“After all,” he probably says, “I’m little Frogface’s oldest and best buddy back in the Earthworld.”
So they take him down to the slave mines and they tell all the overseers just to leave him be, to let him do what he wants. So, he waits until I and the others prance into the slave mines assuming no one knows who we are. That whole performance of trying to conceal himself behind the machinery was nothing more than that, a performance. He was trying to make sure we spotted him. He wanted to be caught. If we hadn’t seen him, and Sir Tombin hadn’t snatched him, Webster would have found some other way to intercept us and join our band. He was too stupid to play his role for us completely convincingly. I think we all suspected him in one way or another, but—
Wait a minute. Webster. Waiting in the slave compound for us to arrive.
How did the Shadow Master know we were going to come that way?
How does the Shadow Master know we’re coming at all?
Sagandran’s mind tried to think of possible answers to these questions, but couldn’t find any. Unbeknownst to him, he and the others had carried Sir Tombin halfway back to the temple. Luckily, the rest were finding the effort too great for them to have any breath left over to speak with, so no one interrupted his train of thought.
I think I have it. No one in the Shadow World could possibly have known we were on our way to the Palace of Shadows unless they’d read the same legends Memo had read.
Deicher could have—
No, no, no, no – that’s not it.
Arkanamon himself studied with the Elemental Orders before he turned his back on Qarnapheeran and everything the magicians there stood for. He’d have had access to the same library that Memo did.
He knows the prophecies!
That’s why he’s been able to second-guess us the whole time. Arkanamon has had a virtual route map of our quest sitting in front of him. Memo didn’t tell us how detailed the stories of The Boy Whose Time Has Come actually are, but he did say that there were lots of manuscripts telling subtly different versions of the saga. If someone, say Arkanamon, had a mind to compare all of them, adding elements of each to the next, eliminating portions that were contradictory to the main consensus or just plain inventions of an individual scribe, he could build up a composite version that was probably enormously detailed. He must have done that while he was still a student wizard, while the idea of taking over the Shadow World was still growing in his mind. Perhaps the act of collating all the versions of the prophecy was what triggered his decision to turn himself into the Shadow Master! After all, the prophecies must have told him that the only person who could overthrow the Shadow Master was the enigmatic Boy Whose Time Has Come – me – and Arkanamon has created a text that documents our every move.
Armed with that, he must have decided that it would be easy to defeat me when I arrived. He was able to send Shadow Knights to intercept me at all sorts of places along my route: outside Spectram, in Wonderville, in the forest with Bolster and the worgs, on that hilltop with Deicher.
But what Arkanamon didn’t acknowledge was that the prophecies weren’t just guesses as to what might happen. They were predictions of what would happen. There was really no point in trying to thwart me, because somehow things would turn out so that I managed to proceed along my predetermined course anyway, whatever he did.
And that means …
That means …
That means that whatever I do, however much I foul up and however much Arkanamon tries to put obstacles in my way, the end of the story is going to be that I defeat him!
Only …
Sagandran’s spirits, which had been racing along like a river in spate, suddenly became a swamp. The prophecies had been right so far, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they were entirely right. Back in the Earthworld, weather forecasters often made predictions for the next day that proved absolutely spot on until the middle of the afternoon, when suddenly there was a fall of snow that confounded everybody – weather forecasters included. The same could be true of the prophecies. Sagandran could take encouragement from the fact that they predicted his overthrow of the Shadow Master and his victory over the forces of evil, but he couldn’t rely upon that happening. It was still up to him to make sure it did.
And it was still perfectly possible that Sagandran could fail.
“Sagandran?” said a voice he didn’t recognize at first.
“Ah, yuh?” he replied, wondering where he was.
“You still with us?” It was Perima who was talking to him. How could he not have known?
“Sort of. I was just thinking.”
“We’re back in the temple.”
Although his eyes had been open all the while, it was as if he were opening them for the first time in hours. They had come to rest beside the great stone half-shell. For a moment, he couldn’t think why they were here, and then the weight he was holding reminded him. Twisting around, he saw that the others had already deposited Sir Tombin, leaving Sagandran holding just the one armored leg off the ground. Bending his back and unpeeling his fingers from the shiny metal with difficulty, he put the leg down.
“What are we supposed to do now?” he said.
“A good question.” Samzing’s face was horribly gray, but he was holding himself erect. He and Sir Tombin had been friends for years, decades even. For the sake of his old comrade, he’d push himself to the brink of death if need be.
“Kanjo mitatis Tamash meesandene,” said Cheireanna.
“She says we have to put Sir Tombin into the waters upon which the goddess has cast her blessings,” translated Memo.
Sagandran looked at the stone lip of the half-shell. It was nearly as high as his shoulder. If they had had such difficulty merely carrying Sir Tombin, how in the world were they going to be able to lift him up, over and into the dark water?
“Couldn’t we just splash some of it on him where he is?”
Memo spoke a little run of Tamshadi.
Cheireanna’s answer was obvious before she parted her lips.
No.
“Is he still alive?” said Sagandran. There wasn’t much to be gained from getting Sir Tombin into the water if it were already too late to save him.
The wizard spoke again, his voice like fine, dry sand shaken in a tin cup. “He was a moment ago. I checked the pulse at his neck.”
“There’s no point trying to get his armor off, is there? No, I thought not. Well …”
Sagandran stooped, expecting the others to do likewise.
“Well, come on then.”
“We can’t do it that way,” said Perima, her gaze bleak. “We’re simply not strong enough, Sagandran. It’s useless to pretend we could be.”
“We do it together or I do it alone,” replied Sagandran, still bent over. “I’m not going to let Sir Tombin die when I could help him – not while I’ve still got blood running through my veins. I owe it to him. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone finer.”
“You speak nothing more than the truth,” Samzing said, coming to a decision. He bent and took Sir Tombin’s other leg.
Perima looked at them incredulously, then gave a tragic smile. “Three, I suppose, is better than two. Let’s all be disappointed together. That just leaves Cheir—”
Then she saw that the peasant girl was already in place by Sir Tombin’s arm.
Incongruously, Cheireanna was beaming as if she’d been told the best news in the world. She spoke a few words of Tamshadi, and Memo interpreted.
“The goddess has seen us, and has decided that she will aid our efforts.”
Too bad I don’t believe in gods and goddesses, thought Sagandran as he prepared to take the strain. On the other hand, I don’t believe in wizards or magic, yet I’m good friends with one of the former and I’ve seen more than my fill of the latter these past few days.
He lifted the armored leg without difficulty.
“What the—?”
It wasn’t light, but it wasn’t the almost impossib
le burden it had been earlier. It seemed to him to be about the same weight as one of the carrier bags Mom was forever getting him to carry in from the car after she’d been to the supermarket.
He could see by the surprised expressions on the others’ faces that they were having the same experience.
“Thank you, Cheireanna,” said Samzing. “I’m beginning to believe that we might save good old Quackie, after all.”
“Thank you, Tamash,” corrected the girl in her curiously articulated voice.
She learns so swiftly, thought Sagandran. Far more quickly than I ever could. That’s why I keep thinking that she understands more than she’s letting on. She’s soaking up every last morsel of our conversations and learning our language from them. If she were back in the Earthworld, we’d call her a genius! And to think we all believed that she was a bit of a simpleton.
“I didn’t,” whispered Samzing in Sagandran’s ear.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, but fortunately not very loud. Now let’s concentrate on giving Quackie his bath, shall we?”
The lightness of the wizard’s tone was belied by the uncertainty in his eyes. He still didn’t believe, not really, that they’d be able to get Sir Tombin into the half-shell. Even if they did, Samzing couldn’t credit that the waters would cure him of his injury, as Cheireanna anticipated. On the other hand, the goddess seemed to have worked a miracle to lighten their load.
“Although she’s still left us with a fair weight to lift,” said Sagandran softly, continuing the thoughts he could see in Samzing’s face. “She gives her miracles only to those who’re prepared to earn them, hm?”
Breathing heavily, the wizard nodded. “My conclusion exactly.”
In the end, they had to readjust themselves. Sagandran was able to take the weight of both of Sir Tombin’s legs, one over each shoulder, while the two girls managed the arms. Samzing crawled under Sir Tombin’s middle, which was slumping between them, and slowly pushed himself to his feet, bearing much of the load of his old friend on his shoulders.
They tipped the armored body over the lip of the basin. It wasn’t a very dignified way of introducing a dying knight into the healing arms of a goddess, but Sagandran didn’t think that either Sir Tombin or the goddess would mind.
The Frogly Knight’s body vanished from their gaze. They’d expected a splash, but there was none. Sagandran peered over the lip, the others beside him. At just below eye-level, Sir Tombin floated on his back on the dark, reflecting surface. It seemed impossible. He was fully clad in metal armor, but floating he was. He seemed almost peaceful, as if he were in a shallow sleep, dreaming pleasantly. Samzing lifted Flip and Memo onto the half-shell’s rim so that they, too, could watch from the water’s edge.
After a time, Sagandran found himself becoming restless. Yes, it was remarkable that the heavily armored Sir Tombin could float on water, but he’d expected, if there were to be a miracle at all from the goddess Tamash, that it would be something more of a miracle than this.
If it even was a miracle. With the water being so pitch-dark, there was no telling how deep it was. Perhaps it was only a couple of inches deep, and the Frogly Knight was simply lying on the stone bottom.
Sagandran was just about to test this hypothesis by plunging in his forefinger when Cheireanna stayed his arm.
“Look, boy,” she said, her eyes glowing.
From the remaining hand of the statue there grew soft fingers of a pale, creamy-colored light.
Sagandran’s mouth dropped open and his arm fell to his side unnoticed.
The light rapidly grew and intensified, bathing the Frogly Knight’s motionless form.
Something made Sagandran glance up from where Sir Tombin lay.
He gasped. Where there had been a statue covered with smears of dark moss and mold, there now stood a living woman. He thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful, not even Perima. Long ringlets of wavy, jet-black hair curled down over her shoulders and breasts, then ran on down to her ankles, clothing her entirely except for her face and arms – two arms now, rather than just one – and, like her face, they were as silver as the armor on Sir Tombin. Her eyes (which were all the colors of the dawn sky – the pale reds, oranges, greens, grays, violets) darted briefly toward him, and he felt in that instant as if the goddess were reading everything he had ever been or known. She smiled at him as a kindly elder sister might, then bent forward to touch her fingertips to the water in the half-shell. At once, Sir Tombin was surrounded by a pool of living light.
Sagandran could hear the sound of a choir chanting in perfect harmony. He knew that the singing was coming from somewhere inside him, because the walls of the hidden temple were casting no echoes. As the glare of the light grew brighter and brighter, he closed his eyes, but that seemed to make no difference – no more than clamping his hands over his ears muted the ever-increasing sound of the singing voices. Light and sound grew to an unbearable crescendo, and Sagandran felt a scream bubbling up at the pain of their twin intensities.
Then they were gone.
When he opened his eyes, the only light was the gleam of Xaraxeer’s blade, floating next to Sir Tombin in the water. The temple was silent except for the noise of their breathing. Sagandran looked across the bowl of water into Samzing’s eyes. He thought he had never seen a human gaze so desolate of all hope. The wizard had reached out once more to touch the throat of his old friend.
“I’m sorry,” said the wizard, his whisper almost breaking. “He’s gone. The goddess took him with her when she went.”
The next Sagandran knew, he was sitting with his back against the chamber wall. It was obvious some time had passed, because his cheeks were wet with tears. Perima was sitting beside him, holding his hand. Samzing stood in front of him, looking down with a concerned expression on his wrinkled face. All Sagandran seemed to be able to feel was grief.
“You don’t have the time for that, you know,” said the wizard. “It’s a luxury you can’t afford – that none of us can afford. We’re relying on you more than ever now.”
“What do you mean?” said Sagandran thickly.
“We’re relying on you to lead us, of course.”
“Lead you?”
“Yes. Now that Quackie’s gone.”
“But I’m no good at leading. The only leading I can do is from one disaster to another.”
Samzing heaved a sigh. “Don’t be such a fool.”
Sagandran felt his eyes narrowing. “Fool yourself.”
“I told Quackie you wouldn’t be up to the job, but would he listen? ‘The boy’s still just a kid,’ I said. ‘Besides, it’s obvious he’s a born follower, not a leader.’ But Quackie was insistent. ‘Listen, my old matey-potatey,’ he said in that way of his. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if anything happens to me, Sagandran’s the one you should all accept as your leader.’”
“He said that?”
“As sure as my middle name’s Bottomwaddler.”
“It’s what?”
“It’s not something I’m proud of.”
The grief that had been so all-consuming just scant moments ago was already becoming more tolerable. It wasn’t that the pain had gone away, just that Sagandran seemed to have learned how to cope with it a bit better.
“Is that really your middle name?”
“It’s not the kind of lie anyone would tell, is it?”
“And Sir Tombin thought I was capable of leading you all?” Sagandran let his gaze wander around the dimly lit chamber.
“It was,” said Samzing gravely, “his dying wish. In a way. Which is why I say you can’t afford the luxury of grief, not right now. Lock it away in a separate room in your mind until later. It’s vital for the sake of the three worlds that you focus on the task in front of you, Sagandran. If you don’t do that … well, you’ll have betrayed old Quackie’s trust, won’t you? He gave his life because he knew the Shadow Master had to be defeated. If you’re going to give up at the final hurdle, you�
��ll be wasting the sacrifice that Quackie made. He’ll have died in vain, and that is something I really, really, really do not want my oldest and dearest friend to have done. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes.”
“Then pull yourself to your feet.”
“And together,” added Perima.
“Eh?” said Sagandran, turning toward her.
“Pull yourself together. As well as to your feet.” Sagandran could see she’d been weeping too, but the gaze that held his own was cold and imperious, the gaze of a princess.
Perima had obviously gotten herself under control – putting away her grief to be examined later, as Samzing had suggested. Well, if Perima could do it, so could he. Sagandran stood.
“Here,” said Samzing. “You’ll need this.”
The wizard reached behind him and produced Sir Tombin’s belt, from which hung the scabbarded Xaraxeer.
“Take it.”
Sagandran took it. Someone had already cut the belt down to size for him, and punched a few extra holes in it. Knowing that he must look clumsy, he fastened the belt around his waist. He was only just tall enough for the tip of the scabbard not to touch the ground.
“Draw the sword,” said Samzing.
“Now?”
“Just draw it!”
The blade came smoothly from the scabbard, and as it did so the room filled with a golden light.
“You see,” said the wizard. “The sword knows its true owner. Quackie was right.”
“I suppose,” said Flip thoughtfully, “that your Webster friend was leading us in the right direction?”
Sagandran looked down at his right jacket pocket. His little friend had forsaken Samzing’s robe for a while. The slight drag of Flip’s small weight was oddly cheering.
“He’s no friend of mine. Never was and now, I think, never will be.”
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