Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  The clocks struck in synchrony with an ear-shattering peal. The ground began to weave and buckle, making it difficult for Astron to keep his balance. Off in the distance, he saw the sand rise in a huge wave that climbed halfway into the zenith. The sky above blinked in a kaleidoscope of rapidly changing colors.

  “Away,” Phoebe shouted. “To the first flame that you can find. I care not where.”

  Camonel grunted. “Dominance or submission,” he muttered. “There can be no in between.” Astron saw the mighty djinn pull Phoebe to him with one hand and then swoop to retrieve Nimbia with the other. Cradling them in his stout upper arms, he plucked Kestrel from the surrounding mêlée and then returned for Astron and the rucksack.

  As the wings folded shut about him, Astron heard screams of dismay and pain, and then Abel’s strong voice shouted above the rest. “We have broken the protocols and new ones come in their place. Look about you, reflectives, and see what you have done. Unwittingly, you have invoked the strongest, the ultimate of them all—coalescence follows from similarity. We are merged with the universe of the chronoids and now we are truly doomed.”

  With a crash of grinding reorientation the wave of sand hit the oasis. A chant of eat, sleep, cycle, eat, sleep, cycle began to ring in Astron’s ears. He felt a wave of nausea far stronger than any that had gone before. Everything went blurry, and he seemed to be tumbling head over heel. The sweetness of the air suddenly lost its pleasure. His aches and pains dissolved away. In resignation, he succumbed to the protection of what was again his stembrain, only dimly aware of the closeness of Nimbia at his side.

  PART FIVE

  The Realm of the Aleators

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Little Bit of Luck

  KESTREL looked at his outstretched hands and saw that they were his own. Evidently the last transformation in the realm of reticulates had restored him and Astron to their proper bodies. He shook his head to clear it of the last of the strange feelings. He had felt a robustness that had coursed through his veins with a pounding vigor. His basic needs for air, food, and sleep had been inherently satisfied and had not troubled his thoughts, even on the lowest level. The immortality of a demon’s body he could well believe.

  But to be facing an existence that stretched out forever with so little control over one’s own thoughts! Kestrel frowned at the horror of it. It had been a constant struggle to keep from raising his sword stiffly over his head and plunging to certain death against any of a dozen reflective attacks. Eventually he would have succumbed. It was just too great an effort to remain on guard all the time—on guard against yourself and what your own thoughts might cause to happen.

  Kestrel started to sit up and then hesitated as he became more aware of a gently rocking motion that pushed him from side to side. Looking about cautiously he saw that he was lying at the bottom of a concave wooden hull. Curved spars arched upward from under a keel-board under his back to gunwales well above his head. The last dying embers of a fire hissed in a smoky soup of bilgewater and soot. Below his feet he could see Phoebe’s crumpled form and, beyond her, what probably were Nimbia and Astron stirring as well.

  Kestrel looked skyward and groaned. The canopy was pale blue and lit by a small reddish sun, far smaller than what he was used to in the realm of men. Again they were somewhere else from where they wanted to be. For a moment, he lay on the rough wooden planking, trying to put his thoughts together. The strain of the last few moves had taken its toll on his mind, as well as on Astron’s poorly equipped body. Having to think consciously of every thrust and parry, rather than rely on instincts learned over many years of getting out of scrapes, was as exhausting as heavy labor.

  Kestrel sighed. Yes, the effort had been exhausting, but somehow rewarding as well. If not for the gong of the clocks on the final move, the rotarians he led might have captured the node, despite the odds. They had depended on him and he had been true to their trust. He had risen to what was his duty and discharged it well. If not for the clocks, then who knew what could have happened? Perhaps there might be some way to go back, despite what the djinn had said, after Phoebe was safely home—go back and rescue those that had put their lives in his hands without questioning that he would respond in return.

  “It is worse than the desert,” Kestrel heard Phoebe say as she rose and came to his side. Her depressing lethargy seemed to have vanished. Even with the unsure footing of the small boat, there was confidence in her tread. “Look, Kestrel, there is nothing in sight. In the realm of reticulates, we arrived at an oasis where we could eat and drink.” She looked at him intently and smiled. “It is worse than the desert and I do not care.”

  Kestrel looked out over the gunwale and blinked at what he saw. They were at sea with no sight of land on the horizon. Kestrel whirled to look in other directions, but there was little difference. The only feature was a thin line in the distance, separating ocean from sky.

  He glanced down the length of the long boat, but, except for Nimbia and Astron, he saw that the hull was bare. They had no sails, oars, food, or water. Near his feet, the last ember of the dying fire cooled to a soggy gray. Evidently they did have at least one leak.

  Kestrel put his arm around Phoebe and attempted a brave smile. She smiled back and drew closer. “At least, this part is better than the last few moves,” she said. “You hardly touched me when we were separated from the others.”

  Kestrel started to explain what had happened, but thought better of it. There would be time enough for that later, after they had reached safety. “How big a fire do you need to summon the djinn again?” he asked, waving at the charred splints at his feet. “Evidently in this place a blaze in a small wooden boat is not something totally bizarre.”

  “No, do not struggle with a demon now.” Astron suddenly shook his head from where he was trying to stand near the stern. “Something is not right about the summoning. There is too much risk.”

  “What do you mean?” Phoebe said. “I have brought forth Camonel before and I can do it again. Do not worry, Astron. I have my full confidence now. Kestrel had faith in me and that was enough.”

  “I do not question the power in your craft,” Astron said. “It is the words of the djinn that give me the suspicion. You have taught me, Kestrel, to look beyond the words to the meaning behind.” The demon paused and wrinkled his nose. “How do we know that it was truly Palodad speaking through the mouth of Camonel? The one who reckons is a recluse, more concerned with the flipping of the imps in his own domain than delving into the working of other realms. He wants the harebell pollen grains as part of a bargain, it is true, but the insistence that I must accompany their delivery seems out of place.”

  “I do not know the workings of your kind.” Kestrel shook his head. “So I cannot speak to how well your conjecture hits the mark. But if not this Palodad, then who else would speak through the flame?”

  “Gaspar,” Astron said. “He is the one who stands to lose, if we are successful in our quest. Without the pollen, we cannot expect any more of Palodad’s aid. He is the one who is tracking down all those with allegiance to the prince he wishes to destroy—the one who would want my return far more than any other.

  “And even though Phoebe controlled Camonel to effect our rescue, the djinn is free to act in matters that she does not explicitly proscribe.”

  “From what you have told me of Gaspar,” Kestrel said, rising to stand, “it is unlikely he would have the skill for such complex charades. Indeed, you even said that his posing of the riddle was a surprise to your prince.” Kestrel tugged at his chin and looked out over the featureless sea. “There is also the matter of the outside influence in the realm of reticulates. Given the confining nature of the protocols, what would start the barter with the chronoids in the first place? Why would even the reflectives continue when the unpredictable results from using the engines began to interfere with their plans? Who was responsible for the torrent of exchanges at the end? It is as if there were someone else behind
all of this, someone far wiser than Gaspar manipulating him as well as other things.”

  “Prydwin!” Nimbia sat up, suddenly alert. “It all fits together when you think of it. It is his creations that have been coalesced. Although I can think of no reason why he would wish it so, because he knows the details of their creation, no one could cause the merging any better than he. Who else would be concerned about what happens to harebell pollen, if not one of the fey? Suppose that the prince of the lightning djinns did not have a free will of his own, but was under the domination of my kinsman?”

  “Yes, Prydwin,” Astron said. “You may very well be right. Most of my kind have little concern for the workings of other realms. Except for cataloguers such as myself, they dwell instead on instant gratifications that forestall the great monotony. Far more plausible is a being from somewhere else manipulating events for his own personal gain.”

  “Then what is our plan?” Phoebe asked. “Unless I can control a demon, we are marooned here as surely as we were before.”

  “Do not misunderstand,” Astron said. “Despite appearances, we have made progress on our quest. First we learned that it was the realm of the fey in which we must look. There we successfully acquired the pollen grains that Palodad desires.”

  “And in the realms of symmetry,” Nimbia cut in, “we heard Palodad say that their physical design somehow was important to the answer of the riddle.”

  “Only if indeed it was Palodad,” Astron said. “Of that we cannot be certain.” He shook his head. “No, it is the one who reckons whom we must contact directly to be safe,” he said. “No intermediary agent will do.”

  “Then tell me of his mental signatures,” Phoebe said. “When we relight the fire, he is the one I will seek.”

  Kestrel saw Astron’s membranes flick down over his eyes and his nose wrinkle to the side.

  “It is not quite that simple,” the demon said after a moment. “I doubt I could accurately describe the character of Palodad’s will. He is old, old even by the standards of my kind and his thoughts—” Astron trailed off and shook his head. “Mankind would probably call him mad,” he continued, “and I am not so sure that I do not agree.”

  Kestrel saw Astron clench his fist and suppress a slight shudder. “No, I must be the agent, as we have agreed before. But in light of our suspicions, I must return unaided—return and seek out Palodad directly, rather than rely on the intermediary of any of my kind.”

  “Would it not be better to take the pollen with you when you go?” Kestrel reached behind his back and patted his pack. “With nothing to offer, what would be the motivation for Palodad to aid us any further?”

  “I cannot carry the harebell pollen through the flame, Kestrel,” Astron said, “at least not in my—my present state. Remember the reason that Elezar directed me to your realm was to secure the aid of mankind to perform the cartage. Even the most powerful of djinns has difficulty with objects that do not possess minds of their own.”

  “Then clasp me somehow to you,” Kestrel said. He looked at Phoebe and smiled. “I have already experienced three realms other than my own in aiding in the adventures of a wizard. One more can hardly make any difference.”

  “I am not a mighty djinn.” Astron shook his head. “Although I require the flame of anvilwood and not simple pine or fir to pass between the realms, skills in weaving or transportation I have none. We must somehow find the tree most similar in this realm so that I can return alone.”

  Kestrel thought for a moment and then looked at Astron intently. “How can you be sure?” he asked. “With so many fetters of logic about your stembrain, how can you be sure?”

  “Fetters? What do you mean?”

  “And how can you know the inner thoughts of a demon.” Phoebe laughed. “Even the best of wizards can only guess.”

  Kestrel started to answer, but then shrugged. A crooked smile came to his face. “It does not really matter,” he said with a wave of his arm. “I doubt we will be able to find the proper wood surrounded by—”

  Kestrel stopped and stared out over his outflung hand. Between the bobs of the waves, he thought he caught sight of a mast and sail just at the horizon. Impulsively, he began to wave his arms. “Look,” he shouted. “Look to port. It is a ship, a large ship, sailing our way—what luck, what incredible luck indeed.”

  His feelings flipped with a suddenness that made him giddy. He pulled Phoebe close and gave her a hug. “I have sampled enough of what you are like, demon.” He laughed. “Sampled enough from a fresh perspective that I have seen parts that even you are unaware of. But first let us attend to our safety in one realm before we take on the challenges of another.”

  “Over there on the starboard.” Nimbia suddenly pointed. “There is one—no, two more, in addition to the first.”

  Kestrel took his eyes from the ship to port gradually drawing closer. There seemed little doubt that they had been seen. He looked to starboard and shook his head in amazement. Near the stern was another tall mast, and directly abeam was a third. There was such a thing as luck, but this was incredible. How could they have been placed in the precise center of a circle of ships in a totally featureless sea?

  Kestrel looked at Phoebe, but she did not seem to care about the coincidence. She was jumping up and down as much as he. The boat rocked with each leap, and Nimbia stumbled as she tried to maintain her balance. Astron reached out and grabbed her awkwardly by the shoulder. Kestrel saw the demon’s nose suddenly wrinkle with the contact. The eye membranes flicked into place, and he quickly withdrew. Nimbia smiled and reached out in return, grabbing Astron’s retreating hand.

  Astron held his arm out stiffly like a stick figure drawn by a child. Nimbia steadied herself and closed the distance between them.

  “The retriever of harebell pollen, the swordsman leader of the rotators, and even the gentleman-in-waiting for a queen of the fey,” she said. “One has difficulty remembering that you are a merely a djinn from beyond the flame.”

  The crook in Astron’s nose sharpened. “I am a demon, you know full well,” he said slowly. “But the power of my brood brethren is not mine to command. I am but a cataloguer, serving as best I can.”

  “And to whom is it that this service is rendered?”

  “Why, to my prince, of course,” Astron said. He paused and looked away from Nimbia’s gaze. “And, of course, to the success of the quest of Kestrel, Phoebe, and—and Nimbia as well.”

  “And when the quest is over?”

  “I have not thought of it,” Astron said. “It is not the nature of demonkind to think of what lies beyond the present. It leads to brooding on the inevitability of the jaded senses and the ultimate despair of the great monotony.”

  “But as I have observed, you are no common demon,” Nimbia said. “And for me, the end of the quest poses the greatest uncertainty for us four. The two humans will no doubt return to their own kind.” She waved her arm in Kestrel’s direction. “And you, if you so choose, will flitter back to some depressingly plain patch of mud in the void of your realm. But what of Nimbia, a queen of the fey? There is no place to which to return. Ever so much worse than before, there is no one with whom to share. Who will serve me with distinction in a manner of which I could be proud?”

  Astron wrenched his hand free of Nimbia’s grip. “Your words prick at my stembrain,” he said. “It is difficult to maintain rational control.” For a long moment he stood silent; then his membranes cleared and the muscles in his face relaxed. He looked at Nimbia and spoke softly. “Do not be deceived,” he said. “I am no weaver of matter; no wings of great lift sprout from my back. I am only a cataloguer whose power derives from the few facts that no other has learned. There is no special destiny for one such as I.”

  “In the realm of the fey and, I suspect in others as well, one is measured by his deeds, rather than his inherent potentials, whatever they might be. I remember tasting your inner doubts when you rescued me from Prydwin’s sentrymen, demon. And I have seen you lead
hundreds of rotators with clumsy hands and little regard for your own safety as well.” Nimbia reached out and touched Astron gently on the cheek. “There is much more that you can learn, cataloguer,” she said, “much more you can learn of yourself.”

  “Avast, you in the dory,” a deep voice suddenly boomed across the waves. “Reduce your efflux so that the others will sail away.”

  Kestrel turned his attention from Astron and Nimbia and looked over at the ship approaching from portside. It was nearer than the others, and details of its superstructure could now be discerned. A single short mast stood in the middle of a deck that was both wide and long. A lateen sail billowed in a stiffening breeze that had not been there before the arrival of the vessel it propelled. The broad bow and even broader beam were wider than those of any barge that Kestrel had ever seen. It seemed hard to believe that the small area of cloth presented to the wind could be adequate for a hull easily the length of two score men.

  Even more remarkable. Kestrel thought with a start, was the fact that he understood perfectly the words that had been spoken. Except for a slight accent, they sounded like the speech of an Arcadian from across the sea in the realm of men. This, then, was not another creation of Prydwin; but if not, how amazing that the language turned out as it did.

  “Reduce your efflux,” the voice repeated. “You have impressed me as much as you will. I regard you as wealthy. To spill more luck to the winds will up my assessment not a quantum more.”

  Kestrel looked up at the deck, puzzled. He saw a rotund man wrapped in pinkish silks and a purple sash pulled tight into an overflowing girth. Bushy black hair, as dark as night, tumbled out of a small turban down the sides of his face into a curly beard. The deep-set eyes squinted cruelly into the reddish sun. The smile wrinkles looked shallow and seldom used.