A little later, he saw that it was a casket with a bulging, transparent cover. And when he came up beside it, he drew in his breath sharply, for he saw that it held the body of a woman, perfectly preserved. Her high cheekbones, small chin and wings of hair he now saw to be of a light brown color in the glow shed by his guide, were not unfamiliar to him.
“The ghost . . . ” he breathed.
Her spirit is said to wander these halls. It is of no importance. Remove the lid.
“How?”
There are fasteners along the sides and at either end.
Pol continued to regard the pale features.
“Why the Snow White bit?” he finally asked.
Pardon? I do not understand the reference.
“Why is she on display?”
Her father, Ryle Merson, wishes to view her upon occasion.
“Morbid son of a bitch, isn’t he? I suppose he’s laid a preserving spell on her—if she’s been dead very long.”
It has been a long while. Remove the lid.
“Why?”
In order to move her.
“Why move her?”
Her presence is required elsewhere. Do as we say!
“All right. It was a pretty steep climb, though.”
You will bring her this way.
The flame brightened and Pol could see a level ledge beyond the casket, leading back toward a tunnel. He leaned forward and sought the fastenings. One by one, he undid them and slipped them. He seized hold of the lid’s frame then and strained to raise it. For a time, it resisted his efforts. Then, with a creaking sound, it slid slowly upward.
He eased the transparent cover back and lowered it to the ground. Only then did he pause to scrutinize the woman with more than clinical concern.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
Taisa. Pick her up. Bring her this way.
The flame advanced along the level route beyond the casket. Pol stooped, raised the woman in his arms. The feint, familiar aroma of a delicate perfume reached his nostrils.
“How did she come to this end?” Pol asked, as he moved around the catafalque and followed.
A victim of circumstance, in a long and involved struggle.
He crossed the ledge and entered the tunnel behind the moving light.
It turned abruptly to the left after a few paces, and Pol found himself traveling upslope. The feeling of anticipation which had been his companion since he had awakened, was heightened now. He felt that he was nearing the heart of a mystery, a mystery made very personal, a mystery in which he would be playing a significant role.
Another turn, and he was in a wide, high, partly furnished room carved out of stone. A large rectangular opening in the lefthand wall showed stars in a now pale sky, and the upper slopes of the mountain. There were heavy chairs and a long table toward the front of the place. To the rear . . .
He halted and stared.
Bring her over here.
Slowly, almost mechanically, his limbs moved to obey. He was barely aware of the motion, his eyes locked upon the revelation set into the far wall.
Set her down there. No. The head at the other end.
Pol placed Taisa’s body atop a slanting stone slab, her feet at the higher end. Her head fell into place within a wide channel which had been cut into the hard, gray surface. Automatically, he adjusted her long, simple, blue garment about her. As he did, he noticed a wide, shallow basin below the end of the groove. A dagger of black stone lay upon its rim. These things registered but made no real impression upon him, for his attention was focussed elsewhere.
He stared at the wall before him, at the great double doors set within it. Perspiration dampened his brow, and his hands possessed a slight tremor as he moved away from the woman and the stone, staring.
They were the Gate of all the forgotten dreams which fell like bright cloaks upon him now.
He drew nearer. The doors were solid, massive, iron-bound, and of a dark, metallic-looking wood. There seemed to be no locking mechanism, no handles, only the intermittently spaced rings.
Carved and burned into the Gate in an elaborate coiled pattern, rising from the base to the midpoint, was the form of an enormous serpent, drawing itself high above a stylized line of waves. Three heavy spikes had been driven into it—one at the neck, one at the tail and one at the body’s middle.
Then, raising his gaze to the top of the frame and above it, he beheld the familiar form of a great, black bird-like thing, wings outspread, carved into the rock. And into this figure, also, spikes had been driven—one into either wing.
Pol took another step and halted, breathing heavily. He was again Prodromolu, Opener of the Way, coursing the heavens of Qod, while below him, mounting steadily upward from the depths, the serpent Talkne moved upon the final circuit of her eons-long journey in search of him. Nyalith shrieked a warning which shattered mountains and revealed the secrets at their hearts. Wheeling, he dove toward calm sea-surface . . .
He came to himself once more, remembering the Keys and the dark god’s promise to lead the people from the devastated land, to merge that place with another by opening the way between the worlds. And the Keys . . .
The Keys!
The statuettes were the Keys. Strangely living Keys . . . And—
He lowered his eyes.
Yes . . .
Incised into the floor and painted in fading yellow, red and blue was a large, irregularly shaped diagram. A section of it swept back to encompass the slab upon which Taisa lay; another portion projected far forward, touching the Gates’ heavy frame at the left. A number of sharp, near-triangular segments were extended, thorn-like, from the main body of the design. Suddenly aware that his dragonmark was throbbing slowly and heavily, Pol counted them.
“ . . . Five, six, seven.”
Exactly.
He barely glanced at the flame, which hovered now above Taisa.
Bring our physical representations into being upon this plane now, and place each of us at one of the points. You know the order.
“Yes.”
Pol shifted his vision, raised his right hand, caught one of the seven ebon strands leading back over his right shoulder. He rotated his hand, winding the filament about it until he felt a tension upon it. The power flashed from his dragonmark back along the line and he jerked upon it.
He held one of the statuettes in his hand—tall, slim, feminine, sharp-featured and imperious. Its cloak bore a patina of beaten gold and it was girdled with orange, red and yellow stones. A single green gem was set into its forehead.
It felt warm and grew warmer yet as Pol held it, turning his head.
Yes . . .
He moved to his right, setting it at the tip of the second peak from the end, facing toward the Gate.
As he straightened, he saw that the stars were fading, the sky growing brighter.
He raised his hand, seeking the strands again. They were not apparent. He realized then that his vision had slipped out of the second seeing. He strove to shift it back, but to no avail.
His dragonmark, he noted then, had lost its recent throbs of power. He massaged his forearm. He tried again to recall his vision.
What is the matter?
“I don’t know. I can’t do it.”
What do you mean you can’t do it? You just did.
“I know. But something’s slipped again. The power has been coming and going since I went through Belken. Right now it’s gone.”
The flame moved toward him, hovered directly before his eyes. He closed them against the brightness.
Keep your eyes open.
He obeyed, squinting. He saw that the flame was growing, was becoming a vast sheet of fire, now his own size, now larger.
It advanced and he drew back.
Stand still. We must investigate.
It wrapped him like a cloak, it settled upon him. He felt that it was penetrating his body, his very being. There was no sensation of heat, only an odd, vibrating feeling, as when one
steps ashore after several days at sea.
Abruptly, it was gone and a shrinking flame swayed before him.
It is true. You are not at the moment capable of functioning at a magical level. There is no way of telling how long this will last, and the night is almost ended. Ryle Merson may send for you in the morning. We must abandon the project for now and secure you once more within your cell. Return the statuette and—
Pol shook his head slowly.
Of course. In your condition, you cannot return it; and we are barred from exercising any direct control over our analogues. Pick it up. We passed a number of rocks and niches on the way in here. You will have to hide it.
“What about Taisa?”
Leave her.
“What if someone finds her here?”
Not important. Come.
The flame moved past him. He picked up the statuette and followed it. Back in the tunnel, he found a place to cache it in a cleft in the rocky wall.
They made their way out of the cave and back into the palace proper. After a few turnings, Pol realized that they were moving along a different route than they had taken earlier. Their progress was much more rapid this time, avoiding the misty chamber and the dark tunnels entirely.
In a short while, he found himself back at his cell and he entered there, drawing the door closed behind him.
“The journey over was just for show, wasn’t it?” he said.
Go back to sleep now.
The flame winked out. He heard the bar slide into place. Suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, his head spinning, he staggered to his bench and collapsed upon it. There was no time to think before the dark waves took him . . .
XII.
Henry Spier disguised himself anew as he departed the caves of Belken and returned to the enchanted city at its foot. There he spent the day in celebration among his fellow sorcerers, none of whom knew his true identity. He delighted in walking among them bearing a great, dark secret none of them shared. He drank wine spiced with delicate narcotics and he worked wonders and avoided only the greatest among his colleagues. There were none that he feared in a conflict of wills, but he did not wish to come under the scrutiny of any master great enough to pierce his disguise. No, that would be a premature revelation.
He walked, scattering curses and dooms upon those of whom he disapproved, tossing in an occasional boon for one who had won his respect. It pleased him no end to play this secret, god-like role. He had refrained for so long. But now—now he saw the future loosening upon its branch above his outstretched hand. He felt a strange, overwhelming kinship for those who were about to benefit from his labors, all unknowing.
The city expanded in magnificence as the day waned. He had not felt this fine in years. His powers reached an incredible pitch, but he restrained himself from demonstrating more than a fraction of their potency to new comrades gathered round for games and trials.
He hummed and danced as the night descended. He labored over an enormous and elaborate dinner until well past midnight. He brushed sleep away and renewed his vigor with a spell of high order, realized simply and quickly. He drifted upon a silver barge on the town’s circular canal, taking with him a courtesan, a catamite, a succubus, a bowl of smouldering dream-leaf and a jug of his favorite wine, which renewed itself as rapidly as its master. After all these years of obscurity and disguise, there was call for celebration, for the Balance was about to tip.
The night wore on, and the city became a fantasia of light and color, sound and senses-dazzling magic. He continued his revels until the sky paled in the east and a momentary hush fled like a phantom wave across the shapes-shifting jewel of the city to break at the foot of Belken. The night’s activities commenced again immediately thereafter, but a certain spirit had gone out of them.
Shaking the dust of dream and passion from his person, he rose from his scented cushions and put aside the lighter pastimes of the night. Shedding all frivolity and growing in size as well as regality of mien as he walked, he departed the livelier precincts of the city, heading northward. When he reached the fringe of the city’s charmed circle he passed on, climbing a low hill. At its summit, he paused, head lowered, turning.
Finally, he stooped and picked up a dry stick with a number of small twigs still attached. He caressed it and began speaking softly, introducing it to the four corners of the world. Then he stared at it in silence for a long while, still stroking it slowly. The morning grew brighter as he did this, and when he knelt to place the stick upon the ground, it appeared that it had altered its shape, coming now to resemble the form of a small animal. He commenced a low chant.
“Eohippus, Mesohippus, Protohippus, Hipparion . . . ” it began.
Dust and sand rose from the ground to swirl about the small figure in a counterclockwise direction, obscuring it completely. As he continued, the spinning tower rose and widened into a dark vortex far larger than himself. It produced a low moaning sound which rapidly became a roaring. Materials from greater and greater distances were sucked into it—shrubs, gravel, bones, lichen.
He stepped back away from its tugging force, arms raised to shoulder level, hands rising and falling. A long, wavering cry came from its center, and he moved his hands downward.
The roaring ceased with a blurt. The swirling curtain began to fall away, revealing a large, dark, quadrapedal outline, head high and tossing.
He moved forward and placed his hand upon the neck of the creature, unfamiliar to the inhabitants of this world. It whinnied.
A moment later, it grew calm, and his hand slid back to the pommel of the saddle with which it had come equipped. He mounted and took up the reins.
They were at the center of a crater which had not been present when he had begun his spell. He spoke to the sand-colored beast, rubbing its neck and its ears. Then he shook the reins gently.
It climbed slowly out of the depression and he turned its head northward. He smiled as they began moving in that direction. Scarlet fingers reached above them from out of the east as they made their way down to a more level area and located a trail. He squeezed with his knees and rustled the reins again.
“Hi-yo, Dust!” he shouted. “Away!”
His tireless mount shot forward across the dawn, quickly achieving a blinding, unnatural pace.
XIII.
They had arrived in the afternoon, Mouseglove and Moonbird, circling above the wreckage atop Anvil Mountain. Looking downward, Mouseglove, who had spent so much time there, found it difficult to recognize those features he had known. But he saw the one huge crater, still now, beside the wreckage of a tall building.
“That has to be it,” he stated, “the place where Pol said he cast the rod.”
It is, Moonbird replied.
“It is said that the eye of a dragon sees more than the eye of a man.”
It is said correctly.
“Any of the machines or the dwarves still active down there?”
I see no movements of either sort.
“Then let us go down.”
To the crater?
“Yes. Land beside the cone. I’ll climb it and have a look.”
It is quiet within it. And I do not see excessive heat.
“You can see heat?”
I ride on towers of heat when I soar. Yes. I am able to see it.
“Then take us down inside, if you know it is safe.”
Moonbird began a downward spiral toward the flared opening. He tightened his turnings as they drew nearer, then drew in his wings and dropped, spreading them at the last moment to ease the landing slightly. Gritting his teeth, Mouseglove had watched the rough gray walls rush by. He was jolted forward and to the side when they struck the irregular surface. Clutching at Moonbird, he turned a fall into a dismounting movement, then stood upon the slag heap, leaning against the dragon’s swelling rib cage. There was a great silence, and shadows already cloaked the declivity.
Moonbird turned his head from side to side, then looked up, then down.
&nbs
p; I might have made a small miscalculation, the dragon confessed.
“What do you mean?”
The size of this place. I may not have sufficient room to climb into the air.
“Oh. Then what are we to do?”
Climb out when the time comes.
Mouseglove cursed softly.
There is a brighter side to the matter.
“Tell me.”
The scepter is definitely here. The massive head turned. Over that way.
“How do you know?”
Dragons can also sense the presence of magic, of magical items. I know that it is below the ground. Over there.
Mouseglove turned and stared.
“Show me.”
Moonbird moved with a slithering sound across the gray roughness, the rubble. Finally, he halted, extended his left forelimb and with an enormous black claw scored an X upon the dark surface.
You must dig here.
Mouseglove unloaded the digging implements, selected the pickax and attacked the spot indicated. Chips flew in all directions, and he coughed occasionally from the dust he raised. He removed his cloak and finally his shirt, as the perspiration flowed freely. After a time, he assumed a statue-like aspect as a layer of gray dust clung to his body. His shoulders began to ache and his hands grew sore, as he drove the pit to a shin-deep level.
“Does your dragon-sense,” he asked then, “tell you how deeply it is buried?”
It lies somewhere between two and three times your height in depth.
The crater returned ringing echoes as Mouseglove threw down the pickax.
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”
I did not realize it was important. A pause. Then, Is it?
“Yes! There is no way I can dig down that far in any reasonable period of time.”
He seated himself on a mass of rubble and wiped his brow with the heel of his hand. His mouth tasted of ashes. Everything smelled of ashes. Moonbird moved nearer and stared into the shallow pit.
Might there not still be strong tools about? Or weapons? From the time when Red Mark ruled here?
Mouseglove raised his eyes slowly until he was staring directly overhead.
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