by Terry Brooks
“But we have never seen one like it,”persisted Fillip.
“Never,”agreed Sot.
“Can we touch it, High Lord?” asked Fillip.
“Yes, can we?” pleaded Sot.
Ben glared. “I thought we were here to discuss trolls. You seemed anxious enough to do so earlier. You practically cried to do so. Now you don't care anymore?”
Fillip glanced hastily at Sot. “Oh, we care a great deal, High Lord. The trolls have mistreated us grievously.”
“Then let's get on…”
“But the trolls are gone for now and cannot be found again immediately in any case, and the bottle is right here, right in front of us, so can we touch it for a moment, Great Lord—just for a moment?”
“Can we, Mighty High Lord?” echoed Sot.
Ben wanted to take the bottle and beat them over the head with it. But instead he simply picked it up and handed it over. It was easier than arguing. “Just be careful,”he cautioned.
There really wasn't much to worry about on that count, he realized. The bottle was heavy glass and looked as if it could endure a good deal of mistreatment. Actually, it seemed almost something more than glass—almost a metal of some sort. Must be the paint, he thought.
The G'home Gnomes were fondling and caressing the bottle as if it were their most precious treasure. They stroked it and loved it. They cradled it like a child. Their grimy little paws moved across its surface almost sensuously. Ben was disgusted. He glanced out into the gardens at Willow and thought about joining her. Anything would be better than this.
“How about it, fellas,”he said finally. “Let's finish up with the trolls, okay?”
Fillip and Sot stared at him. He beckoned for them to return the bottle, and they reluctantly handed it back. Ben set it down next to him again. The gnomes hesitated, then resumed their complaint against the trolls. But the effort was halfhearted at best. Their eyes kept straying back to the bottle, and finally they gave up on the trolls altogether.
“High Lord, could we have the bottle?” asked Fillip suddenly.
“Oh, yes, could we?” asked Sot.
Ben stared. “Whatever for?”
“It is a precious thing,”said Fillip.
“It is a treasure,”said Sot.
“So beautiful,”said Fillip.
“Yes, beautiful,”echoed Sot.
Ben closed his eyes and rubbed them wearily, then looked at the gnomes. “I would love to be able to give it to you, believe me,”he said. “I would love to say, ‘Here, take this bottle and don't let me see it ever again/ That's what I would love to do. But I can't. The bottle has some connection with what happened to Abernathy, and I have to know what.”
The G'home Gnomes shook their heads solemnly.
“The dog never liked us,”muttered Fillip.
“The dog never did,”muttered Sot.
“He growled at us.”
“And even snapped.”
“Nevertheless…” Ben insisted.
“We could keep the bottle for you, High Lord,”interrupted Fillip.
“We would take good care of it, High Lord,”assured Sot.
“Please, please,”they implored.
They were so pathetic that Ben could only shake his head in wonder. They were just like little children in a toy store. “What if there were an evil genie in the bottle?” he asked suddenly, leaning forward with a dark frown. “What if the genie ate gnomes for breakfast?” The gnomes looked at him blankly. Obviously they had never heard of such a thing. “Never mind,”he said. He sighed and sat back again. “You can't have it, and that's that.”
“But you said you would love to give it to us,”Fillip pointed out&
“That is what you said,”agreed Sot.
“And we would love to have it.”
“We would.”
“So why not give it to us, High Lord?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Just for a little while, even?”
“Just for a few days?”
Ben lost his temper once again. He snatched up the bottle and brandished it before him. “I wish I had never seen this bottle!” he yelled. “I hate the damn thing! I wish it would disappear! I wish Abernathy and the medallion would reappear! I wish wishes were candy and I could eat them all day long! But they aren't, and I can't, and neither can you! So let's drop the whole subject of the bottle and get back to the trolls before I decide I don't want to listen to you anymore on anything and send you on your way!”
He put the bottle down again with a thud and sat back. The gnomes glanced at each other meaningfully.
“He hates the bottle,”whispered Fillip.
“He wishes it would disappear,”whispered Sot.
“What did you say?” Ben asked. He couldn't quite hear them.
“Nothing, Great High Lord,”answered Fillip.
“Nothing, Mighty High Lord,”answered Sot.
They went quickly back to their tale of woe about the trolls, a tale which they wrapped up rather quickly. While they were telling it, they never took their eyes off the bottle.
The remainder of the day slipped by rather more quickly than Ben had expected. The gnomes finished their tale and departed for their quarters. Guests were always invited to spend the night, and Fillip and Sot invariably accepted the invitation because they loved Parsnip's cooking. That was all right with Ben so long as they stayed out of trouble. Before they were even through the garden room door, Ben was moving to join Willow. Belatedly, he remembered the bottle, still sitting next to his chair amid the flower boxes. He retraced his steps, picked it up, glanced around for a safe place to put it, and decided on a cabinet that displayed a series of ornate flower pots and vases. He slipped the bottle inside, where it blended quite nicely, and hurried out.
He walked the gardens with Willow for a time, reviewed his agenda for the following day—how in the world was he going to get along without Abernathy to remind him of his appointments and to keep his calendar?— stuck his head in the kitchen to see what Parsnip was preparing, and went for a run.
Running was the one exercise he still practiced faithfully. He kept what he could of his boxer's routine—a holdover from his days as a silver gloves champion and after—but he lacked the sophisticated punching equipment that would let him train as he would in a Chicago gym, so he relied heavily on the running, together with rope work and isometrics. It was enough to keep him fit.
He dressed in his sweats and Nikes, crossed from the island to the mainland in the lake skimmer—his private skiff, a vessel that ran without any power but that of his own thought—climbed the hills beyond, and began to run along the rim of the valley. Fall was in the air, a brief hint of color already beginning to show in the green of the trees. Days were growing short, the nights cold. He ran for almost two hours, trying to work through the day's frustrations and disappointments; when he was sufficiently tired, he crossed back again.
By now the sun was slipping quickly into the west, already partially masked by a screen of forest trees and distant peaks. He watched the dramatic outline of the castle loom up before him as he sat in the skimmer, thinking how much he loved it here. Sterling Silver was the home he had always searched for—even when he didn't know he was searching for it. He remembered how forbidding she had seemed that first time, all worn and discolored from the Tarnish, the loss of magic in the land having sickened her. He remembered how huge and empty she had seemed. That was before he had discovered that she was alive and that she was as capable of feeling as he. He remembered the warmth he had felt in her that first night—a warmth that was real and not imagined. Sterling Silver was a singular bit of magic, a creation of stone and mortar and metal that was nevertheless as human as any creature of flesh and blood. She could extend warmth, she could provide food, she could shelter, she could comfort. She was a wondrous magic, and he never ceased to marvel that she could actually be.
He received word from Willow on his return that Ques-tor had surfaced long enough to report t
hat he had determined that Abernathy definitely wasn't still in Landover. Ben accepted the news stoically. He hadn't really expected things to be that easy.
Willow came to him and washed him in his bath. Her tiny hands were gentle and loving, and she kissed him often. Her long, green hair swept down about her face as she worked, and it made her seem veiled and mysterious.
“You must not be too angry with Questor,”she said finally as he was toweling himself dry. “He tried to do what he thought best for Abernathy. He wanted desperately to help.”
“I know that,”Ben said.
“He holds himself responsible for Abernathy's condition, and such responsibility is a terrible burden.”She looked out the window of his bedchamber into the darkening night. “You should understand better than anyone what it can be like to feel responsible for another person.”
He did. He had carried the weight of that responsibility more times than he cared to remember. A few times he had carried it when it was not really his to carry. He thought of Annie, his wife, gone now almost four years. He thought of his old law partner and good friend, Miles Bennett. He thought of the people of Landover, of the black unicorn, of his new friends Willow, Abernathy, Bunion, Parsnip, and, of course, Questor.
“I just wish he could manage to control the magic a little better,”he said softly. Then he stopped in the middle of what he was doing and looked over at the sylph. “Fm scared to death of losing that medallion, Willow. I remember all too well what it was like when I thought I'd lost it last time. I feel so helpless without it.”
Willow came to him and held him. “You will never be helpless, Ben. Not you. And you will never be alone.”
He hugged her close and nodded into her hair. “I know. Not while you're around. Anyway, I shouldn't worry. Something will come up.”
Something did come up, but it wasn't until dinner was nearly over that it did, and it wasn't what either of them expected. Dinner was a sparsely attended affair. The G'home Gnomes did not show up—an astonishing occurrence—nor did Questor. Bunion dropped by briefly and was off again, and Parsnip stayed in the kitchen. So Ben and Willow sat alone at the great dining hall table, eating dutifully and listening to the silence.
They were just finishing when Questor Thews burst into the room, his owlish face so distraught that Ben was on his feet instantly.
“High Lord!” the wizard gasped. “Where is the bottle?”
“The bottle?” Ben had to think a moment. “In the garden room, in a display case. What's wrong?”
Questor was trying so hard to catch his breath that Ben and Willow felt obliged to help him to a chair. Willow gave him a glass of wine, which he quickly drained. “I remember now where I saw the bottle, High Lord!” he said finally.
“Then you did see it before! Where?” Ben pressed.
“Here, High Lord! Right here!”
“But you didn't remember that earlier when you saw it?”
“No, of course not! That was over twenty years ago!”
Ben shook his head. “You're not making any sense, Questor.”
The wizard lurched to his feet. “I will explain it all to you as soon as we have that bottle safely in hand! I will not feel comfortable until we do! High Lord, that bottle is extremely dangerous!”
Bunion and Parsnip had appeared as well by now, and the bunch of them hastened down the castle halls toward the garden room. Ben tried to find out more as they went, but Questor refused to elaborate. They reached the garden room in moments and pushed through the closed doors in a knot. The room was dark, but a touch of Ben's hands on the castle walls brought light.
He crossed the room to the display cabinet and peered through its glass doors.
The bottle was gone.
“What, what in… ?” He stared in disbelief at the empty space on which the bottle had rested. Then he knew. “Fillip and Sot!” He spit their names out like loose stones. “Those damn gnomes, they couldn't leave well enough alone! They must have stayed behind at the door to see where I put it!”
The others pushed forward, facing past him to the cabinet.
“The G'home Gnomes took the bottle?” Questor asked incredulously.
“Bunion, go search for them,”Ben ordered, already fearing the worst. “If they're still here, bring them— quick!”
The kobold was gone instantly and back again just as quickly. His monkey face grimaced and his teeth showed.
“Gone,”Ben cried in fury.
Questor looked faint. “High Lord, I am afraid that I have some very bad news for you.”
Ben sighed stoically. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.
Abernathy came awake with a start. He didn't come awake in the ordinary sense because he had never really been asleep, just wishing he was, his eyes squinched closed, his breath held like a swimmer underwater. It seemed as if he came awake, however, because first the light was there, all around him, so intense he could feel its brightness even with his eyes closed, and then all of a sudden it was gone.
He blinked and looked around. A screen of shadows and half-light masked everything. He took a moment to let his vision clear fully. There were bars in front of his face. He blinked again. There were bars all around! Good heavens, he was in a cage!
He tried to scramble up from the sitting position in which he found himself and discovered that his cage would not permit it. His head was right up against the ceiling. He maneuvered one arm—he could barely move that either— to touch the ceiling experimentally, then the bars… Wait, what was this? He touched the bars again. They were set in glass of some sort—and weren't really bars, but some sort of latticework, very ornate, very intricate. And the cage wasn't square, it was hexagonal!
Who ever heard of a hexagonal cage?
He glanced down. A pair of delicate-looking vases were squashed between his legs and the glass, looking for all the world as if they would shatter with his next breath.
Nevertheless, he did breathe, mostly from astonishment. He wasn't in a cage; he was in some sort of display case!
For a moment he was so bewildered that he was at a complete loss as to what to do next. He stared out beyond the case into the shadows and half-light. He was in a massive stone and timber hall filled with cabinets and shelving, cases and pedestals, all displaying various artifacts and art objects. The light was so poor that he could barely make any of it out. A scattering of windows that were small and set high on the walls allowed in what little light there was. Tapestries decorated the walls at various intervals, and a floor of stone flagging was covered with scattered squares of what appeared to be handwoven carpet.
Abernathy scowled. Where in the name of all that was good and decent in the world was he? That confounded Questor Thews! He might still be in Sterling Silver for all he knew, locked away in some half-forgotten room of old art, except… He let the thought trail away unfinished. Except that he wasn't, he sensed. His scowl deepened. That muddleheaded wizard! What had he done?
A door opened at one end of the room and closed softly. Abernathy squinted through the gloom. Someone was there, but he couldn't see who. He held his breath and listened. Whoever was there apparently didn't know about him yet. Whoever was there was strolling idly about the room, moving very slowly, stopping from time to time, looking things over. A visitor, Abernathy decided, come to look at the art. The footsteps grew closer, off to his left now. His display case sat rather far out from the wall, and he could not see clearly behind him without turning his head and shoulders. If he did that he was afraid he might break something in the case. He sighed. Well, maybe he should. After all, he couldn't just sit there indefinitely, could he?
The footsteps passed behind him, slowed, came around, and stopped. He looked down. A small girl was looking up. She was very young, he decided, no more than maybe twelve, with a tiny body, a round face and curly honey-blond hair cut short. Her eyes were blue and there was a scattering of freckles on her nose. She was apparently trying to decide what he was. He held his breath momentarily, hop
ing that she might lose interest and go away. She didn't. He tried to stay perfectly still. Then he blinked in spite of his resolve, and she drew back in surprise.
“Oh, you're alive!” she exclaimed. “You're a real puppy!”
Abernathy sighed. This was turning out about the way he had expected it would—about the same as the rest of his day.
The little girl had come forward again, eyes wide. “You poor thing! Locked in that case like that, no food or water or anything! Poor puppy! Who did this to you?”
“An idiot who fancies himself a wizard,”Abernathy replied.
Now her eyes really opened wide. “You can talk!” she whispered in a voice of conspiratorial elation. “Puppy, you can talk!”
Abernathy frowned. “Would you mind not calling me
‘Puppy’?”
“No! I mean, no, I wouldn't mind.”She edged closer. “What's your name, puppy? Uh, I'm sorry. What's your name?”
“Abernathy.”
“Mine's Elizabeth. Not Beth or Lizzy or Liz or Libby or Liza or Betty or anything else, just Elizabeth. I hate those cute abbreviations. Mothers and fathers just stick you with them without asking you what you think about it, and there they are, yours forever. They're not real names, just half-names. Elizabeth is a real name. Elizabeth was my great-aunt's name.”She paused. “How did you learn to talk?”
Abernathy frowned some more. “I learned as you did, I imagine. I went to school.”
“You did? They teach dogs how to talk where you're from?”
Abernathy was finding it hard to stay patient. “Of course not. I wasn't a dog, then. I was a man.”
Elizabeth was fascinated. “You were?” She hesitated, thinking. “Oh, I see—a wizard did this to you, didn't he? Just like Beauty and the Beast. Do you know the story? There was this handsome prince and he was changed into an ugly beast by a wicked spell and couldn't be changed back again until he was truly loved.”She stopped. “Is that what happened to you, Abernathy?”
“Well…”
“Was the wizard a wicked wizard?”