by Alison Baird
“Mandrake?” said Damion sharply.
“That’s his name. He stood by the bed looking down at me. I wasn’t afraid—he was really quite gentle, for all he looked so strange.”
“Strange? In what way?”
“Well, his eyes, for one thing. They were yellow, and looked rather like a cat’s—not human at all. He stepped closer, and then he spoke to me, but without talking.”
“How’s that?”
“His mouth never moved. He spoke right into my mind—I felt a sort of kindness and understanding flowing from him, with a warm, comfortable sort of feeling. ‘Are you a magician?’ I said. ‘How did you do that?’ He told me yes, he was a magician—a very ancient kind of magician called a Nemerei. ‘Like Ana and her friends,’ I said—forgetting that I wasn’t supposed to talk about them. But he told me they—Ana and the others—weren’t proper Nemerei but wicked witches who want to use me, use my powers; and he said if I let them do that my life would always be in danger, from some other people who meant me harm. Unless I stayed with him. He would take care of me, take me far away where they couldn’t find me. Finally he left me, and I looked again for a way out. I found a door that led me down a flight of stairs and into this cave-place.” Lorelyn took up her candle again and caught his hand. “Come on, you must help me escape! I haven’t yet managed to find a way out of the cave, it just goes on and on; but there’s one door at the end of the passage—I’m sure it must lead out of the building. It’s locked, but the two of us together might be able to knock it down.”
“Lead on, then!” he said.
Damion would never forget that walk through the caves. On their way to Lorelyn’s prison they passed through scenes of otherworldly beauty, half-familiar and half-strange. There were groves of graceful sylvan shapes, stone cataracts like winter-frozen waterfalls, or like the falling fronds of weeping willows. From the floor rose delicate many-branched corals that might have grown in a southern sea, tinted with pale colors. Glassy strands dangled overhead like crystalline cobwebs. Damion felt an unexpected lift of the heart. Even here, in the earth’s dark and stifling depths, there was beauty. This place was a temple, raised by the earth to itself.
And then, as a sleeper passes from one dream to another, Damion and Lorelyn passed into another cavern, larger and loftier than the one that had preceded it. Its floor was covered in small flowerlike formations, blue and rose and mauve: and in and out of these a small stream ran. Over it arched a stone bridge. Damion looked at the latter in amazement. It looked for all the world like a real, man-made bridge, not a natural formation. Yes, certainly that bridge had been made by human hands: he saw now that there was a path leading toward it, winding in and out of the limestone flowerets. And at the path’s end was a doorway—an arched doorway improbably set into the cavern wall, half hidden by a fringe of stone icicles.
Lorelyn led him on impatiently, along the path and over the bridge to the doorway. She pushed open the heavy oaken door and urged him on, through a narrow passage whose walls and roof were of rough-hewn rock, then up a spiral stair and through another doorway into a long stone hallway lined with wooden doors. Between the doors stood silent figures, gleaming with plate armor. Their visors were lowered, and they clutched swords and battleaxes in their gauntleted fists.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lorelyn, puzzled, as Damion leaped back with an involuntary yell.
Damion laughed at himself, feeling shaky: he had thought, for an instant, that the suits of armor were living men-at-arms. There were about ten complete mounted suits—Paladins’ armor, it looked like. He had seen similar ones in the Academy museum.
“Here’s where I was kept. Look.” Lorelyn opened one of the doors and showed him inside.
On the threshold Damion halted, staring. Even the royal apartments in the palace at Raimar could not be more sumptuously furnished than the chamber before him. Huge tapestries hung on the stone walls, and the great bed at the end of the room had a red-and-gold-curtained canopy and ornate carved bedposts. In an open wardrobe hung about half a dozen gowns, each fit for a queen: brocade, velvet, samite. The rich red carpet underfoot was intricately patterned with gold and had piles so thick that his feet sank into it as if into moss. There were vases of crystal and fine porcelain, silver candelabra. In one corner a small lacquered chest overflowed with gem-encrusted necklaces, bracelets, and rings.
This Mandrake, Damion thought, must travel extensively. The tapestries were Marakite work, the chest Kaanish, and the carpet was Shurkanese. The larger pieces of furniture were Maurainian by the look of them, and these also were of the finest make: marble-topped tables and cabinets of mahogany. And the jewelry, and the sculpture—some of that was surely Elei in origin. Lorelyn’s captor was a man of immense, secret wealth. Damion doubted it was honestly earned.
He picked up a candelabrum, went back to the door, and looked down the corridor. “Where does that door at the far end of the hall lead to?” he asked Lorelyn.
“I don’t know. It’s locked. I tried—” Lorelyn suddenly stopped in midsentence and went very still, her head cocked at a listening angle, her blue eyes unfocused.
“What is it?” Damion asked nervously. He had heard nothing.
“Yes . . . very well, I’ll do as you say,” said the girl. Her words were not addressed to him, he realized with a creeping sensation, but to some other person whom he could neither see nor hear. “I’ve no choice, have I?” She turned to Damion, her eyes wide. “It’s Mandrake! He’s coming back here, he says. And he’s bringing someone with him. Someone to be company for me, he said. He’s going to take us both away somewhere.”
He seized her hand. “Lorelyn—we must go now. At once!”
“I won’t argue with that!” she replied. “Come on!” And she ran out into the passage.
Damion followed her. Stopping at one of the suits of armor, he wrenched the halberd from its steely grasp and hefted it. Then he attacked the door. The blade of the axe bit deep into the ancient wood; gasping with the strain, he jerked it free and swung it again. At each blow he turned, half expecting Lorelyn’s abductor to come raging down the passage. When he tired, Lorelyn took the weapon from him and chopped at the door. She was remarkably strong for a girl, he thought in amazement. After what seemed an age, taking turns with the halberd and panting and groaning with the effort, they succeeded in hacking the lock away. The mutilated door opened inward, showing a stone staircase beyond. “We’ve done it!” Lorelyn cried in triumph, and before he could say anything she had seized him in a tight embrace.
It was only a childlike demonstration of affection, spontaneous and exuberant. Yet Damion nearly reeled from it, and not merely because she was a tall, strong girl and the hug an energetic one. He was aware, all at once, of her warmth, the pressure of her encircling arms, the faint scent that seemed to hang about her flaxen hair. When she released him he stumbled backwards, feeling dazed and a little disturbed.
“Now, up the stairs!” she said, taking up her candle again.
“Just a moment.” Damion went to another of the suits of armor and dismantled it, putting on the breastplate, gauntlets, and helmet. As an afterthought he slung on the sword-belt as well. Goodness only knew what awaited them beyond those stairs—this Mandrake person could well have set guards in the ruin. “I’ll go first,” he said, taking the candle from her.
He hurried up the stone steps, almost forgetting Lorelyn in his own driving need to be above ground once more. The stair ended in another archway, which led to still another large chamber. Damion stared around it, blinking: this room was an empty unadorned space, its walls of worn and aged masonry. It was floored with straw, and as he entered it two horses lifted their heads and stared at him. One was a massive, night-black animal, the other its mirror opposite, a white palfrey with cream-colored mane and tail. Hanging on the wall were their harnesses, including the antique armor he had seen on the black horse—was it really only the night before?
One mount for Mandrake and one
for Lorelyn, Damion thought grimly. He looked about the ancient, crumbling chamber, realizing at last where he was, what part of the castle ruin he had been held in. Lorelyn’s underground prison had been, appropriately enough, one of the castle dungeons.
She stood behind him. “What do we do now, Damion? There’s no way out.”
“Yes,” he said, “there is. Look!”
Before him in the gray wall was the faint but unmistakable outline of a door—a stone door with no handle. Damion groped among the stones for the one that would give way, as in the wall of the Paladins’ chapel. A few minutes’ search set off the hidden mechanism. He rushed through the open door, on down another passage. At the end was another set of stairs, of more recent make: the steps were very broad and shallow to accommodate the stride of a horse. They led upward at a gentle slope, and there was the outline of yet another door. Another stone pressed, another gaping hole opened up—and they were through, running out into the overgrown wilderness of the castle ruin.
Damion was first to halt. He pulled off the heavy helmet and stood panting, listening to the sound of birdsong, the wind shushing in the trees. The pale daylight, at first dazzling after the darkness of the dungeon, seemed to wane as he watched: a heavy mist hung about the castle towers and trailed through the trees beyond. He filled his lungs with the damp, fresh air, and opened his mouth to call out to Lorelyn.
“Stop right there,” commanded a voice.
DAMION FROZE, THEN TURNED SLOWLY. Several paces away stood a horse, this one black with a white blaze on its forehead and one white foot; on its back sat a dark-skinned man. With a sinking heart he recognized Jomar, the half-Mohara man who served the Zimbourans. He was clad all in black leather with a breastplate of steel, and he wore a curved Zimbouran sword at his side.
“I know you,” the man growled, scowling down at him. “You’re that meddling priest, aren’t you? The one who started it all, back on Jana. And now you’ve gone and joined those fools in the tunnels.”
“What do you know about them?” demanded Damion.
“Patriarch Norvyn’s been getting anonymous notes about them. He ignored them at first, but we talked him into taking action. He set me and the rest of his guardsmen to search the ruins for your little bolt-holes: we knew one of you would have to come up for air, sooner or later.”
“I’m not a member of the cult. I’m escaping from them.” Even to Damion this protest sounded feeble and unconvincing.
“Really,” Jomar sneered.
“You don’t work for the Patriarch, do you?” Damion challenged. He took a step forward. “You serve the Zimbourans.”
“Where’s the rest of your witch-coven—Father?” The Mohara man countered, with a sneering emphasis on the title.
Damion made no reply. He spun around and ran—and crashed full-tilt into Lorelyn, who was right behind him. They stumbled, clutching at each other, and fell in a heap of flailing limbs.
“Run, Lorelyn!” Damion cried, scrambling to his feet again and hauling her up.
“Lorelyn!” the Mohara repeated. A glint of interest came into his eyes, and he spurred his horse closer. “So: you’re that girl. The one the notes mentioned—the one the witches call the Tryna Lia—”
“Tryna Lia?” echoed Lorelyn. “What do you mean?”
Damion grabbed her arm and pulled her away through the ruin. As they fled they heard a loud clatter of hooves: the rider was close behind. We’ll never outrun him, Damion thought. But the black horse stumbled on the broken paving stones and fell to its knees, neighing in alarm. With an oath the Mohara man sprang off its back and continued the chase on foot. There was a harsh scraping of steel as his sword slid out of its scabbard.
Despite their lead he overtook them with ease, seizing Lorelyn by her right arm. Pointing the sword threateningly at Damion, he backed away with the protesting girl in his grip.
“Ow! Let go!” she cried indignantly, trying to wrench herself free. “That hurts!”
“It’ll hurt more if you don’t come along quietly,” the man snapped.
Still holding the girl by her arm, and ignoring the blows she rained on him with the other, the Mohara man made for his steed, which was still on its knees in the courtyard. He forced Lorelyn at sword-point onto its back, then vaulted into the saddle behind her and kicked the horse’s flanks. Snorting, it struggled to all fours and stood shuddering and tossing its head. Lorelyn’s struggles alarmed it: she shouted and thrashed about, inadvertently kicking Damion in the face as he ran to pull her off. He collapsed onto the cracked pavement. The Mohara held his sword at the girl’s throat and grabbed for the reins with his free hand, jerking his mount’s head around and urging it toward the nearest of the moat-bridges. The noise of hooves and Lorelyn’s yells receded down the stone road.
Damion, rubbing his smarting cheek, scrambled to his feet and started to run after them, then realized it was futile and stopped short in despair.
I try to rescue her, and all I do is place her right in the Zimbourans’ hands!
A slight sound from behind made him turn. The white palfrey had come up the steps on its own and now stood looking out of the doorway in the curtain wall, an expression of mild inquiry in its large dark eyes. It whinnied softly as he stared at it.
Damion winced. He hadn’t ridden in years, and there was no time to put on the saddle and reins. But there was nothing else to do; he ran to the horse. It was a good-tempered animal, superbly trained: as soon as it saw that he wished to mount, it bent one foreleg in a “bow,” enabling him to clamber onto its bare back. Gripping a handful of mane, he urged it forward. It obeyed him at once. In a moment they were thudding across the grass of the outer bailey, then cantering along the broken cobbles and across the wooden bridge.
Lorelyn and her captor had not gone very far: the Mohara man had pulled up his mount, and was struggling with the girl. Damion thumped his own horse’s flanks with his heels, but apparently it had been trained to go no faster than a canter. As he watched, Lorelyn and Jomar fell off the horse’s back and continued to wrestle on the ground, rolling over and over on the turf. They both looked up at his approach. The Mohara man stared, then laughed. “First he thinks he’s a warrior, now he thinks he can ride. Be careful, priest,” the dark man added with a sneer as Damion unsheathed his short sword and held it out uncertainly. “You could cut yourself with that.” He sprang back into the saddle.
Damion, grim and silent, continued to ride toward him. The other man wheeled his mount about, raised his own sword, and stood waiting. The horses seemed to have become infected by their riders’ antagonism: as they drew together they rolled their eyes, snorted, and snapped at each other. The Mohara man lashed out with his own weapon and Damion somehow caught the blade’s edge with his own, parrying successfully, though the shock of the blow sprang up his arms and into his chest. Again the two swords rose and met. Jomar struck Damion’s weapon from his hand; but as he leaned over to deliver the blow the priest seized his opponent’s sword arm. Jomar lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, dragging Damion with him.
The Mohara man was the first to regain his feet. Furious, he clouted Damion in the face, not bothering to use his blade. The priest fell back gasping and holding his cheek: it was the same one Lorelyn’s foot had struck. As the frothing horses fled the scene, Jomar turned on the girl.
“You’re coming with me now,” he snarled. He strode forward and grabbed her by the arm. “They’ll kill me if I lose you now. You’re coming whether you want to or not.”
Without another word Lorelyn drew back her free arm, made a fist, and punched him in the jaw.
The man gave a startled grunt, stumbled backwards, and fell. At the same time the girl yelped and sprang back, nursing her wrist.
Damion lurched to his feet again. “Jomar!” he shouted. At the use of his name the other man whirled to face him.
“How can you do this?” Damion continued. “I know who your real masters are! How can you serve the Zimbourans, after all they�
��ve done to the Moharas—”
“Shut up!” shouted the dark man furiously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything.”
He advanced with his sword, but Damion walked toward Jomar with his own empty hands held out. The Mohara man stood still. “Jomar—listen! You’re in Maurainia now. You can go free, anytime you want. Leave the Zimbourans! Stay here, with us.”
“Leave!” A wild look had come into Jomar’s eyes. “What do you expect me to do—go off to the city perhaps, or some nice small village? I’d blend in perfectly, wouldn’t I?” He waved a hand at his dark-skinned face. “They’d track me down. They’d kill me. Don’t you see? I know too much now—”
“We’ll hide you,” Damion promised. “In the catacombs, where the Zimbourans will never find you. We’ll smuggle you to another country.”
He was within a couple of paces of the other man now, within reach of his blade. The point lifted, but did not strike.
“Jomar—they’ll kill her if you take her to them,” he said in a low pleading voice, pitched for Jomar’s ears alone.
The dark man looked at him, then at Lorelyn standing not far off, her face distressed and alarmed. He stared, as if seeing her properly for the first time. A spasm of something like pain crossed his own face, and his head sagged forward, as if in defeat: the sword’s blade fell, the hilt slipped from his hand. A silence fell over the three figures, standing there by the Old Road. It deepened, became a part of the larger silence that hung with the mist over the land beyond.
In the meadow the white horse and the black one stood side by side, still snorting and blowing with exertion. Then they lowered their heads and began to graze.
10
Mandrake
AILIA YAWNED, STRETCHED, and stirred into wakefulness.
