by Lyndon Hardy
Gaspar’s hands started to glow with pulses of energy. Kestrel felt the fabric of his tunic shrivel and part. Waves of heat radiated into his chest. His skin began to blister and flake away. He shook his head from side to side, trying to find the words that would turn Gaspar’s attention away—some clever stratagem that would misdirect even a prince of demons from his fiendish pleasure. He looked into Gaspar’s eyes and saw only the twisted desire that would not be denied. In despair, he realized that there was nothing that he could say that would save him now.
Gaspar saw the expression on Kestrel’s face and threw back his head with a booming laugh. Short stabs of plasma arched from the demon’s shoulders and elbows and smashed into Kestrel’s arms, adding rips of pain to the boiling heat that already was almost too much to withstand.
As the agony intensified, visions began to swim in Kestrel’s mind. He thought of Phoebe and what would be her fate after he had gone, of Abel and the warriors behind him still faithfully confining the lieutenants as he had commanded them, and of Astron, a demon most unlike all the rest, of—
Kestrel reached out and grabbed at the thought as it flitted by. He closed his eyes and concentrated on where it was leading him. Astron would not challenge Gaspar with wily words. He would use whatever solid facts he could and from them determine what must be done.
Kestrel shifted his focus as quickly as he could through the numbing haze of pain. Gaspar—what was all that had been said about the prince in the times that Astron had spoken of him during the quest? He was a most powerful djinn with his weavings of matter, indeed perhaps the most powerful of all. But in Elezar’s rotunda he had been chided for his lack of wit and unwillingness to challenge any wizard who sought—
Gaspar was a powerful weaver, it was true. Kestrel churned the thought in his mind. But what was Gaspar’s strength of will? How well could he fare against the archimage, or Phoebe, or even—?
“Surrender,” Kestrel yelled at the top of his lungs as he seized at the last chance. “Surrender to him who will be your master. It is dominance or submission. There can be no in between.”
“You are no wizard—”
“Nor need I be. It is only a matter of will,” Kestrel gasped. The pain in his sides became excruciating. He thought he could smell the burning of his own flesh. But he lashed out with his mind, seeking the essence of the demon that held him, ready to twist and turn with his last dying gasp. There was nothing else to try.
Kestrel’s sight dimmed into hot glowing yellows. Blindly, his thoughts exploded, not knowing exactly what it was that he sought. He felt his awareness expand in all directions, pushing everything before it. All of his essence of being, his pleasures, his hopes, his fears, and everything of consequence boiled and churned, blasting all else aside.
Then Kestrel felt a resistance, something that slowed the outswell of thought that swirled midst the pain. Impulsively, he crashed against the barrier, at first skittering against the surface, but then striking it again and again. Visualizing mental arms and legs, he tore at the covering, trying to rip it asunder so that he could plunge inside.
The images whirled in his mind, but somehow even in the delirium of his pain, he stalked like a hunter, testing the seams of Gaspar’s essence one by one. He jabbed a finger into a dark crevasse; when he felt something softer than the rest, he thrust in his hand. Whatever was inside attempted to wither away, but Kestrel was quicker and grabbed and twisted as savagely as he could.
“Your minions might have victory,” Kestrel shouted, “but you will not share in it, Gaspar. I have come too far and changed too much to let it be so. I cannot weave, but it does not matter. My will is the greater because I fight for what I believe, not for some idle amusement to forestall an eventual dawn.”
Kestrel felt his fist rip and tear. A shudder coursed throughout all his body. He reached with his other hand and pulled at Gaspar’s being, spreading it open so that it was exposed. He felt a sudden wave of pleading protest, and then a smell of self-loathing that shook him to the core. Fear and submission flooded over him, drenching him in doubt and ultimate despair.
“Desist, master, desist,” Kestrel heard Gaspar say. “Stop your smiting. I am yours to command.”
Kestrel paused. He opened his eyes and blinked. He was lying astride Gaspar’s chest as the demon sprawled on the inky blackness of the node. Kestrel looked at his bloody hands where he had been ripping at the djinn’s face; the flesh of one jowl was hanging limp and oozing green ichor.
Tears sprang into Kestrel’s eyes. Mingling with the lingering pain, he felt a deep catharsis wash over him. After all these years, the burden was finally lifted. His first deceptions and every one that followed he could finally put aside.
He started to speak, but the node beneath him suddenly rumbled. There was a flash of light that lit the sky from the direction of Palodad’s lair.
“Ah, even in my defeat,” Gaspar slurred through the wreckage of his face. “Even in my defeat, it sounds as if my master has still achieved his own triumph, whatever it was that caused him to direct me so.”
Astron’s eye membranes snapped into place, but they did not help. The harebell pollen glowed with a white-hot intensity that was greater than any normal flame. Through a series of mirrors, the blinding glare ricocheted out of Palodad’s lair and across the darkness of the realm in the direction of Astron’s den, evidently a signal that the deed was done. Like a boiling sun, the sphere roared in incandescence, churning the air that surrounded it into waves of convective force. The metal platform on which it rested began to pool into a slaggy liquid. Nearby spars blistered and twisted. The wings of close-flying imps burst into flame.
But worst of all was the roaring hiss. Even though the air closest to the burning pollen had greatly expanded, it did not bubble away. Instead, scraps of parchment and small loose objects tumbled toward the flame, accelerating as they grew near. Then in a final rush, they vanished into the whiteness. The surface of the realm of daemon had been ruptured. Now its very essence was leaking away to the void of nothingness on the outside.
Palodad knelt down on his haunches and watched the sucking pressure increase its power. Oblivious to everything else and cackling at the top of his lungs, he snatched imps out of the air and cast them into the flame.
“The rupture is but a beginning,” Palodad cried. He waved about the expanse of his lair. “As more fuel is consumed, the opening will grow. Stronger will become the force pushing every object into its ultimate dissolution. No matter where they hide, no one will be able to resist it. Eventually, all must tumble past Palodad, the one who reckons.”
Astron felt the wind pushing against his back and rushing into the orb of destruction. His entire body was alive with dancing sparks, but he no longer cared. Despite his last futile efforts, he had been unable to stop the mindless rush of his stembrain and to restrain the power that gave rise to the all-important spark. Now all he felt was the compulsive desire to flee, somehow to shake off the rigidity that gripped him, and to hide from the growing suction as long as he was able.
He looked at Nimbia desperately, a small part of his mind dimly aware of how in the end he had not saved her from Palodad’s fate. He saw Phoebe standing next to her, dumbfounded, her mouth open and watching the all-consuming energy of the fire.
Phoebe, Phoebe and Kestrel, Astron thought. If only the woodcutter had been along for the final confrontation. He would not have let his stembrain get out of control. Somehow he would have used its power instead, exploiting its irrationality rather than becoming its slave. But for himself, a demon, a cataloguer, Palodad’s logic had been inescapable. There was no way that—
Astron gasped despite himself. Indeed, Kestrel would not fight the vagaries of the stembrain. He would not try to keep it under restraint. He would let it roam wherever it led him, seeking out solutions rooted in emotion that mere logic could never find. Astron looked a second time at Nimbia. With a shudder, he surrendered the last vestige of control. Totally unconstr
ained, he let his stembrain take over his body and do with it what it would.
Astron felt the sparks that raced over his body intensify. Like Gaspar, tendrils of blue and green flame filled the spans between his fingers. Glowing plasma danced over his lips and across his cheeks. The rigidity that held him melted away. Surrendering completely, he was able to sag to the ground with his legs trembling in mighty spasms and his head jerking from side to side. His tongue poked randomly out between his teeth. A meaningless cry escaped from his lips.
And inside Astron’s mind the images swirled. The safety of his den, Elezar’s beautiful spires, the mysteries of the realm of men, the constructions of the fey, the lust of the human body, the merging of two realms into one, the collapse of the universe of the aleators—they all danced and swayed. Colors fused and melted, the touch of smooth surfaces transformed into pungent odors and smells. He sensed his feelings for Nimbia grow into a passion that encompassed all of him and tasted heartbreak because none of her intimate mysteries would he ever experience. She would disappear like all the rest, a pleasure never sampled, a sweetness—
For an instant the tumble of Astron’s thoughts jerked to a halt. He felt himself frown and pulled at the inconsistency that suddenly hovered just outside the reach of his consciousness.
Palodad had said he had come in service of his prince just as it had been calculated. That was certainly true, but the reason had been replaced by one far more powerful. In the end, it was his feeling for Nimbia, his concern for her safety above all else, his sense of—of possessiveness that had stirred in him so, and that was the motivator of his actions, far more than anything else.
Everything was not as Palodad had calculated, Astron realized in a rush. The irrationality of feeling, the concern of one being for another, the desire for sharing—the ancient prince had not counted on such things at all,
Astron glanced down at the pollen grain raging in front of his feet, tasting all the more strongly the natural impulse of any demon to flee. He looked a final time at Nimbia, while his stembrain churned and recalled the powers possessed by the fey. He felt his thoughts explode in one last desperate inspiration. Without trying to weigh its merits, he jerked to his feet suddenly and decided to act.
Palodad frowned at the sudden motion, but did not move.
“It will do no good to resist the tug of the void,” he said. “Eventually you will be swept away with the rest.”
“You wanted the essence of our realm and all others vented to the outside.” Astron stumbled toward him. “It is only fitting that you should experience firsthand what it is like. It is totally irrational, but I will make the sacrifice. Come, together we will make one more journey through the flame—this time to what is truly nowhere.”
Astron heard Nimbia scream behind him, but he paid her no heed. He reached out with both hands and grabbed Palodad in a viselike grip. The prince leaned forcefully to the side, pulling Astron toward the raging flame, and the cataloguer did not resist. Instead, he added his own momentum to Palodad’s thrust. Together they tumbled off balance. Holding the surprised prince tightly, Astron plunged headfirst into the center of the pollen grain just as if he were vanishing into a common fire.
The scene around Astron twisted and shimmered. He felt an immediate numbing cold and a total blackness, deeper than any he had ever seen before. Instinctively, he clamped shut his mouth to preserve what little breath he had in his lungs.
Astron felt Palodad twist free but he did not care. The feeling of numbing coldness began to grow. He felt his chest start to expand painfully and a sudden bubbling in his ears. His eyes bulged and he could not quite bring them into focus.
Astron whirled about and saw the feeble glow of the pollen grain sticking through from the realm of daemon into the void. The outrush of air batted against him, forcing him backward. He felt himself begin to drift away.
With a frantic swipe Astron reached out and grasped at the burning pollen, feeling a numbing pain that roared up his arms and into his chest. He was not sure that what he was going to try would work, but there was no other choice.
Palodad saw what Astron was attempting and banged the bail in his clawlike hand down on the cataloguer’s elbow, trying to force him to release his grip. But Astron’s senses were overloaded. The burning flesh in his hands, the numbing cold of the void, and the pressures within trying to dissipate him into the nothingness left no room for anything else. He wrenched at the pollen grain and felt it tremble slightly, like a giant root that would not quite pull free.
Tightening his grip and ignoring Palodad’s rain of blows, Astron pulled himself to the surface that confined the realm. He planted his feet on its strange, spongy surface and arched his back. With a grunt that emptied his chest of any remaining air, he ripped the burning grain free and pulled it out into the void.
For an instant nothing happened. The light from Palodad’s domain outwelled into the blackness. Astron could see the hem of Nimbia’s tunic and behind her the rest of the prince’s machine. He began to get dizzy from all of the churning impulses in his brain. He felt his thoughts begin to slow. His grip on the pollen grain loosened as Palodad scrambled to rip it free.
But as consciousness finally faded, Astron noted that the size of the hole into the realm of daemon began to shrink. He watched it close to the diameter of Palodad’s metal ball, then to a coin in the realm of men. With a satisfying final rush, the rip vanished altogether and the realm was whole.
Almost absently Astron turned his attention to Palodad, frantically clawing away at what he possessed. For a second, the two demons wrestled with the sphere that no longer burned. Then with a final burst of energy Astron steadied himself against the outer surface of the realm and heaved the pollen grain as hard as he could I deeper into the fathomless depths of the void.
Unable to surrender his most precious treasure, Palodad held his grip on the orb as it sailed away. He opened his mouth to scream a protest and no sounds came forth. In a spew of blood and foam, the prince arched into the nothingness and out of sight.
For a second Astron watched him go. Then he collapsed into a ball as he also began to drift away. He was ready to surrender to his fate; his job was finally done.
He had done it! Nimbia, the realm of daemon, all of existence, everything had been saved!
Only dimly was he aware of the transformation taking place around him, the formation of what looked like solid rock, shelves, a small pile of bones, pen and ink, a lock of hair, and three books and other artifacts from the realm of men.
The stembrain, he mused in misty incoherence—it was right even to the last conjecture, the slender chance that convinced him to take the risk. And she must have had deep feelings for him after all. For a mere subject, she would not have paid so much attention to the detail.
“And so Astron gambled that Nimbia would be able to construct a new realm for him in time to save his life,” Kestrel explained to the wizards who had assembled in the presentation hall of the archimage. Over a dozen score were there, sitting in precise lines and following each of his words with frowning concentration. The archimage sat in the first row, with his consort Aeriel robed in the deep green of the ministry of Procolon at his side. Crowded about the periphery behind them, scribes busily squeaked their quills across thick parchments, mingling with emissaries from Arcadia across the sea and other masters of the five arts. The setting sun cast long shadows through the high windows, and serious-faced pages began to light the sconces that would continue the meeting far into the night.
Kestrel glanced at the demon next to him on the dais, shyly clasping the hillsovereign’s hand, and smiled. Behind the four of them, the fire that had brought them back to the realm of men flickered silently. “If her feelings had not been sufficiently strong, she might not have succeeded,” Kestrel said. “But, as you can see, Nimbia was able to create a safe haven out of the void just in the nick of time.”
“Astron’s mind was never besotted by my—my external attributes.�
�� Nimbia’s hand squeezed the one she held. “He alone judged me for my inner worth. Once I realized that, I knew that the quest that I had pursued almost unknowingly for so long was finally over.”
“Then with Palodad out of the way, it was a relatively simple matter for the hillsovereign and me to bring the demons in his lair under our control,” Phoebe said. “We dispatched scores to all corners of the realm to announce the answer to the riddle and to explain that it was Elezar who had won the contest. All the other princes stopped their struggle against him and, with the prince of lightning djinns himself defeated, brought Gaspar’s minions under control. Now they all defer to Elezar’s leadership—in fear if nothing else, so close was there almost disaster for all.”
“So the golden one is back in command and I am still his master.” Alodar rose from his chair. “The realm of men is safe once again.” Holding a scarlet ribbon that pierced a large circle of gold, he stepped onto the dais. He cleared his throat and placed the medallion about Phoebe’s neck. “The council of councils is unanimous in their vote,” the archimage said. “Wear the logo of flame proudly, wizard. You have been accepted by all, the equal of any man.”
“Far more important, I have accepted myself.” Phoebe shook her head. “Man, woman, demon, hillsovereign of the fey—none of the opinions of the others really matter. Once a person has accepted herself, then everything else will follow.”
Alodar turned to Kestrel and held out his hand. “To one who is not a true student of the five magics, the councils cannot convey any largesse,” the archimage said. “But somehow I suspect that the fame of the master of lightning djinns will keep your pockets filled, nevertheless.”
Kestrel shook Alodar’s hand and his smile broadened. “I have gained what no amount of gold could ever buy,” he said. He put his arm about Phoebe and pulled her tight. “Trust in one’s fellowmen—a sense of belonging—is worth far more than even a treasure from beyond the flame.”
