The Changing Land

by Roger Zelazny

  Lisha entered the room and crossed to a cabinet set against the far wall. A clinking of glass ensued. Shortly, she returned with a glass on a silver tray which she set upon a small table to Semirama's right.

  "Anything else, ma'am?" she asked.

  "No. I think not." She raised the glass and sipped. "Were you ever in love, Lisha?"

  The other woman reddened and turned her eyes away.

  "I suppose I once was. That was a long while back."

  "What happened?"

  "He was taken for a soldier, ma'am. Died in his first engagement."

  'What did you do?"

  "Cried a lot, as I recall. Grew older."

  "You know that I was queen long ago in a city that no longer exists? That Jelerak summoned me back from the land of the dead because my family knew the language of the Old Ones, because he needed an interpreter when the one who serves him here began acting strangely?"

  "So I heard. I was here the day he called you back. I first saw you that same evening. They brought you to me, still asleep, some hours later, to take care of. It was three days before your eyes focused, before you spoke."

  "That long? I never realized. It was only a week later when poor Jelerak went off and we were left to our own devices. So many months ago…"

  " 'Poor Jelerak'?"

  Semirama turned and studied her servant, frowning.

  "I find your reaction puzzling. It is not the first time I have met it. He was always a kindly man. You act as if this were not so."

  Lisha began to finger her sash. Her eyes darted.

  "I'm only a servant here."

  "But why this reaction from so many? You can tell me."

  "I—I have heard that long ago he was as you have said…"

  "But that he is no longer?"

  Lisha nodded.

  "Strange… the things that time does to us," Semirama mused. "I had heard things about him, even near my own end. I did not believe them, however. But then, I was too occupied with thoughts of another to pay much heed to such matters. My husband was busy with his concubines and my heart lay elsewhere…"

  Lisha brightened, her eyes returning to her mistress's face.

  "Yes…" said Semirama, regarding the designs of the ebony screen, raising her glass for another sip. "I loved a man of the Elvish kind—he who went off to Shoredan and slew the mighty First, Hohorga, against whom even Jelerak had struggled in vain. Selar was his name. He was slain immediately himself, on completion of the deed…"

  "I have… heard of him, ma'am."

  "I should have killed myself then, but I did not. I lived for several years afterward. I consoled myself with other lovers. I died in my sleep. Thinking back now, it had to be foul play. My husband, Randel, I suspect. I was weak." She laughed simply. "If I had known I was to be resurrected, I would surely have done it."

  She stretched and sighed.

  "You may go, Lisha."

  The woman did not move.

  "You—you would not be thinking of doing yourself harm now—would you, m'lady?"

  Semirama smiled.

  "Gods bless you, no. Too much time has passed for such a gesture to have any meaning. I am no longer that girl. I grew a bit weary over other matters, and my mind turned to the foolishness of youth. Go now, and fear not. I wanted a willing ear. That is all."

  Lisha nodded and turned.

  "If you need anything more, just call."

  "I will."

  She watched the woman leave. After a time, she drew upon the chain around her neck once again, raising a small, octagonal, bluish metal locket, inlaid with darkened silver. This she opened, to regard the countenance graven within.

  It was a full-face view of a young man—long pale hair, slightly sharp-featured, piercing eyes, a short chin-beard, an appearance of strength or determination in the width of the brow, the line of the mouth.

  She looked for a moment, touched it to her lips, closed it, let it fall. She finished her drink.

  Rising, she wandered about the room, picking up small objects and replacing them. At length, she crossed to the door, found herself again in the hall, stood undecided a moment, began walking.

  For over an hour she padded through chambers, along galleries, up and down stairs, meeting no one, occasionally encountering the transitory dreams of her charge, as in the room she found which had been transformed into an undersea grotto, the hall through which a hurricane blew, the corridor, blocked with ice, the inky hole in the middle of the air which opened upon nothing, though soft, exotic music emerged from it. At one point, her way was strewn with flowers; at another, with toads. A storm raged within the main hall; a gentle blue rainfall descended within its antechamber.

  Gradually, she found her feet turned, climbing, bearing her in the direction of the room of the Pit. But she was of no mind to speak with Tualua now, even in search of memories of times gone by. Am I the last, she wondered, not for the first time, the last person in the world who can converse with him?

  She moved along the gallery outside his chamber. She paused to look out and down. There was a dark area off to her right, as if night had prematurely domed those far rocky acres. To her left, the land was in a state of flux once more, rippling as if under heat waves, upheaving itself, changing colors. The fogs had retreated eastward, where they formed a great yellow wall.

  She moved forward and seated herself upon the wide sill, a cushion at her back. There was nothing living in sight below.

  What are the cities like now? she thought. How much have they changed?

  Meliash, at his records, felt rather than heard his name being called. He set aside his writing equipment and fumbled after his crystal.

  It cleared almost instantly, and he faced the rheumy-eyed Rawk, who smiled faintly.

  "Did I disturb you?" the old man asked.

  "No."

  "Pity. Well, I've something for you. I found the date in our Book of Signs for that recognition signal. It was somewhat over two hundred years ago. Checking the membership records for the same period, I learned that there was but one person named Dilvish among the Brotherhood—half Elf, House of Selar, a minor adept, appears to have been a military man. I think I might have met him once. Tall fellow, I believe."

  "I feel that might well be him. What else have you got?"

  "He is gone from the rolls a few years later. No reason given. There is more to it than that, I believe, thinking back. But I can't remember what."

  "Try."

  "I did. But it seems to be beyond reach."

  "What about the other one?"

  "The current rolls show a Weleand from the small western town of Murcave. A minor magician. In good standing."

  "Of extreme persuasion, either way?"

  "No. He's gray."

  "Was Dilvish?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you anything else at all on either of them?"

  "Only my curiosity. Do you mind telling me what this is about?"

  Meliash leaned back, sorting his feelings, impressions, and ideas. Then he spoke slowly:

  "I am bound by this assignment to check into anything peculiar pertaining to… the former proprietor of the castle at the center of things. Now, this Dilvish is the only person who has passed this way who has said that he is not seeking the power within the place. Indeed, he has stated that his sole purpose in coming here is to kill… the castle's erstwhile lord. He would not elaborate."

  "There are many who would like to take vengeance on that one."

  "Of course. But Dilvish is the only one who has come calling. Also, he was aware of the business at the Tower of Ice—"

  "That is hardly a secret matter any longer within the Society."

  "True. But he mentioned having been in the far North recently."

  Rawk gnawed at his beard.

  "I don't see what you're getting at. I don't recall hearing of any third party being involved in that affair."

  "Nor I. But didn't Ridley have a sister?"

  "Yes. Pretty thing.
Reena, by name. She's a Society member herself."

  "It seems I heard she escaped, with some assistance…"

  "That does sound correct."

  "Is there any way we could check further into that?"

  "Possibly. There were any number of members watching the conflict—from the safety of their own apartments. Some one of them might have further information."

  "Would you try to find out for me?"

  Rawk sighed.

  "I fail to see what it would prove."

  "So do I, at this time. Yet I feel something is there."

  "All right. I will inquire of several and let you know what I learn. But what is Weleand's place in all this?"

  "I do not know. He came by earlier and warned me of Dilvish's coming, insinuating that he was darker than gray and not to be trusted."

  "Something personal, most likely. I will be back when I know more."

  His image faded.

  Meliash polished the crystal upon his sleeve before replacing it. Then he rose and walked the perimeter of the changing land, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off toward the darkened area which had occurred to the southwest.

  Dilvish rushed to the side, interposing his shoulder to block Black's passage to the ground.

  "What is it? What is happening?" a soft, almost familiar woman's voice inquired.

  "Help me!" Dilvish called out, bracing himself, not even looking to where the girl now stood, brushing hair back from her face. "We can't let him fall! Hurry!"

  Moments later, she was beside him, her back against Black's left flank.

  "Stormbird, come to me—gently," she said, speaking in High Elvish.

  The white horse moved toward them.

  "Around." She gestured with her head, sliding toward Dilvish.

  The horse moved toward the rear, turned.

  "Your shoulder, where mine was—lean!"

  The horse moved, taking some of Black's weight upon himself. The girl turned toward Dilvish and lapsed into the common tongue:

  "What now?" she asked him.

  "Down now, to the ground, with great care, lest he shatter," Dilvish replied, speaking High Elvish himself for the first time in many years.

  She studied his face for a moment, then nodded.

  It took several minutes and one near-catastrophe before Black lay on his side upon the ground.

  "I do not understand what is happening," the girl said. "One moment I was standing over there, now it is night and you appear out of nowhere, propping a statue of—it isn't exactly a horse, is it?"

  "No," Dilvish replied, turning toward her. "No, Fevera, it is not."

  She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "You do not recognize me?"

  "I am Arlata of Marinta. Fevera is my grandmother's name."

  "… of the House of Mirata?" Dilvish asked.

  "The same. Who are you?"

  "Does she still live?"

  "Possibly. She went away several years ago, into the Twilit lands. You seem acquainted with the family, but—"

  "Forgive me. I am Dilvish of Selar."

  "You? The one they say was stricken to stone long ago?"

  "The same."

  "Is it true?"

  "That I was stone? My body was, yes. My spirit was—elsewhere. And you yourself were a statue until a little while ago. Not of stone, but of some glassy substance—as my mount now is."

  "I do not understand."

  "Nor do I, completely. A sorcerer named Weleand restored you by somehow transferring the effect to Black, here. Do you know anything of such a one?"

  "Weleand? No, I've never heard of the man. I was a statue?"

  "You and your mount both. Standing over there." He gestured. "You have no memory of how it happened?"

  "None." She shook her head slowly. "The last I recall was dismounting here to rest a little before going on. I had but stepped down when the wind acquired a peculiar note. Then it struck me like a wave, and I remember that it was incredibly cold. Then I heard your voice, and it seemed as if I were coming out of a faint or a slumber. I am sorry that your mount was the price of my awakening."

  "You had small choice in the matter."

  "Still, if there were anything I could do—"

  "Don't say that! It was similar words on my part that brought the entire thing about. Talk that way, and Weleand's likely to turn up and change you back."

  He looked skyward. She followed his gaze.

  "It is a strange moon," she said at last.

  "It's the sun."

  "What?"

  "It is not really night. The darkness is unnatural." He gestured. "And the castle lies that way."

  She turned.

  "I cannot see it."

  "Take my word."

  "What is now to be done?" she asked. "I have studied the Art, but I know of no way to restore—" She nodded toward Black, "—that. What is he?"

  "That story is too long," Dilvish replied, "and what is done is done. Yet I know not what to do. I cannot leave him this way, and I cannot let you go on alone."

  At that moment, a single word echoed within Black's frozen throat:

  "Go!" he said.

  Dilvish turned and dropped to one knee, placed his head alongside Black's.

  "You hear! You can speak!" he cried. "Is there anything at all that I can do for you?"

  There was silence for the space of a dozen pulse beats, then Black's voice rang again: "Go!"

  Dilvish rose and turned toward Arlata.

  "He generally means what he says," he stated, "but I feel worse now than ever. There is no way of telling what new misfortune may pass this way to cause him further distress."

  "But he must possess intellect if he speaks—and some power beyond that of our kind, to be able to speak under the circumstances."

  "Yes, to both," Dilvish replied. "He is a magical being. He knows things that I do not know. In fact, he can detect an emanation from Tualua before the wave strikes—and I am wondering now whether he was warning of this."

  "What, then, should we do?"

  "I think we should do as he says—get out of here."

  Dilvish turned and pointed.

  "Get mounted and head for the castle. I'll follow on foot."

  "I believe that Stormbird will carry both of us." She spoke quietly to the horse, and he came up and stood before them. "Mount!"

  "I would slow your progress," Dilvish said.

  She shook her head.

  "We've a better chance together. I'm sure. Mount!"

  Dilvish obeyed, and she followed him. She guided Stormbird to the northwest, and Dilvish looked back as they departed, to the place where Black lay like a block of ice.

  The sky darkened as they rode, the pale, westering sun growing fainter and fainter. They rode for several minutes, hurrying past two more gleaming human statues at which Dilvish did not look any longer than was necessary to determine that neither was Weleand. The distances between the ghostly stands of stone began to widen. The layer of talc grew thinner and the sounds of Stormbird's hoof-beats began to reach their ears.

  Abruptly, the singing winds ceased. Far ahead, a large, open area came into view, where the ground was darker and lightly ridged. Stormbird's pace increased moments before they felt a sharp vibration, followed by a loud explosion from overhead. For several seconds the sky grew bright as day, and then it darkened again.

  A little farther along, the way was lightened once more, this time by tiny flakes of fire which began to descend like snow.

  At first the flames were falling only ahead and to the right, but soon they were upon them, and Dilvish raised his cloak to shield Arlata and himself. Stormbird whinnied, laid his ears back, and raced beyond the final pinnacles.

  "Those glints ahead!" Dilvish cried. "Is it water?"

  Arlata's answer, if there was one, was lost to him in the series of explosions which sounded then, above and somewhat to the rear. The falling
flames increased in size and number.

  "Those last noises sounded almost like laughter of a sort," Arlata called back to him.

  Dilvish twisted his body so as not to uncover them to the flames, and looked back. A fiery, manlike outline with a mane of flaming hair towered before the pale, stony land they had just quitted, its silhouettes still visible through the half-substantial form. The figure's right hand was upraised to a great height, and it held a huge bowl of fire from which it shook the blazing leaves that fell upon the land.

  "You're right!" Dilvish shouted. "It's an elemental—the biggest one I've ever seen!"

  "Can you do anything about it?"

  "I've never been very good with elementals, except sometimes earth ones. But that looks like water up ahead."

  "Yes, it does."

  They veered to the right. Dilvish's cloak was smoldering in a dozen places by then. He smelled burning horsehair as well, and Stormbird was making sharp, nickering noises with increasing frequency.

  "The gods know what may be in that water," she said as they reached it, dark and glinting with the reflected light from behind them, "but it can't be much worse than being burned alive."

  Dilvish did not reply, but battered at the flames which fell within reach upon them. Another series of explosive peals of laughter sounded above them, much nearer this time. Dilvish looked again and saw that the elemental was almost upon them—and even as he watched, it upended the bowl and an unbroken stream of fire poured forth like bright honey.

  "Ride! He's dumping it all! Right on us!" he cried.

  Arlata shouted to Stormbird, and the horse put forth a final effort, leaping about like one of the great white cats of the snowfields. The fires fell almost directly behind them and splattered. Dilvish took his long gauntlets into his hand and began beating at Stormbird's tail, at the two places where the hair was burning.

  Then water was splashing all about them, and the pace was slowed and Dilvish felt his legs grow wet up to the knees. He restored his gloves to his belt, leaned forward, and dropped his cloak back over his shoulders, for the firefall had ended.

  They splashed on ahead and the water grew no deeper. After a time it even grew shallower, though the bottom became mucky as they progressed. It was still and very cold. When Dilvish looked back again, he saw that the elemental had retreated into the still, pale forest of stone, and only its flowing, flaming mane and blazing shoulders were visible as it moved away.