Thinking of the stabbing of John-Lyon, shivers gripped Platinia's slender body. Coming near to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin made her ... weak. He had that kind of power over her.
Seeing him in her mind, seeing his fascinating green eyes and the quick smile of his soft mouth, Platinia began to weep.
No one had ever made her feel this strange, weak way.
He must be dead!
* * * * *
Though Pfnaravin had no faith in this serpentining about the cage, this mumbling, chanting, shrieking -- there was no reason why Dockw and his shaven headed priests should not attempt it. Pfnaravin's hope was in tomorrow -- after the army had arrived. Then, if Dockw was a better torturer than religionist -- Pfnaravin would have his answer.
Taking his eyes off the prisoner huddled in the cramped cage -- the pen in which he, himself, had been confined -- Pfnaravin leaned back in his ornate chair, the chair placed by the wall across from the dining room's fire stone pit. To the right, lost in shadow, was the long, raised dining table.
Since the advance party's arrival yesterday, no food had been served in this, gray room. Instead, Pfnaravin had used the chamber as a prison, his guards out of sight but blocking every entrance.
The fire stone pit was cold. The air smelled only of the damp of rotted stone.
Pfnaravin wrenched his mind back to the present.
Of more importance than this disgusting pageant of neutered priests, were vibrations he had begun to feel in the magic wards about the castle. There could no longer be a doubt that there was ... motion ... without ... as yet, of no importance.
Pfnaravin fingered the crystal at the neck of his flowing, green silk robe, his thoughts returning to the vexing puzzle of how this other worlder -- this pretend Mage -- had withstood the killing blast of Mage-magic Pfnaravin had sent against him. On the first night after John-Lyon's condemnation, seeking information on the location of the gold crystal, Pfnaravin had spoken to the caged John-Lyon -- first in Stil-de-grain, then in Malachite. Receiving no answer, Pfnaravin had hurled a killing blast at the false Mage!
Only to have John-Lyon ... survive. (It was later that Pfnaravin remembered that, after down-light, John-Lyon spoke no tongue but English.
One thing was certain. John-Lyon had not survived because of counter crystal power. He had no crystal.
Pfnaravin had first learned that John-Lyon was powerless on the night Pfnaravin (still using his otherworldly last name, Mr. Robin) had slipped the imitation gem from around the sleeping John-Lyon's neck. And, later, found the disk to be worthless! (That was the same night another person had stabbed the sham Mage, someone else refusing to be fooled by John-Lyon's claims!)
John-Lyon had then destroyed Auro, indicating the pretender still had the yellow gem -- though he had hidden it since.
In addition, did John-Lyon have otherworldly tricks?
The possible use of deceptions from the other world was the reason Pfnaravin had ordered the army here, to use the army's force to overwhelm John-Lyon's alien "magic."
In any case, it would be Dockw who would be assigned to open the cage. Dockw to strap John-Lyon to the religious priest's instruments of torture in order to force the pretender to reveal the hiding place of the golden crystal of Stil-de-grain.
Meanwhile, through the power of Pfnaravin's green gem -- the same force that had drawn "Mr. Robin," at last, to the hollowed out space in Yarro's bed frame where the former king had hidden it -- Pfnaravin ruled again!
Enough thought!
"Stop!" ordered Pfnaravin, rising from the high-backed chair against the wall opposite the frenetic fools.
At Pfnaravin's sharp command, the circle of moaning, prancing, heavily robed eunuchs froze in place, as if paralyzed by a Mage-bolt. After which, Dockw, at line's end, with the proper hesitation befitting Pfnaravin's power, approached, mincing forward on his baby feet.
Coming near, bowing low, the painted horror lisped: "It is unwise, oh great Pfnaravin, to interrupt the ritual."
"And equally unwise," Pfnaravin sneered, "to continue it."
"But, great Mage ...
"If your talent as a gatherer of information is better than your skills as a religious danseuse, it is tomorrow that I will learn the truth."
As much as Pfnaravin wished to know the location of the crystal of Stil-de-grain, it was sickening to see the smile on the priest's hair-plucked face. Whatever the color-banded gelding's true beliefs, Dockw's delight was in inflicting pain.
A fact that made no difference. Living too long in the other world without the veneration due him, Pfnaravin had no concern for anything but the preservation and enhancement of his reclaimed power. At last, with his green crystal throbbing at his neck, with the prospect of possessing the magic power of the gold gem of Stil-de-grain as well, Pfnaravin was in position to dominate all bands!
There was no time to lose, however. It had been some time since the prisoners he himself had put in the Xanthin Palace dungeon had escaped.
Then, there were these vibrations from the crystal. (A certain thrashing that tells the spider that a fly is caught within the web, a quavering of the magic wards set about the castle told Pfnaravin someone was agitating the defensive net.)
Might he speculate that those outside were the escaped friends of John-Lyon? Perhaps the former admiral, Coluth? Even the elusive Golden, who Pfnaravin had not captured? Might a further speculation be that Golden was the outside factor who had arranged the escape of the others? Knives were something of a Golden specialty. At least against the robber captain they had encountered in the woods. (Pfnaravin had discovered the other bandits in the dungeon. Freed them. Made them officers. .... Surrounded by John-Lyon friends when he had assumed command, it was wise to counteract their influence with John-Lyon enemies.)
No matter. The drawbridge was securely raised. Even if the far wall was breached, the portcullis defended the inner, castle. There was no quick way past the solid, second wall.
A final precaution could be taken, however. Unnecessary, but ...
Returning to the business of the priests, Pfnaravin raised his voice in cold command.
"Dockw, you have my permission to withdraw."
Without another sound, the priest bowed, turned, and motioned the other priests into a silent, sinuous line, Dockw scuttling to the front to lead the priest-line as it slithered from the torchlit room.
The castrati gone, Pfnaravin raised his voice again. "Guards!"
As they had been trained to do, his squads of hand-picked men quick stepped in from every passageway, their officers dressing them into lines. "I have need for three guards to stand watch here throughout the night," Pfnaravin ordered. "The rest to strengthen the perimeter defense."
Salutes exchanged, Pfnaravin selected two hulking soldiers and one officer to remain, the rest of the troops matching out, their hardened leather boots clicking on the flagstone floor, the crisp cadence echoing dully from the tapestry covered walls.
When the tramp of the guards had whispered to a heavy silence, Pfnaravin spoke to the remaining officer. "Suspend the cage from that beam." Pfnaravin pointed to an age-blackened buttress two floors above. "Chain it high. Lock the chain; then give me the key."
"Yes, sir," the squad Head said, saluting smartly.
"I will remain ... to watch," Pfnaravin threatened, the officer hastening his men off for a lock, chain, and hand-cranked windlass for hoisting the heavy cage.
Pfnaravin's final preparations underway, allowing himself to settle back in the intricately carved chair, hands on the wheat-head armrests, Pfnaravin stared through the flickering light at the silent captive in the indistinctly lit cage at room center.
As if to guard himself from an unknown force, Pfnaravin's hand, of itself, rose to stroke the green crystal dangling at his neck.
Presently, gaining comfort from the thick, moist stillness of the aged room, feeling crystal-power surging in his blood, Pfnaravin was ... content. Content that the fulfillment of all his dreams would come .......
/>
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, those termites chewing at the outer wall would be eliminated. By tomorrow -- if he must bury John-Lyon, cage and all, in the deepest pit that could be dug! -- this troubling pretender would be no more. And best of all, by tomorrow, the great Pfnaravin would own the golden gem of Stil-de-grain!
All secure, guards at their stations, Pfnaravin could now retire to his room, confident that tomorrow -- he would be crystal-master of the world!
* * * * *
Since imminent death was a guarantee of insomnia, John couldn't sleep. (And to think that he'd come back to Stil-de-grain to stretch his life span!)
Nor did the swinging cage, help.
As for the solid bars, he couldn't bend them. He'd tried until his muscles had given out.
John remembered the shock -- arrest instead of celebration -- that jolt followed by his discovery that he'd lost the crystal. Followed by prisoner-John's removal to Hero Castle. Then came the show trial with its judges, dignitaries and incomprehensible legal formalities -- the trial for the sole purpose of railroading him to a conviction of treason. Done in the name of young Yarro, of course, the child king seated on his little throne, mournfully scanning the assembled officials for Coluth, Coluth also "mysteriously disappeared." As had Golden. And Leet. And Nator.
The ultimate shock had been finding that old man Robin (in John's world called Van Robin, John remembered), has turned out to be what historian-Paul had once suspected -- the real Pfnaravin. Complete with green crystal which, while John was off saving the world, Pfnaravin had found in Yarro senior's hiding place.
With an interminable night to reflect on the whole, sorry business, John regretted he'd been blind to so much. A lack of foresight that had doomed his friends.
Only the women seemed to have come through unharmed, John seeing Zwicia tottering along the road on the trip from Xanthin Island to Hero Castle. Probably hadn't even noticed there'd been a change of Mages.
The girl, catlike, had also landed on her feet. He'd seen her, too, in the line of march. Also part of Pfnaravin's entourage.
Platinia.
Not a young girl but a "full-grown" woman, John reminded himself. A darkly attractive woman; in the body of a mature child.
In the dark cage, chained a story above the stone-slab floor, John thought about his first and second trips to this strange, Bandworld. Speculated that Platinia had been the common denominator to both ventures.
In the chilly shadows of the one torch room, facing a tomorrow that promised -- certainly torture -- probably death -- John was surprised to find it was the dark-eyed girl who filled his thoughts.
Though he'd tried to deny it, he had to admit he had ... feelings ... for Platinia.
Feelings: but what kind of feelings?
Pity? ... Certainly. From what little he knew about her, he was convinced Platinia had a tragic life.
Sympathy?
Friendship?
Affection?
Something more? ...............
Not that she was his only friend in this foreign realm.
There was Coluth.
And the ubiquitously versatile Golden.
Thinking of Golden, a piece of the puzzle John had seen, but ignored, fell into place!
At John's trial, he'd noticed a young priest whispering to the head banded, dildo-equipped, chief priest, Dockw, Dockw leaning the other way to mumble to Pfnaravin, Pfnaravin standing to announce that, henceforth, John was to be locked in an iron cage.
All this time, John had thought that being enclosed by iron bars had been a fortunate accident, one that had saved his life when Pfnaravin lost his temper at John's failure to answer Pfnaravin's incomprehensible questions and blasted John with green lightning!
Not a chance event at all ... because the subordinate priest had been Golden in disguise!
So -- it was Golden who'd made the suggestion that John be caged, the young man knowing that any, iron-bound creature -- pig or man -- was safe from magic lightning! Figuring that Pfnaravin might try to strike John down ......
Summed up, Golden had proved himself to be a friend! ........ (Who, then, was the person who wished John dead, the person who'd stabbed him? The person who'd substituted a plain rope for the fuse?) Whoever that shadowy figure might be, John could be sure John's intimate companions had stood by him to the end.
And what had their loyalty gotten them?
It was a good bet that, of all his old friends, only Zwicia -- whose insanity buffeted her from the penalties of reality -- still had her freedom.
And Platinia.
Above all, John was glad his misfortune had not hurt Platinia. Glad for this single gleam of light in the lonely darkness of the remainder of his life!
-26-
Jogging ..... Up. .......
It had been a miracle! In spite of facing probable torture and possible death, John must have gone to sleep sometime before up-light. He had to have been asleep because he was surprised to be awake! Peering through the cage bars by the light of a single torch down there in the gray stone dining hall, his flesh crawled when he saw what looked like giant spiders descending on wisps of webs to either side of him, the apparitions disappearing as quickly as they'd come. Had he witnessed something in the gloom ... or only imagined it?
Silence.
Followed by thuds in the blackness below.
After which John saw another "spider," also glissading from blackness on a slender thread, this time, directly above the suspended cage.
Nearer. Nearer ....!
Golden!
With the agility of a cat, Golden stepped on the cage top, balancing there like a trapeze artist, the cage barely swinging with his added weight.
From under his tunic, Golden produced a lighted torch.
"Gyufeel syw qwy," Golden said in a low voice, the young man speaking in Stil-de-grain. Looking down at John through the barred ceiling of the cage, apparently realizing John couldn't understand, Golden motioned for John to remain quiet.
Of course! The hollow sounds from the room below must have been someone taking care of the guards.
Looking down, John saw men climbing the ropes. Sailors: Orig, Philelph. Coluth.
Strapped over Coluth's shoulder was a cargo-windlass. ..... For leverage! So they could bend the bars to let John out! John's friends had come to rescue him!
Hanging onto their ropes at cage level, the three seamen fastened the claws of the winch to the central bars, then to the sides of the cage, all done in silence.
Ready, Philelph turned the greased crank, the only sound the groaning of the bars as they were slowly twisted back.
When the gap was wide enough, with the others steadying the chained up cage, Coluth helped John through the bent bars, boosting John to the top of the iron prison.
Kneeling on the ceiling bars, wrapping one leg around Golden's rope for balance, John pushed off to lower himself to the floor.
John down, everyone else off the hemp lines as well, the sailors flicked waves in the ropes to unhook their grapnels from moorings on the stone railing above, the ropes snaking down in the murk of the great dining hall, the sailors somehow managing to catch the grapnels before they clanged on the stone floor.
The ropes off the railing, the lines coiled on the sailor's shoulders, the rescuers set out through the flickering dark, John leading, the five of them headed up crooked stairs and through narrow, twisting halls in what John hoped was the direction of the tower room. Up. And up.
Coluth cleared his throat. "If we continue to climb, we will be trapped." Not said fearfully. Not complaining about John's leadership. Just mentioning a fact he thought should be called to John's attention.
Ah!
John could understand what was being said.
Though you couldn't tell in the dismal byways of the crumbling stronghold, it had to be up-light outside, the light magic translating Coluth's Stil-de-grain. Now, John could ask a whispered question. "How did you get into the castle?"
"If I'm going in the right direction, there's a similar way out on this side," John whispered back.
Entering a large chamber, corridors forking off from it, John stopped to get his bearings, the other men coming to a halt beside him.
Which way? ......
The glow that filtered through a high window slit needed to be brighter before John could decide.
A pause was in order anyway, all of them panting.
Sucking in a quantity of air as quietly as he could, John held his breath to listen.
Heard ....... nothing.
They were safe for the moment, at least.
"Tell me," John asked, keeping his voice low as he waited for up-light to get stronger, "since they took me captive on the dock, where have you all been?"
"In the dungeon," Coluth said, in his quiet way.
"I figured that," John said, nodding. "You disappeared and no one said where. The king was upset."
"Young Yarro," Coluth said, sadly. "What will become of him now, controlled as he is, by the new Mage?"
"How did you escape?" John asked, as much to get Coluth's mind off his young charge, as to hear a tale of derring-do.
"Golden came for us."
John turned to Golden. "Through the ventilation window? The one where we bent the bars to get out?" That episode had been on John's last trip to this benighted world.
The black-haired young man shook his head. "There was no need, sir. I had already positioned myself within the palace, there to usher in Philelph and also Orig." At that, the two sailors grinned. No one could have been more eager than they to rescue their captain. "There were only two guards."
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 29