Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  There were moments last night when he'd toyed with the idea that he might be able to adjust to this new reality; found it a nasty shock to learn better! Assuming that torch lighting was only a sample of what could be done with "magic" in this place, what other "wonders" could everyone else do that he couldn't?

  In the meantime, he'd better be careful not to let them know what little power he possessed.

  Into the growing pause, John heard the butler clear his throat. "Sir," the stiff, old fellow said, his voice even higher than John had remembered from the evening before, "may I say welcome upon your arrival. I fear, in the excitement of last night, I did not express our great joy at having your powers returned to the world. And I know, now, that much has happened to you and that you do not know the ... problem that you face. Since our doom lies ahead, however, there is time for welcome." Whatever that was all about, John decided he should no longer postpone nailing down another "loose" part of local "magic."

  "I hate to interrupt," John said, "but I require another bit of information."

  "Yes, Lord. Anything."

  "The fact that we couldn't understand each other last night is also a function of the light?"

  "Yes, of course. The magic makes all tongues clear, Lord."

  "But not in the dark?"

  "Not precisely, lord. Not in the dark of night, Lord."

  "I ... see. In total darkness, blindfolded, perhaps, or in a cave, if it were day, the magic would work?"

  "Of course, Great Sir."

  "And at night, even in bright artificial light ...?"

  "There is no magic after down-light."

  "And so we understand each other now because it is day?"

  "Even so."

  "But last night after ... down-light ... did you and Platinia understand each other."

  "Yes, lord. Though the girl speaks little Stil-de-grainese at any time."

  "I noticed that."

  Thinking of the girl and of their entrance into this world, John realized, with a start, that his right hand felt ... normal. With Melcor dead, that also figured.

  "That will do, then, Chryses," John said. "I'll continue dressing. As for breakfast, I'm not sure I can find ..."

  "The dining hall is just left down the hall, down the stairs and right, then left, then rights until you arrive," the butler replied, motioning vaguely with one hand.

  "You will attend me at breakfast?" The chamberlain nodded solemnly. "And Platinia?"

  "I believe the girl has eaten. It is rather ... late, my Lord."

  "A difficult night for us all. I needed to sleep."

  "It was not my thought to be critical, sir. Please believe that ..."

  "Nor did I think that."

  Reassured, the butler sighed. "After breakfast I should like a guided tour of the castle and its grounds." Until John could find his way around by himself, he was as bound to Chryses as a trained bear chained to its handler.

  "It shall be as you wish, sir. If there is nothing else, I shall leave you alone, then, Lord."

  Hearing no objection, the chamberlain made his bow and dignified exit, pulling shut the bedroom door behind him.

  Putting on his slippers, John was soon through the door and tripping lightly down flights of worn, irregular stairs, the castle almost as gloomy in the morning as at night.

  Eventually -- though not as easily as Chryses indicated -- John found the dining hall.

  Seated at the table's head again with Melcor beside him, another of Melcor's silent servants (dressed in what probably passed for livery) brought them fruit and drink, the fruit cut into bite sized pieces and served in a small ceramic bowl; the drink some kind of white substance that tasted like, and probably was, milk. There was also thick cut bread. And butter.

  Like the night before, the food was filling -- all that John required of food.

  For his part, like a good waitress in any expensive restaurant, one of the ... slaveys ... stood in the shadows: there, without seeming to be there.

  "I think, Chryses," John said, after finishing, standing, "that I will review the household staff."

  "Very good, sir," said the butler, sliding from behind the table to pull a dark cord.

  The pull-cord ringing a bell somewhere, it didn't take long for people to arrive, entering through the four archways leading into the dining room. The staff. Ten. Twenty. Grizzled men and women for the most part.

  Ordering them to line up down the room's center, Chryses made introductions, first bending to hear a whispered name, then announcing that person to John. "This is the Head cook, Lord, Justia. And this is your Head of gardens, Lania." Both were hardened old women, seasoned in their craft. "Minia, Soubrette." At last, a young woman. "Orsia, your bed chamber Head. Roosia, scullion. Pfaffina, drudge. Kellia, turn-spit. And this is the Head of the bed-chamber, Denax."

  In his role as Mage-guide, the chamberlain was every bit the third world dictator conducting a prized dignitary on a review of the troops.

  It was in this, oh so formal, way that John met "his" servants: gardeners, cleaning women, men who tended animals. For their part, the laborers kept their faces hidden as best they could, never meeting John's eyes, curtsying or bowing in the gravest of silence. In turn, Chryses introduced John as the Lord, or great Lord, or Mage -- these titles apparently interchangeable.

  When the introductions were over, Chryses set the staff doing whatever tasks they did -- and that was that, John feeling he wouldn't be talking to the servants much in future, the castle's personnel expected to be neither seen nor heard.

  After the review, Chryses took John on a tour of Hero Castle, the aged building turning out to be what John had expected, a many storied, square castle -- turrets guarding its exterior corners.

  The rooms had names of various types: meeting rooms, morning rooms, bedrooms. One called the messenger bird room, John looking in to see a cage almost as large as the room itself, the enclosure containing at least a hundred parrots: green, gold, orange. A solitary red.

  Tapestries covered most walls, their designs featuring fantastic animals, hunt scenes, men chasing and being chased by creatures that looked like the gargoyles and dragons of medieval fancy. Other scenes were of iron-capped men in combat, primitive knights bearing swords, short bows, lances -- all on foot. Except for the lack of cavalry, military technology of the 7th century.

  After the castle tour (which left John as confused about room location as when he started) John was led through a heavy, iron bound door (a kind of postern gate) into a flower garden: a large area of plantings, the arboretum surrounded by a low, stone wall. Above the wall, John saw distant mountain peaks, the castle nestled at the top of one of them.

  Overhead was an odd, gold sky, looking for the world like it could be painted on a dome of back-lit glass, the bright gold sky seemingly the source of both light and heat.

  The garden tour took John down a flagstone path that was beginning to dry after what looked like a late night rain, past the expected trees and flowers promised by any botanical display.

  It was all ... too much. "Chryses?"

  "Yes, Lord?" came the high voice at John's back. From the first, the old man had been trailing after John at a respectful distance, Chryses seeing his job as directing John's course with a well timed, "A right turn now, Great Mage." Or, "Up the stairs to your left, Lord."

  "Is there a library in the castle?" John paused by a nest of low, stone benches, waiting for the old man to come up.

  "A ... what, sir?"

  "A library. Books."

  "Books?" While closing the distance between them, Chryses had stopped at a "safe remove" from the "fearsome Mage."

  "Yes."

  "There may very well be a book, though I have never been privileged to see it. A book of ancient spells. I believe that Melcor did mutter about such a book. But where it might be, I know not." The butler pulled on his mustache with the fingers of one hand, fluttering the fingers of the other above his head. "There may be books in Xanthin ...."
/>
  "Xanthin? A ... city?"

  "The capital, great lord." At least the butler was doing his best to keep the amazement out of his voice at John's idiot questions. As for Xanthin, a trip to the capital was a must -- and soon. For now, a council of "war" was what John needed.

  "Is it possible for you to call Platinia?"

  "Certainly, sir."

  Was Platinia tagging along, just out of sight? Shy? Sly? John couldn't make up his mind about that.

  Three claps of the old man's hands had Platinia appearing, sober as ever, walking up softly as if making a sound might call down the wrath of heaven.

  "Time for a talk,"John said, indicating the alcove beside the path, parallel stone slabs set into it, areas like this spotted throughout the garden, rest stops designed for meditation or for quiet conversation, privacy hedges encircling the nook. Behind the benches were close set trees, their smooth trunks sloping away to be used as back rests.

  And so they sat, John on one, polished slab, Chryses and Platinia on the bench across from him, Platinia huddled within herself, the butler sitting rigidly erect, the bony knees of his long legs sticking up awkwardly from under his formal tunic.

  John leaned back against a tree trunk, hoping in this way to prompt a relaxed talk.

  "When we first met, Platinia, you said I was needed here?"

  "Yes, Lord."

  "Why?"

  "Because of the evil."

  Remembering last night, Chryses had also hinted at some kind of evil in the world. Coming from the black band, Azare.

  "I don't ... see ... any evil."

  "Melcor said it comes," whispered the girl, Platina continuing to stare at the flat tiles sunk into the ground beneath her feet, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees -- as near to a fetal position as you could get while sitting, John thought. So much for the girl.

  "What do you know of this coming evil, Chryses?" John asked.

  "Only that Melcor feared it, Lord." Palms raised before him.

  "And what is ... this evil?"

  "It is ... the sky."

  "The sky?"

  "Melcor feared the sky would grow dim, great lord," the butler put in. "Feared a failure of the magic. Strange animals haunt some Bands, I overheard him say."

  "What Bands, may I ask?"

  "I believe I heard Melcor say the word Malachite." Malachite. John thought of what he knew about the bands.

  "And Malachite would be the ring just to the outside of Azare?"

  "The evil band. Yes."

  "As I remember, Still-de-grain surrounds Malachite?" Chryses nodded matter-of-factly.

  The old man cleared his throat as if about to start a long discourse. "After the last war, there was a league of Mages who brought peace." Wars and rumors of wars, thought John. Just like on earth.

  "And Melcor was trying to bring back Pfnaravin, to counteract this ... evil?" John said, cutting off what looked like the beginning of a rambling tale.

  "If the sky grows dark, as Melcor feared, the magic will fail. What is most needed is a greater magic." The chamberlain sounded hopeful but also tired and fatalistic.

  John looked up at a bright sky. "I don't see a 'darkness' in the sky."

  "That is true, here, lord. But there are rumors that in Malachite ..."

  "I see. A kind of creeping darkness, perhaps spreading from the evil band of Azare."

  "So Melcor believed. That is the reason Melcor summoned .... Pfnaravin .... to increase the magic," the butler offered, trying his best to help. "To fight against the gathering of the dark."

  "Magic -- like the kind of magic that lights the torches?"

  "Yes."

  This was the time to find out more about the magic of this other reality. "Explain to me what other functions magic serves, besides lighting torches."

  "For other simple tasks," the butler said, raising his hands, palm up, before him.

  "But if I understand you, Mages do greater magic?"

  "Certainly. There is defense of the bands ..."

  Without warning, from nowhere, from everywhere, there were shouts and the disorganized stamp of running boots, uniformed men bursting into view, soldiers with drawn swords surrounding John and his companions. Other troops with lowered spears phalanxed behind the swordsmen.

  Panic knotted John's stomach!

  "You are under arrest! ... Stay as you are!" ordered a soldier in front, his breath coming in pants. Dressed in a more colorful uniform than the rest, the man was obviously the commander. In addition to breathing hard, the squad's leader was sweating heavily, as were his men, the troops glancing about fearfully, as if sword and shield were poor defense against imagined terrors. Even their sweat smelled more of fear than of fatigue.

  The first rush of alarm over, John caught a deep breath. It seemed that these antiquated soldiers were not going to impale John and his companions where they sat, at least.

  "What has happened?" asked Chryses, blindly looking all around, trying to identify the sounds.

  "I don't know," John said, more stunned now than fearful. "Soldiers, I think." Platinia sat huddled on the bench. No change.

  "In the name of King Yarro," rasped the same man who had spoken before, "identify yourselves!" The officer had stiff, gold braid on his shoulders, was tall, thin, with sweat drops beading his balding head to slide down his forehead and thin face.

  "I am Chryses, chamberlain of Hero castle," the old man said with quiet dignity, trying to bow even from his seated position, making his accustomed hand and finger flourishes. "How is it that you enter the castle?"

  "Easier than we thought," said the man in such a way that it was a prayer that their luck would continue. "No defense at all. Where are your soldiers?"

  "We have no soldiers," said the butler.

  "Where is your Mage, then?"

  "Melcor is dead."

  "Impossible. Don't lie to me, old man." The officer had found his breath again, his tone more steady.

  "Falling stones killed him," the butler maintained, the old fellow so self-assured that the officer looked inclined to believe him.

  "We will see," the squad leader said, his tone suggesting more hope than doubt. He paused to think. "That might account for it. No defense when we stormed the castle. We'll see."

  John continued to feel ... more apprehensive ... than fearful. When you came from a world of hydrogen bombs, he found it difficult to feel threatened by men carrying swords and spears. An attitude that was irrational. Men with primitive weapons were deadly enough, if not to the planet, certainly to three unarmed civilians.

  "Second Head!" A short, dark man with a narrow, yellow sash stepped forward; clicked the heals of his solid leather boots, and saluted, hand clinched, forearm across his chest, sword in his other hand elevated. "Your squad will seal the perimeter." An exchange of salutes and the lieutenant stepped back in line.

  "Third Head!" A young soldier paced forward and saluted. "Your unit will search room by room. Thoroughly! Remember. My head will not be the only one to be separated from my body if we fail the king!"

  "Yes, sir," said the young man, fear and determination in competition for his boyish features.

  "You know the orders. All women still fertile to be seized." Salutes from the officers. ... "Now!"

  Platoons of 10 men each pivoted in a military manner and fell into cadence behind the lesser officers, the squads marching back along the garden walkway to disappear around hedges, the metronomic footfalls of the soldiers fading to silence.

  A third of the men remained. "You will give me your name, girl," the commander said, his voice somewhat softer addressing a woman.

  "Platinia," the girl said quietly, lifting wide, dark eyes to stare at the officer.

  "Are you the missing slavey of King Yarro?"

  "No."

  "You had better tell the truth," the officer said -- gently, but still managing to convey threat.

  "And you?" the leader (captain?) said, turning to fix John with narrowed eyes.

&
nbsp; "I am John Lyon."

  "An odd name. You are a foreigner? What is you Band?"

  "This one."

  "We will see. Bind both that man," he pointed at John, "and the girl."

  Quickly, two men stepped forward, one with some lengths of rope already in hand.

  "But you are making a mistake," the butler pleaded.

  "You had better hope that I do not change my mind and take you as well, old man."

  "But ...

  "Enough!" The captain turned to John and Platinia. "Stand up." They did.

  In no time, using what seemed to John to be a rather flimsy rope, a soldier had tied John's hands. Platinia's hands were bound behind her back, as well. "You said you are the Head here?" the leader asked Chryses.

  "I am."

  "You will convince my man there," the officer pointed at an older soldier, "that the Mage is dead. After that, if he does not convince me, you will be put to death."

  The veteran soldier stood Chryses up and herded the butler off.

  On order, what was left of the soldiers surrounded John and Platinia; marched the two of them inside the castle, through anterior rooms and out an iron barred portcullis that guarded the castle's gate.

  Already under guard in that open area was a group of five or six young women -- servants of the castle -- weeping, terrified, their hands restrained behind their backs like Platinia's and John's.

  Sharp commands forming the soldiers into a square around the prisoners, the military men herded their captives across the cobblestone courtyard and through a tunnel between twin, gate house towers, this fortified entranceway guarding the castle's front approach. After that, the sorry group of prisoners was quick marched over a massive, wooden drawbridge and down a stamped earthen ramp on the other side.

  Past the bridge, the officer called a halt.

  Eighty yards farther on, John could see more troops, drawn up behind a fringe of rocks. An army. Perhaps a thousand men; siege engines at the army's edges.

  Halting the squad and its prisoners on rocky ground beyond the castle proper, the captain commanded the guard to keep sharp, every man ordered to face outward as a precaution against surprise attack, prompting John to wonder what could frighten a thousand men? John didn't want to think about that.