The Manor of Lost Time

by Richard Parks

  The Manor of Lost Time

  By Richard Parks

  Let’s get something straight right now—her name at the time, her proper name, was Driana. Not “The Enchantress Sorrowsbane” or “She Who Speaks in Fire” or any of the other garblings this story has apparently accumulated over the last thousand-odd years. Yes, no doubt she was known by those names too. Most humans can’t seem to avoid becoming something other than what they are, unlike the more sensible demon-kin. Yet it was the beginning you asked about, and at the start of it all she was a twiggy little redheaded bundle of trouble named Driana. I know. I was there.

  My name is Sahel.

  Yes, you got that wrong as well. Don’t worry. Your conjuration was flawed, but at least you got the Barrier right. It will hold for a while. Lucky you. Hmmm? Oh, I just realized that someone wanted my attention, and I was curious. I’m not used to being summoned like a common variety demon. Frankly, I’m surprised that even a garbled version of my name is known in the world—I’ve tried to be more discreet than that. Oh, well.

  So you want to know about Driana? The truth? On your head be it, then. I don’t owe you anything, understand, but I do owe Driana at least that much. What I will tell you now is the truth.

  You can trust me that far.

  I first met Driana the year after the war between the Twelve Kingdoms and the western barbarians had ended. In the town of Kelan’s Pass in Morushe, a hedge wizard named Ledanthos with delusions of talent was about to charm a love‑amulet for one of his more romantic—and wealthier—customers when he finally noticed the witch‑worm. There was barely an inch of it showing through a crack in the wattling near the floor, and if the one who’d placed it there had used a piece of wood other than freshly-peeled willow, he might not have noticed it at all. Yet he did notice, and that was that.

  “Well well,” he said. “It seems there is a thief about.”

  I’m not sure what memory has survived of Ledanthos. If justice were served, very little. He was a small man of small vision, yet I will give the miserly old coot his due—he knew opportunity when it arrived. A more self‑important magician might have taken grave offense at the thought of someone tapping into his magic without permission and sent a fatal curse down the witch-worm to end the matter there and then. Not Ledanthos. He spoke charms of binding and summoning and sent those instead.

  I’m not sure what he expected, but not half an hour later Driana appeared at his door. She was then as I have said: small, skinny, hair like a burning stack of hay and just about as neat. She wasn’t frightened, as one might expect. She was furious. Her eyes were as wild as a trapped animal’s. She clearly wanted to flee, but the charm that had brought her to Ledanthos’s door held her fast. Even so, she would not enter the shop when bidden, and Ledanthos practically had to drag her in. This raised Ledanthos’s annoyance and my curiosity.

  Where was I, you ask?

  Where I always was in those days: in the middle of Ledanthos’s workbench, trapped, immobile. There was very little of interest in the old man’s life that didn’t take place in that room, so I missed nothing important.

  “You must either pay me for the magic you have stolen, or I may collect in goods and services,” Ledanthos said. “That is the law. This thing—” here he held up the now‑broken pieces of the witch-worm “—is no more, but by my estimate has been in place nearly a week. You owe me seventy-four imperials.”

  Seventy‑four gold coins. What complete rubbish. Ledanthos had never learned the true art of tapping power from the world around him. Much of Ledanthos’s magic came from me; his own magic wasn’t worth seventy‑four imperials if stolen his entire life, never mind the minuscule fraction the girl had filched. Yet the law was on Ledanthos’s side, and by the look of both the girl’s clothes and the expression on her face, it might as well have been all the money in Creation.

  “I see,” said the old man. “Then you must work for me until the debt is paid. What is your name, girl? Who are your parents?”

  “Driana,” she said. “My parents were killed in the war.”

  That explained the ragged clothes and the obvious fact that she hadn’t bathed recently. Driana’s mother had been a witch of sorts on the western frontier and had taught the girl a little, but not how to gather her own magic. After the war Driana had moved eastward and survived on odd jobs and theft, including such crude tricks as the witch-worm to siphon off magical energy. Perhaps she would have been reduced to selling her body in another year or two but, judging from what I came to know of her later, I doubt that. More likely she’d have been hanged first. All this, of course, I learned after the fact. At our first encounter, other matters caught my attention.

  She saw me.

  By that I do not mean she saw what Ledanthos saw: a crudely hewn stone statue sitting in the middle of his workbench. And, by the way, when I say “crude,” I mean it. The carving could have been anything from a demon to an underfed bear.

  Ledanthos did not know about me, you see. He thought I was simply an object of magical power, which, you must admit, was more or less true. He siphoned that power in a similar fashion as Driana’s witch-worm to use in his work, yet he only saw the statue form into which I was sealed. Driana saw me. I was certain of it, as she looked warily around Ledanthos’s workshop. Her anger was gone and now she looked resigned, and nervous, but also very curious.

  I could see her peering intently at the odd assortment of books, vessels, and bric-a-brac littering the shop as if she were trying to remember everything and sort out what it was for, what it did. When her gaze came to me she stopped, and she stared for so long that Ledanthos finally frowned.

  “What are you looking at, girl?” he asked.

  “That statue. It’s very strange.”

  He grunted. “There is much strangeness in the world, girl; no sense getting caught up in it. So. Your first job is to clean up in here while I run some errands. Touch nothing that you do not understand, which should be almost everything except the charcoal bin and the rat droppings in the corner. Mainly sweep the floor and tidy up. If you do a good job I’ll feed you when I get back. You needn’t bother running away; my binding spell will only bring you back and you’ll find a whip waiting. Do we understand one another?”

  The mention of food finally got her attention off of me. “Yes… um, what should I call you?”

  “Master, of course.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, as if the words had a poor taste to them. Her disgust wasn’t lost on Ledanthos, who merely grinned.

  “You want the merchandise, you pay the price. One way or another. The folly of thieves is that they believe this does not apply to them. I’ll be back soon, so get busy.”

  Driana did so, though the only broom available had a cracked handle and moldy straw that, at least at first, left more debris than it removed. It was only when the room was somewhat more presentable that she put the broom aside and looked closely at me again.

  “What are you?” she asked aloud.

  Now, please bear in mind that this was a new thing. I had been trapped in what looked like a pitiful little statue for the better part of five hundred years, and in all that time no one, even those like Ledanthos who recognized the magic surrounding me, saw my prison for what it was. Driana did. She knew someone alive was trapped there, and she was curious. Frankly I was curious about her as well.

  Driana glanced out the window by the door, but there was no sign of Ledanthos. She reached into a pouch on the ragged strip of leather she was using for a belt and pulled out another witch‑worm. I could plainly see the faint glow of magic about it. Now, as you should suspect from your botching of my Summoning, in magic it’s as much how you say a thing as what you say, and when Driana
spoke the simple word ‘Reveal,’ it was better than an hour of Ledanthos’s arcane incantations in three forgotten languages. Even the ones he actually got right.

  In that instant the crude little statue which was both my home and prison stood unmasked as the portal that it really was; the one that, for five hundred years, I had been unable to cross. Driana’s green eyes went wide in astonishment and wonder.

  “By Sethis….”

  Don’t say that name.

  I didn’t really expect her to hear me, but that simple revealing spell had done far more than simply drop the veil from the statue. My tongue was unbound, and the true appearance of my prison—to the degree it had a true appearance—was uncovered. And all with no more than a bit of borrowed magic and simple intent. Even I was impressed—the urchin clearly had talent.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  My name is Sahel. How did you recognize me?

  “My mother’s specialty was illusion. She was killed before she could teach me much, but the ability to recognize illusion was among her very first lessons. So what are you? Why are you serving this rag and trick wizard?”

  I am demon-kin, and I serve Ledanthos for the same reason you do—I was caught. Though I will say in my defense that it was not Ledanthos who caught me.

  She sniffed. “That bloody fool? I’ve been stealing his magic for months; he only caught me because I was beginning to think he was blind as well as stupid. I won’t be so careless next time.”

  Why were you stealing magic in the first place?

  She shrugged. “To live. I have no source of power of my own, nor yet the skills to make any. I used the stolen magic to charm small trinkets to sell, or to make a baker look one way while his fresh loaves were going another direction; that sort of thing. Simple tricks, though I always wondered how one like Ledanthos could command such a high level of power. Now I know. Does he?”

  He knows only what he sees. His curiosity extends no further than that. Frankly, how he became a magician at all baffles me.

  “Me, too, yet he is my master now,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should tell him what he has in you.”

  I laughed then, for the first time in several centuries. Perhaps we should just speak plainly to one another. You want something from me. I think perhaps I want something from you. Shall we discuss it?

  “I want many things,” Driana said. “My freedom, for a start. What do you want, Sahel?”

  Many things as well, but for now I simply want the same thing you do, as I believe you have already guessed. Ledanthos will be back shortly. I suggest you give the floor another pass with that miserable excuse for a broom if you want to eat tonight. We’ll talk later.

  ‘Later’ proved to be several days away. Ledanthos was very busy at the time, and he kept Driana even busier. I will say in his favor that he fed her little worse than he fed himself—which was to say, miserly—and never actually beat her, though he threatened constantly.

  Hmmm?

  Ah, of course. I thought you might be wondering about that. The answer is ‘no.’ If the old miser had ever lusted for anything other than gold, such urges were long dried up by the time I knew him. Driana, like my own hidden self, was a servant to him and that was all.

  Which was probably fortunate on his part—he might not have noticed the wicked‑looking knife she kept concealed, but I certainly did. As for his binding spell, it was powerful enough thanks to me, but like all his work, it was somewhat shoddy. I have no doubt Driana could have broken free in time, with or without my help. Unlike Ledanthos, she had great natural skill and a desire to learn and understand more. I remember wondering at the time what she would be capable of if she lived long enough to master her art. I guess time and history have answered that, yes?

  Let’s see… oh, yes. Ledanthos got a summons from a surprisingly wealthy client. It seemed that the potency of his amulets and spells was becoming better known, and he would now get the chance to improve his standing with those who used the services of conjurors such as himself. I almost expected to sense visions of grander quarters and fine clothes about him, but then I remembered that this was Ledanthos, and the only ‘visions’ he had were of more gold that he did not spend, simply piled up higher, faster, and easier, but to no better effect. After all, a pig in a crown is still not a king.

  Yes, I know. The expression was old even a thousand years ago. Pardon the digression. So Ledanthos got this summons and of course he had to answer it straight away. I think he considered taking Driana with him since he had gotten used to her help, but she was still wearing the same filthy rags she’d been captured in—I wager it had never occurred to Ledanthos that this was a problem—and there simply wasn’t time to make her more presentable. As it was, Ledanthos’ best robes looked more than a little threadbare as he left us alone once more and locked the door behind him.

  Driana didn’t even bother picking up the broom. “How long have you been trapped there, Sahel?” she asked without preamble.

  Five hundred years, give or take a bit.

  She nodded. “Very well, this is what I propose: I will help free you. In return you will not harm me, and you will serve me gladly for a term of forty years.”

  I almost laughed again. Forty years. To little Driana then it must have seemed like all the time in the world. She may have learned better, but never say she always knew better.

  No, I said.

  She blinked. “No…? Do you want to stay in there forever?”

  Hardly. But once I’m out of here I’m going to have my own business to attend to. I can’t very well do so if I’m bound to you for another forty years. Why would I trade one prison for another?

  She looked grim. “Forty years is nothing compared to five hundred,” she pointed out. “And I don’t have to help you. You could sit in there for another five hundred years!”

  That is true. Now I want you to picture yourself in bondage to that miserable old coot for the same forty years you demanded of me. You know magic will extend his life more than that, even. I’ll weight my time against yours and we’ll see whose is the easier burden.

  As I said, I was pretty certain that she could break his magical chains in much less time. She was less certain of that, and of herself. I used that, as I would any tool that suited my purpose.

  Driana looked unhappy, but she wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Twenty years,” she said.

  One year, I countered.

  “Fifteen.”

  Five.

  “Ten!”

  Five.

  She sighed deeply. “Seven?”

  Must I repeat myself?

  “Oh, very well. You will serve me for five years, and swear to bring me to no harm now or later. If you agree, then tell me how to free you.”

  Done. And freeing me is simple, if not easy—you have to find me.

  She frowned. “I’ve already found you!”

  Finding the river is not the same as finding the fish, as any decent fisherman could tell you. You’ll have to cross the portal to where I am.

  “Then won’t I be as trapped as you are?”

  Trapped? No. However, there is a danger that you can become lost. Yet this is the only way. I cannot come to you, so you must come to me.

  “You’re aware of my presence. Can’t you simply guide me to you once I cross over?”

  Yes… and no. You’ll understand once you’ve crossed the portal.

  If it sounds as if I’m being a little vague, that’s no more than the truth. I was afraid Driana wouldn’t make the attempt if she knew what was waiting for her on the other side. I’m not sure I would have in her place. I can only say in my defense that I did not know Driana quite so well then.

  Her reveal spell was still working fine. In the place where my statue sat on Ledanthos’s work table, there was a patch of darkness about five feet high and half again as wide. That was another illusion of sorts, but then normal dimensions of height and width don’t really apply to this particular port
al. In symbolic and practical terms, it was a doorway, and that was enough. Driana took one step off Ledanthos’s work stool and passed through the opening.

  I can tell you what she saw because it’s what I saw, my first time here. The difference was that there was no portal behind me to return through. There’s a trick to it, of course. As things were, Driana stood in what looked like a short hallway. Beyond that was another door.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  There’s a door in front of you, correct?

  “Yes.”

  Open that door and you’ll find out.

  She did as I said. “By Sethis….” Her voice trailed off.

  I did tell you about saying that name… oh, never mind. What do you see?

  “My mother… my father. They’re alive!”

  I knew this was going to be a critical point. If Driana could not get past the first door, there was no chance she’d be able to find me. After coming this far, coming so close to freedom, I confess I was a little nervous, and I made a very serious mistake.

  I lied.

  It’s just an illusion to distract you. Walk on to the next doorway.

  “It’s wrong,” she said. I could tell that she hadn’t moved a single step closer. “They’re not the way I remember them.”

  I said it’s an illusion. Keep moving.

  “If it’s an illusion, then why aren’t they as I remember? Why do I see them this way?”

  What way?

  “Older. I’m older too. My father is smiling, my mother is crying. Do you know what my mother and I are doing, Sahel?”

  No.

  That at least was the truth. I could not see what she saw now; this was her lost time, not mine. I could not see her at all, now that she had crossed the doorway. The immediate surroundings of my prison I could see as clear as a cloudless morning. But the place itself? No more than the little in front of me, and for me there were no doors.

  “We’re in our home, the one that was burned to the ground the day they died. My mother and I are sewing my wedding dress.”

  It’s a trap to snare you, to prevent you from moving forward. Nothing more. Ignore—