all directions, and one peak snuggled up to the next with a bare knife-edge of a valley between them. The window was barred, too, but the glassed shutters worked. She opened them and took a breath of cool, head-clearing air.

  Someone knocked on her door.

  Odd manners for a kidnapper. And there was another thought. “I'm afraid you'll have to let yourself in,” she said.

  Nothing happened. Ashesa put her ear to the door and heard a faint creaking like an old oak in a breeze. The knock repeated.

  “Come in, damn you!”

  She heard a scrape as the bar lifted, then the clink of silverware. The door swung outward and there stood a figure in a black robe and hood, carrying a tray of food and wine. His face and hands were both covered—his face by the hood, his hands by leather gloves. He looked like one of the pair who had helped kidnap her. Ashesa stepped back, and the figure came in and set the tray on a little table by the bed. Ashesa considered trying to slip past him, but two more were in the corridor, steel spears glinting. She turned to the tray bearer, looking regal despite her rumpled condition.

  “I demand to know who you are and why you've brought me here.” Her jailor only shook his head slowly and turned toward the door. Ashesa stamped her foot and snatched at the hood. “Look at me when I speak to—”

  There was no face under the hood. A stump of wood jutted through the neck of the robe, around which a lump of clay had been crudely shaped. A piece of it fell to the floor and shattered with a little puff of yellow dust. Ashesa screamed.

  “Normally they don't wear anything, but I didn't want to upset you. I see I've failed.”

  A slightly chagrined man stood in the doorway. He was just past the full blood of youth, with features as fine and delicate as a girl's. His dark eyes were reddened and weak, as if he spent too many hours reading in poor light. None of these details registered as strongly in Ashesa's mind as her first impression—the man had an air of quiet certainty that she found infuriating.

  “Very …considerate,” Ashesa said, recovering her poise with great effort. “Would you please tell me what that is and who you are?”

  He patted the simulacrum fondly. “That, Highness, is a stick golem. I learned the technique from a colleague in Nyas; you should see what he can do with stone…” He stoped, clearly aware that Ashesa had heard as much as she cared to on the subject. “My apologies, Highness. I am called Timon the Black.”

  Ashesa almost screamed again. She scrambled to the other side of the bed and snatched up a heavy gilt candlestick from the table. She waved it with all the menace she could scrape together. “Don't come near me, Fiend!”

  “My reputation precedes me,” the magician sighed. “What is my most recent atrocity?”

  Ashesa glared at him. “Do you deny that you sacrificed a virgin girl to raise an army of demons against the Red Company?”

  Timon smiled a little ruefully. “To start, they weren't demons and she wasn't a virgin. Nor did I 'sacrifice' her …exactly. The Red Company took a geld from half the kingdoms on the mainland, so I don't recall hearing any objections at the time. No matter; it's water down the river. You must be hungry, Highness. Have some supper.”

  In truth, the aroma from the tray was making Ashesa a little giddy, but she eyed it with suspicion. Timon noticed the look.

  “Be reasonable, Highness. Would I go to all this bother just to poison you? And if I were in need of a virgin, there are certainly others easier to hand than a Princess of the Blood, common knowledge and barracks gossip not withstanding.”

  “You are a beast,” she said.

  “Red-eyed and howling every full moon. So I've heard.”

  Ashesa shrugged and sampled a beef pie. It was delicious. She poured herself some wine as Timon dismissed his servant. He found a chair and sat watching her, while she in turn glared at him between mouthfuls.

  “Well?” she asked, finally. “Aren't you going to tell me why I'm here?”

  “You didn't ask, so I assumed you weren't interested. Pesky things, assumptions,” he said. “Let's see what others might be floating about, besides that silly misunderstanding about virginity …Ransom? There's a common theme. Will I force your doting father to surrender half his kingdom to save you?”

  Ashesa took a sip of wine so he wouldn't see her smile. “No,” she said from behind her goblet.

  Timon looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

  “Because we both know you wouldn't get it, break Father's heart though it would. And then there's all this…” She waved a capon leg at the room and furnishings. “That tapestry alone is of finer quality than my copy, and I know how much that one cost—poor Father nearly had a stroke. You obviously have great resources at your beck, Magician. That rules out any conventional ransom short of greed, and that's one sin I've never heard spoken of you. So. What do you want?”

  There was open admiration in Timon's eyes. “You have an exceptional mind, Highness. It's really unfortunate that Daras will never allow you to use it. From what I've gathered of his philosophy, your duties will be to produce heirs and be ornamental at court.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about matters that don't concern you, Magician, but you still haven't answered my question. I wish you would because frankly I'm baffled. I hope for your sake it's more than a whim. They'll search for me, you know.”

  “And find you, too, since I was good enough to leave a note. I've also bought supplies openly; my location is common knowledge to half the hill crofters on the border. Diplomacy and protocol will delay your father, but Prince Daras will be along soon.”

  Ashesa was stunned. “Are you mad? As well to draw a map and have done!”

  “No, Highness. I'm not mad, though it often seems so—even to me. But to avoid wearying you I'll speak plainly—I kidnapped you so that Prince Daras will try to rescue you. And he will try. His nature doesn't allow for any other option.”

  “But why—” Ashesa stopped. She knew. It was there for her to see in Timon's eyes.

  “Quite right, Highness. I'm going to kill him.”

/>   The man Macol selected to watch Daras was a veteran: solid, trustworthy. A competent guard. Not a competent diplomat. The orders he had received in King Macol's throne room were quite beyond him.

  “I want you to guard my son's quarters tonight,” said King Riegar solemnly. “He is not to leave his room.”

  “But,” added King Macol, “Prince Daras is an honored guest, not a prisoner. Treat him with respect.”

  Riegar nodded. “Certainly. But he may have it in his head to do something foolish. Use whatever force you must, within reason.”

  “But,” again added Macol, “Prince Daras is heir to the throne of Borasur. He must on no account be harmed or you'll answer for it.”

  “Just keep him there,” said Riegar.

  “Without hurting or offending him,” said Macol. “Now. Is all that clear?”

  “Yes, Sire,” the man lied. Later, as he stood at his post in the corridor, he placidly awaited the inevitable.

  “Guard,” Prince Daras called out, “lend some assistance in here, there's a good fellow.”

  The guard smiled and walked right in. The bump on his head was no less than he expected, and he was grateful for it. It seemed the simplest solution to a very complicated problem.

  Princess Ashesa climbed the long spiral staircase to the top of Timon's fortress. Her hooded escort thumped along behind her like a child on stilts. Ashesa wasn't fooled. She'd stumbled once and the thing had snapped forward, supporting her, faster than she would have believed possible.

  They passed several doors along the way. All unlocked, most empty, but Ashesa couldn't resist looking for something that might help her escape. One room was full of echoing voices in a language she didn't understand; another held a dark gray mist and she dared not enter. None of them contained anything useful.

  Ashesa ran out of doors and stairs at about the same time. She and her golem escort stood on the parapet that wrapped around the outside off the highest level of the tower. The thin mountain wind whipped the golem's robes tight against its stick frame until it looked like a scarecrow flapping in a field. Ashesa looked over the railing and got a little dizzy.

  “Too far to jump,” said the wind.

  Ashesa jumped anyway, but only a little. She didn't clear the railing.

  The dwarf sat before a small canvas on the other side of the platform. He had changed his woodland green for an artist's smock stained with the remnants of an exploded rainbow. He concentrated on the canvas and painted with long smooth strokes, unperturbed by the gusts.

  “That depends on your reason for jumping,” returned Ashesa grimly.

  The dwarf smiled, though he still wouldn't look at her. “A noble gesture, but it wouldn't keep Daras out of Timon's web even if he knew. Revenge has a longer pedigree than rescue.”

  “He's very certain of himself, your master.”

  “About some things,” the dwarf agreed sadly. “He can't help it.”

  Ashesa considered a new tack. “How much is he paying you? Whatever your price, my father will meet it. Just help me escape and warn My Beloved Daras.”

  The dwarf cleaned one brush and selected another. “Would your father be willing to offer me the lucrative and entirely appropriate position of Court Fool?”

  “Certainly!”

  “Yes,” the dwarf sighed. “I thought he might.”

  Ashesa frowned, and, even as she spoke the words, she wondered how many times they had passed her lips and her thoughts since the kidnapping. “I don't understand.”

  “My story is simple, Highness—my father sold me to a troupe of acrobats and thieves when I was seven. By twelve I was the best among them at both skills, but I still wore a cap and bells at every performance. Can you guess why?” He studied the canvas. “And when I couldn't abide that anymore I took to the streets on my own, and that's where Timon found me. We understood one another. Now he pays me with a little gold and a lot of hardship and aggravation, but part of the price is respect and an appreciation of my talents that totally ignores my height except when it's actually important. That's coin beyond your means, I'm afraid. Consider—we've been conversing for the better part of two minutes and you haven't even asked my name.” He swirled the brush tip in a puddle of gold.

  Ashesa stood in the presence of the man who'd kidnapped her, and yet for a moment she almost felt as if he were the injured party. It made her angry. “What is your name?”

  He touched his cap and left a speck of gold there. “Seb, at your service,” he said, making a quick dab at the canvas. “Up to a point.”

  “I'd like to know where that point is. Timon won't tell me why he plans to kill My Beloved Daras. Will you?”

  “My Beloved …that's not what you were calling him during your little ride.” Ashesa flushed but said nothing. Seb shrugged. “I know—it's the proper title for the betrothed and you do know your duty, even if you don't like it. So. Why not 'to prevent the marriage'? You suggested it yourself, Timon says.”

  The princess shook her head. “If he merely wanted that, killing me would have worked as well and been a lot less bother. I don't flatter myself by thinking he'd have hesitated.”

  “He wouldn't,” confirmed Seb, “though it would grieve him bitterly. As it will when Daras is killed.”

  “But why? Why does Daras deserve to die?”

  Seb smiled ruefully. “That's the saddest part. He doesn't. At least not in the sense of anything he's done. It's who he is, and what he is, and what that combination will make him do when the time comes. It's all here, Highness, if you care to look.”

  Seb moved to one side so she could see the canvas. Ashesa's mouth fell open in surprise when she recognized the portrait. It was Daras, mounted and armored in an archaic pattern. He held his helmet under one arm, his lance pointed to the sky.

  “It's lovely,” she said honestly, “but why the old armor?”

  “That's the armor of the time of the Lyrsan wars. When the folk of the Western Deserts pushed east against the Seven Kingdoms. That's when Daras should have lived. That was a time for heroes.”

  “Daras isn't a hero,” Ashesa snapped. “That takes more than winning tournaments.”

  “More even than rescuing one princess,” the dwarf agreed. “It's rather a full-time pursuit. It might even take, say, a long bloody war with Wylandia.”

  Ashesa put her hands on her hips. “Do you really expect me to believe that Daras would start a war just so he can be a hero?”

  “He wouldn't be starting it, to his way of thinking. But the seeds are already there: real intrigues, imagined insults …mistrust. All waiting to take root in his mind until he firmly believes that Wylandia struck first. You see, Daras is already a hero in many ways. He's seen the soul of it in his brother's stories, and in that he sees himself. And why not? He's brave, strong, skilled in warlike pursuits and in no other. All he lacks to make his destiny complete is the one vital ingredient—need. If the need is not there, he will create it. He has no choice. And neither do we.”

  Most of the blood had deserted Ashesa's face, and she trembled. “You can't be sure! And even if you were, what right—”

  “Timon is sure,” interrupted Seb calmly. “It's his greatest power, and greatest curse. He knows, and he can't escape the responsibility of knowing. That gives him the right.”

  “I …don't …believe …you!” Ashesa spat out each word like something foul.

  Seb smiled. “Oh, yes, you do. More than you'd like, anyway. Far better to see this tale as history no doubt will—a foul crime done by foul folk. Forgive me, Highness, but I'm not as kind as Timon and see no reason why this should be any easier on you than the rest of us.”

  Ashesa's hands turned into fists, and she took a step toward the dwarf. In an instant the golem was between her and Seb, and the dwarf hadn't even blinked. Ashesa took several deep, calming breaths, and after a moment the golem moved aside. Ashesa groped for some shred of sweet reason to pull her thoughts out of the pit. “But …but Daras can't start a war on his ow
n! Only the king can do that! Even if what you say is true, there's still time…”

  While she spoke Seb made several deft strokes on the canvas, and when she saw what the dwarf had painted there her words sank into nothing.

  “Time has run out, Highness. King Riegar—rest him—died in his sleep last night.”

  In the portrait, Daras wore the plain golden crown of Borasur.

  Prince Daras had never been on a quest before and wasn't quite sure what to expect, but at least the scenery felt right—it was wild and strange. The forest that bordered the mountain foothills was very different from the tilting fields and well-groomed game parks he was accustomed to: the grass grew high and razor-edged, brambles clawed at his armored legs, and trees took root and reached for the sunlight wherever the notion took them. Daras stepped his charger through a tortured, twisty path, and when an arrow hummed out of the trees and twanged off his armor, that, too, seemed as it should be.

  “Hah! Villains! At you!”

  Daras spurred forward along the arrow's course as if his mount was as armored as he was. The second arrow showed that notion in error; Daras barely cleared the stirrups before the poor beast went down kicking. Another instant and he was among them.

  They were men, of course. Forest bandits with no other skill and without enough sense to avoid a victim armed in proof. None of that mattered once the attack began. They were bodies attached to swords, meat in ragged clothes for the blooding, characters in a play of which Daras was the lead, existing only for their cue to dance a few steps and then die. It wasn't how he thought it would be; it wasn't horrible. Daras never saw their faces, never noticed their pain as he turned clumsy blows and struck sure ones, killing with the mad joy of a newfound sport. When it was over it was as if they had never lived at all.

  Rather like a tournament, only they don't get up.

  After the last bandit fell, Daras, catlike, lost interest. He cleaned his sword on a dead man's tunic, had a sip or two of weak wine, then resumed his quest on foot, whistling.