"You have to land." The sound of the pencil's voice in the void startled Ilien. "It's not safe even for birds to fly this high for this long, let alone little boys not dressed for the occasion."
"I'm not a little boy," muttered Ilien.
"Set down over there, at the foot of the mountain, before you fall to the ground frozen."
Ilien slapped his cheek and shook his head. "Yes. Down."
The impenetrable shadow of the mountain loomed higher as Ilien glided down through pools of warmer air layered between sheets of heavy cold. The stars began to fade, their icy crispness melting pale and watery, and the glowing canvas of the Giant encampment tilted and shifted as Ilien descended. Soon it pitched out of sight, lost to distance.
Ilien felt solid ground beneath his feet and sank to his knees, curling up on the cold rock that had risen up out of the blackness to meet him. He never remembered closing his eyes.
He woke slowly, driven from dreamless slumber by a dull headache. He stirred and opened one eye, reaching beneath his head to remove the jagged stick he'd been using as a pillow. He rolled onto his back and moaned. The spiked top of Greattower shined impossibly bright above him and he propped himself up on his elbows, hanging his swimming head to focus on the soothing dimness of the rock beneath him. The plains below still slept in nighttime shadow. His bedroom, a small shelf of rock, the first tall step of a giant staircase leading up the mountainside, hung in twilight limbo.
Ilien trained his eyes upward, squinting against the painful light of the glowing peak. The sheer side of the mountain loomed over him and he dropped his gaze to the comfort of the dull rock beneath him once more. His head throbbed and he felt like throwing up. He spied his wooden pillow, snatched it up, and threw it from his mountain perch in disgust.
"Good morning, sleepy-head," chimed his pencil.
The pencil's high-pitched greeting pierced Ilien's aching head like a needle. "Things made of wood are not high on my list this morning." He eyed the pencil where it lay a few feet away.
"You've got a hangover," it said, cheerfully. Ilien lunged an arm out to grab it. "But don't worry it'll pass," said the pencil, rolling out of reach.
"A hangover? If this is what a hangover feels like, may I never drink ale for as long as I live."
"Yours is a magic hangover. Overdid yourself, I'd say, but thank heavens you did."
"No one ever told me I could feel like this." Ilien clutched his head.
"Yes. I know," said the pencil. "All magic users tend to think they're invincible but even the best of them have their limitations."
"Mine seem a bit low." Ilien closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. The pain in his head began to work its way south and he grabbed his stomach. "Why do you think that is?" he asked suddenly.
"Invisibility is not a spell to be taken lightly. To tell you the truth, I didn't think you could pull it off. It may seem like a simple enough concept, but believe me, it isn't. On top of that, you were flying. Fairly impressive, I'd say."
"I'm not so sure," Ilien said. "What if I'm not as powerful as everyone thinks? What if they're wrong about me?"
The pencil rolled toward him. "Doubt me. Doubt Anselm. Even doubt the Swan. But always believe in yourself." It rolled right into Ilien's hand. "The fact that the NiDemon believes Windy is you is misbelief for a good cause. It gives us an edge. But believe me, most misbelief isn't."
Ilien closed his eyes. "Whatever you just said, I hope you're right."
"Now let's get going. We may be ahead of the Book, but we won't be for long if we stay here and mope."
"I'm not moping," Ilien shot back as he tried to get his bearings. "I'm wallowing. Besides, there's no way off this rock unless I fly, and I'm not sure I can."
"Quit your driveling and act like a man," scolded the pencil. "There's more at stake here than just your sore head."
Ilien stewed in silent shame but the pencil was right. He knew it but his body didn't, and another wave of nausea swept through him. He fought back his sickness, remembered Anselm, and retched on the cold stone.
"It's too late to save him," said the pencil, reading his thoughts. "Don't let it be too late for Windy."
Ilien winced and wiped his mouth. "I know."
The mission was still before him. The importance of what was at stake did nothing to ease his sickness, but the thought of Windy in danger speared through him, snapping him to his senses. He retched again and rose to his feet.
When the pain in his stomach had finally quieted to a dull ache, and his vision began to clear, he consulted Anselm's map. He discovered that if he flew upward only fifty feet or so he could land on a narrow ledge. The ledge led to a sheer wall of rock but if he could manage to fly a hundred feet higher he'd reach a small landing. There he could rest before undertaking the final and longest flight up to a small opening in the rocks which ran into the mountain and led to tunnels which branched out like veins into the very depths of Greattower. The map assured him that it could guide him safely through the maze of tunnels, to the very heart of the mountain where Windy was being held.
Ilien steadied himself against the side of the cliff. "I don't have to fly invisibly again, do I?"
"Don't be silly," said the pencil. "Of course not. No one can possibly see you up here."
Ilien looked around anyhow, if only to delay the inevitable. He didn't relish the idea of making himself feel even more ill than he already was, and grammar was the last thing he wanted to think about just then, but there was no getting around it.
"Lever belie, belever beflie," he muttered. With a groan he rose into the air. He repeated the spell again and sailed slowly up to the next ledge, keeping his eyes closed against the dizzying ascent. By the time he lit on the narrow landing, the pounding in his head had faded to a dull ache.
"That felt pretty good," he said.
"Wait till tomorrow," said the pencil.
"What?"
"Never mind."
In fact, the more Ilien flew the better he felt. By the time he reached the final landing his headache had vanished, his nausea had fled, and the sun no longer burned holes in his eyes. Compared to how awful he felt when he woke up that morning, he now felt as if he could take on the world.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," the pencil said, reading his thoughts again. "That time may soon come."
"Why do I feel so good all of a sudden?" he asked.
"There's nothing quite like magic to ease a magic hangover. But remember—"
"I know." Ilien shook his head. "Just wait until tomorrow."
The entrance to the tunnel lay open before him, a dark mouth with rocky teeth all around. He peered into the impenetrable darkness. Without a thought he conjured up Globe to light the way, and strolled into the mountainside.
The tunnel ran straight, sloping downward for nearly a hundred feet before it branched to the left and right, veering away in a yawning Y, while the main way continued straight onward. Ilien looked back at the bright eye of the entrance and his newfound courage began to fade.
He thought about flying along the tunnel—he longed for the exhilaration of magic to make everything seem alright, but something told him that it wouldn't be right. He needed to stay put in reality, keep his feet on the ground. He was headed into the heart of Greattower where a demon lay waiting for him. He turned from the bright light of the entrance to face Globe's soft glow, pulling out Anselm's map. It unfolded without a word.
"Which way now?" he asked.
In the hazy illumination of the magical light, Ilien could discern the outline of a complex rendering of tunnels and chambers drawn upon the map, graphed out in a series of rectangles, squares and, most disturbing of all, blank spots. A red X appeared. Beside it the words, "You Are Here" could be faintly seen. What followed was a dotted line tracing the proper path through the tunnel maze. It ended abruptly at one of the blank spots.
"Go straight," said the map. "Veer left two tunnels down, then right, then straight again until the next four way
crossroad, then—"
"I can read a map," Ilien interrupted. "But what's with all the blank spots?"
"Interference. Something's blocking me," said the map, ignoring Ilien's choice of words. "It's as if some powerful force wants to hide those parts of the tunnel from prying eyes."
Ilien counted five blank spots in all. "That can't be good." He looked back the way he had come.
"At least we only have to pass through one," said the map.
Ilien turned from the beckoning light of the entrance. "Let's go," he said before he could change his mind, and he started down the tunnel with Globe hanging above his head like a halo.
As Ilien made his way forward, he became aware of troubling changes around him. The cold hung deadly silent in the casket blackness, and breathing became difficult. The utter darkness dulled his thoughts until thinking seemed impossible, and he had to stop several times to gather his wits. He had never felt the weight of the earth press so heavily upon him before. The snug caves beneath Tipton Rock in Farmer Person's back field hardly qualified as subterraneous caverns a mile below the earth. What he noticed most of all, though, were the smells. As he crept along the sooty halls nearly each new step brought a different and disturbing odor, some swampy and pungent, some sharp and flinty, and others—the others were the worse. Once, long since he'd seen the prick of light from the tunnel entrance vanish, the dull plodding of his footsteps suddenly sounded like fat, wet kisses in the dark. He would have imagined he was walking over melted chocolate, if it wasn't for the smell. At least he hadn't encountered the putrid odor of Spanstone yet.
Time played tricks on Ilien in the dark, so far beneath the floor of the earth. What seemed to have taken scant minutes had eaten up hours. He finally stopped at a curve in the tunnel that according to the map was the last curve before they ventured into the mysterious blank spot. Globe flickered then dimmed to a dirty brown and Ilien peered fearfully at the map.
"What's the matter?" asked the map. "Let's go."
In Globe's soiled orb of light, Ilien's mind began to conjure up images of what might qualify to be hidden from prying eyes when it was already buried a mile beneath a mountain. "Are you sure there's no other way around?" he asked in a shaky voice. "Are you sure there's no other way to reach Windy?"
"No," the map replied, flatly. "I'm not."
"Well then take another look!" Ilien cried, his voice echoing around him. "If you're not so sure then search some more! If we don't have to pass through a tunnel that someone, oh, let's say the Necromancer, doesn't want us to pass through, then let's not!"
"Keep it down," said the pencil. "Ilien's right, you dried out piece of scratch paper! Look again!"
"It won't do any good," said the map.
"Why?" cried Ilien and the pencil at once.
"Because I don't know how to get to Windy."
The map's final words echoed down the tunnel, then silence.
"You don't know how to get to Windy?" Ilien whispered.
"No."
"But you said, you assured me you knew." Ilien looked into Globe's pale light for comfort.
"I said I could lead you to the very heart of the mountain where Windy was being held," replied the map. "I never said I could lead you to Windy."
Again silence.
"For crying out loud, haven't you ever used a map before!" yelled the map. "I'm geographic, not demographic!"
Ilien put his head in his hands. "What can possibly go wrong next?"
Globe suddenly streaked away, flying down the corridor like a bat chasing moths. It bounced off the walls, dwindling in the distance until it finally rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. Ilien stood trapped in utter darkness.
"Globe! Come back!" Ilien recited the Light spell again and again but Globe was gone, and Ilien was left with the unmistakable knowledge that he was utterly and hopelessly lost. He dropped to his knees in the darkness. There was no going forward. There was no going back. He huddled in a knot, fighting off the blackness that pressed in around him, that seeped into his mind to snuff out his very thoughts.
The darkness played tricks on Ilien then, for it was not the simple gloom of night that he was used to in his room. It was complete and utter darkness, like the dark in his closet at midnight, or the dark behind his eyes while squeezing them tight against a still fading nightmare, darkness so thick that a light shined through it in his mind because that's what he wanted to see, that's what he needed to see, a light shining through mist which he knew was not there, but which brought him comfort when comfort couldn't be found with his eyes. As Ilien crouched on the tunnel floor, he fancied he saw his feet, snug beneath him, his legs lit in a soft blue glow as if Globe still hovered nearby. But try as he might to keep the vision from fading, in the farthest corner of his mind he knew it was just an illusion, and the darkness closed in once more.
But when he blinked the light was still there, and when he wiggled his toes he actually saw the tips of his boots move up and down. He threw his gaze upward and there, hovering before him, stood the glowing image of Gallund, bent and crooked without his cane. Ilien looked back at his toes and wiggled them again. He closed his eyes and opened them. He sprang to his feet and pointed his pencil at the image before him. It was a trick! A ghost sent to lure him down the tunnel and into the blank spot to his doom!
"Get back, Reknamarken!" he shouted, but it came out as a squeak and he sank back to his knees. "Get back," he pleaded, his pencil held at his side.
Gallund's image shimmered bright, then dimmed. It flickered, playing with the shadows on the tunnel walls. Ilien expected it to disappear and prove his assumption correct, but the darkness suddenly sprang away and Gallund's image blazed forth so brightly that Ilien shielded his eyes.
"How you ever made it this far I'll never know!" The angry voice was Gallund's "Get up! Get up and turn back at once! I didn't raise you to be a fool, Ilien Woodhill."
"Gallund?" Ilien peered sideways into the wizard's shining aura. "Is it really you?"
"Who else would bother to look for you in a rat-infested place like this?" the wizard answered, looking ever so cross as usual.
Ilien glanced around nervously. "Rat-infested?"
Gallund's luminescent image flushed red in anger. "That's the least of your problems! Turn back at once. Get to Berkhelven as fast as you can."
"Gallund! It is you!" Ilien jumped to his feet and ran to hug the wizard but passed straight through him instead, stumbling into the far wall. He spun around with a gasp. "You're—you're a ghost?"
"I'm as much a ghost as you are a wizard!" Gallund said, his hands at his hips. "Now do as I say and turn back at once!"
"I can't. The NiDemon captured the princess. She has the key that unlocks the Book. I have to rescue her."
Gallund's image flared brightly then dimmed. "No, you don't. The princess doesn't have the key, Ilien. You do."
Ilien stared in silence at Gallund, but his hand strayed to his pocket where he kept his house key.
"That's right." The wizard's glowing figure grew larger, more imposing. "You've had it all along, now turn back before it's too late. There is no gain in rescuing Windy. You're not ready to face a NiDemon. He will take the key from you, and all will be lost."
"Windy will die!"
Gallund's ghostly image wavered in silence.
Ilien shrank back against the wall, feeling the hard outline of the key in his pocket. "But what about everything the Swan said?"
"The Swan was wrong," Gallund stated. "You will free Reknamarken if you face the NiDemon. The Swan was fooled by her visions, as most people are by their eyes."
"Or by their ears." Ilien studied Gallund's glowing image. "The Gallund I know would never let an innocent girl die."
"Things are not as simple as you make them," Gallund pressed. "Yes, if you turn back now Windy may die. But if you don't many more surely will. You are prophesied to release the Necromancer. Don't rush to fulfill your destiny. Everything appears hopeless now, but remember�
��"
"Some appearances are not what they seem," Ilien finished, standing tall. "You are not the Gallund I know! Illustus bregun, illustus bregar!" His incantation echoed down the tunnel.
He half-expected Gallund to flicker, but the wizard put a finger to his lips and shook his head instead. He seemed about to say something, then he looked over his shoulder as if he heard someone approaching. He turned back to Ilien, but when he spoke he made no sound at all. Ilien pressed himself against the tunnel wall in fear. A cross expression flashed across the wizard's face and he glanced over his shoulder again. When he turned back, Ilien saw something he'd never seen in the wizard before—the brittle look of fear. Gallund's lips moved again. This time Ilien could hear the words in his mind.
She's coming for me. Turn back now, before it's too late. Then his image turned grey as ash and froze in the air.
"Gallund! Where are you?" Ilien ran forward, careful not to pass through the wizard again, fearing that Gallund might disappear completely. But the frozen image faded anyhow, until all that remained was a neon ghost before Ilien's eyes, a floating red phantom in the blackness of his mind.
"It was you. Oh, Gallund, I'm sorry." Ilien dropped to his knees and sagged to the cold, wet floor. He closed his eyes, his mind a void, filled with the pressing darkness and the faint chatter of rats somewhere down the tunnel.
"What should we do now?" whisper the pencil.
Ilien clutched the hard outline of the key through his pants. His mind turned in circles, first to images of Windy huddled somewhere nearby, awaiting her death if he didn't press onward, then to thoughts of the NiDemon prying his hands from the key, releasing the Necromancer, proving the prophesy true. The only safe course seemed to be kneeling for eternity in the cold slime beneath him.
"Staying here and turning back are one and the same," said the pencil. "Your choosing not to choose is a choice nonetheless. You probably don't want to hear what I think, but Gallund told you to turn back and I agree. If you're careful you can make it out safely. I know you can."
Ilien closed his eyes, though he could have left them open. In the absolute darkness, with his mind frozen in fear, it was all the same. "I won't let Windy die," he said suddenly. He shoved to his feet. "We're not going back. If the map can lead me out in the dark, then it can lead me further in."
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