Dungeon, all right. The door said as much. The smell said more.
Torch thrust forward, the door guard entered, the Head Second and his men following, John coming in last.
Chained to the dank walls were Malachite soldiers -- light green uniforms with green striping -- fastened hand and foot, Malachites so much stronger than the men of Stil-de-grain, coming as they did from a "heaver pulling" Band.
Torch held high, John "reviewed" the prisoners, the captives standing at the approach of the announced Mage.
Yes! John knew three of them. Iscu. Sassu. Renn -- grossly deformed. Formally bandits of the Realgar Marsh. Enemies, first of Golden, then of John -- Pfnaravin making them officers in the Malachite army. John hadn't liked his stay in one of these medieval dungeons. Felt sorry that even the worse of men must be penned up under such foul conditions.
In addition to Pfnaravin's newly captured guard, the dungeon held what looked like ordinary felons. And ....
Leet!
"That man is to be released at once!" John ordered, pointing at Leet, the door guard jumping to obey.
"Thank you, sir," Leet said, now unchained, bowing, his paralyzed arm flopping forward.
"Though a Malachite," John announced to the others, "this is Leet. Loyal to Stil-de-grain and my personal friend and guard.
"Sir," the old soldier said, bowing his most formal bow, "I am delighted to see that you are well. But am embarrassed to be in your presence in this ... condition."
John turned to the nearest soldier. "Accompany this man, giving him every honor," the young soldier looking startled that a Mage had spoken to him. "See that he is taken somewhere where he can clean himself. See that he is fed. And has a clean uniform to wear. A Stil-de-grain uniform befitting his rank as Head First in the Mage's personal guard," John's "personal guard," as yet, nonexistent.
"At once, sir," the soldier stammered, looking at his officer to make certain he should follow the Mage's command, the officer nodding quickly.
Pivoting smartly, the soldier led Leet from the dungeon, John feeling better to find at least one, reliable friend in this foreign land.
"What time of the day is it?" John had just remembered something more dangerous to him than the men chained to the wall!
The army Second looked puzzled at that question.
"Near down-light, sir."
down-light -- dusk -- followed by night when, without light, John couldn't communicate with the natives of Bandworld. He had to get to a room, and fast, before "his" subjects found he didn't speak Stil-de-grain.
"Quickly, we must get back. One of my party is ...." What did you say when no one here had any experience with physical illness? "... is tired. So tired she must have immediate rest. Take me back."
"At once, great Mage." The bow.
And they were trotting out of the stinking prison, going up and up, John entering the dining room, the women still at the table.
"Platinia, you will stay with Zwicia as before." She nodded. "Ellen, come with me," Ellen looking ... worse.
Of course!
As the light outside began to fail ...."
Grasping her hand, pulling her up, John asked that they be directed to a bedroom close by, a young soldier leading them to a room on first, the soldier bowing, closing the door behind him.
"After down-light," John explained, "I can no longer understand what my own people are saying. I don't know what would happen if they ever discovered that."
"Seems there's a limit, even to the power of the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain," Ellen said wearily.
But with a smile.
* * * * *
Chapter 11
Ellen. Coughing in the night. Night sweats. John staying with her, getting little sleep himself, making certain she had water when she wanted it and that she had help in getting to the small room down the hall called a garderobe, inside, a toilet seat over a straight shot to a dung heap. Showed her the sponge on a stick she would use to clean herself. Embarrassing under other circumstances, but not when tending the sick.
The following morning, to John's unpracticed eye, Ellen seemed better. Less fever. More interest in her surroundings.
The same improvement to be seen the following day. Same for the next day.
With Ellen on the mend, life in Hero Castle fell into a routine. Eating, short walks through the castle to keep up Ellen's strength -- not that either of them needed much strengthening in this "light pulling band."
John had assumed -- wrongly -- that a day or two in the Magical light of this other world would cure Ellen, her progress taking longer than he'd anticipated.
"And to think this was built with the simplest tools," she said, John and Ellen on another jaunt through the castle, Ellen well enough in the daytime to do anything she liked.
"What?"
"Just crude tools," Ellen repeated. "Trowels, hoes, chisels, picks, pit-saws." She was definitely better to take interest in the construction of this old pile, this the second week after their arrival in Hero Castle, the magic of the light continuing to make Ellen stronger. Ellen and John now quartered in elegant accommodations befitting the importance of a Mage, he still had a connecting door to Ellen's suite should she want something during the night.
Today, Ellen was wearing a white tunic, the short, draped garment emphasizing the shapeliness of her legs, the flat, Bandworld slippers just right for her model-tall, five foot eight.
How old was she, anyway? Younger than Paul. Maybe two years older than John, not that age made a difference.
The two of them had been walking along a darkened, flame-lit corridor. Were now descending flagstone stairs, the encompassing walls magnifying the quiet scuffing of their feet on the irregularly shaped risers. The only unpleasantness was the air inside the castle: stale, as always, smelling of dust and moldering rock.
A right turn at the bottom of the staircase took them through an arch into a tapestry bedecked hall.
As they entered, John thought he saw movement at the far end of the gloomy chamber. Probably a slavey, the castle's servants melting into the "wood work" when encountering their "betters," the castle run by gardeners, drudges, chamber maids, cooks, turn-spit, and a soubrette. Generally old. Humble. Shuffling. More than anyone, the true owners of the castle.
On the other hand it wasn't that odd to feel that someone was watching them, the castle a warren of rooms, passageways, and pillars -- perfect hiding places for those who wished to ... hide.
Increasingly, John had the feeling they were not safe here, isolated as Hero Castle was, with so few soldiers to protect them. Anticipating the day when Ellen's health would permit it, he'd had a messenger bird sent to the Palace at Xanthin, (the castle butler able to "imprint" simple messages on this world's "carrier-parrots,") the bird to say the Mage of Stil-de-grain was coming and to be ready for his arrival. Extra guards to be posted. Additional soldiers. Xanthin Palace searched for undesirables.
Back to the tour, John finding little of interest to point out in this somber room, what light there was coming from second floor clerestory windows.
"These tapestries are marvelous." Ellen had stopped to enthuse over what John saw as faded wall hangings.
Giving the "art-lady" time to gush over these time-bleached rags, Ellen expressing delight at their fanciful animals and quaint, spear carrying hunters, John took her hand (as he'd had to do from time to time,) to pull her along, the two of them skirting the fire pit at the end of the dining room.
"And you say cooking is done with fire stones? The fire here a matter of magic?"
"Yes. It's all in the way you think when concentrating. If you 'think' them into fire, they burst out in flames. Cold flames. Producing only light. But if you think heat, they don't sprout fire, but become hot enough for cooking." His speech delivered, John remembered to release Ellen's hand.
Ellen shook her head, John knowing how it felt to be overwhelmed by too much, too soon.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw more movem
ent. Platinia. Trailing -- John often forgetting about little Platinia, the girl always there without seeming to be there.
John felt better that Platinia was back in her world, also less guilty. His hope was that whatever had caused their brief, romantic relationship would soon be forgotten. What he was certain of was that the girl would feel comfortable staying with the old Weird. They got along.
"Have you noticed that most tables have only three legs?
John hadn't, but did now.
"Three legged tables used to be commonplace because of rough floors, a four legged table needing a level floor to be stable. But a three legged table will sit firmly no matter now uneven the floor."
"Interesting." Mildly. For Ellen, the artist, a fascinating bit of architectural trivia.
John had heard about Ellen's career as artist, Ellen awarded a free ride at a local university. After graduation, she'd worked as an illustrator for Hallmark cards. Unfulfilled in the commercial art world, she'd sought inspiration by haunting local galleries -- the Nelson -- others at KU and the U. of Missouri. That's where she'd met Paul, in what she called the "room of fake antiquities" on Missouri's Columbia campus, Paul there for a conference. Bored, he'd wandered off to have a look at the sprawling university, finding his way into the Art Building.
Seeing Ellen there, the rest was history.
Hearing how the couple met had been painful, John needing to accept the fact that Paul, not he, had "gotten the girl."
"You said that, today, we might see the outside?"
"You feel up to it?"
"Every day better."
"If you're sure."
"Try me."
Getting outside wasn't easy, of course, Ellen stopping to examine every chair, portrait, lamp stand, end table, decorative pot, etching, sideboard, mural, hassock, icon, and ornamental molding in each side room on their way.
At long last exiting the ponderous oak door that led to the cobble stoned inner ward -- the open square at the castle's center -- they crossed to enter a dark tunnel beyond, the byway leading to the double towered gatehouse.
"I had to draw a typical castle for my final in medieval architecture," Ellen said, smiling with remembrance, her throaty voice echoing in the rocky defile. "This is typical of late-medieval construction. The double inner doors with their drawbar, for instance," Ellen motioning as they passed through, the flanking wood doors flung open, the solid timber jam pushed back into its recess in the wall. Inside the cave-like arch of the tunnel, she pointed to the passageway's end: a heavy timbered grid faced with iron, cranked up in its raised position. "That's a portcullis."
Ellen looked up at the dusky ceiling of the massive entrenchment between the flanking towers. "And there they are. Above this passage are rooms with holes in the floor." John looked up. "Do you know what they're called?"
"What? The holes?" John understood European history, just not the kind of architectural detail an art major would know.
"Murder holes. The idea is that enemy soldiers get in this tunnel only to find the doors back there shut and barred. That's when you drop the portcullises ahead of them. Unable to go forward or get back out, they're trapped in here to be slaughtered by defenders dropping rocks on them through the holes above."
Just another "fun" fact about life in the Middle Ages.
Continuing, they cleared the portcullis and were into the daylight of the outer ward, soon entering the darkness of the gatehouse.
Traversing that bastion, they had only to cross the castle's heavy timbered drawbridge, currently spanning a deep, dry moat. (A permanently lowered drawbridge not saying much for castle security.)
Crossing the bridge, they were free of the square walled, corner towered fortress.
At last topped by nothing but a width of golden sky, they were at liberty to savor the wonderfully fresh outdoor air.
The only vegetation to be seen at that elevation was random, scraggly bushes clinging to the flinty mountain top, plus scrub trees struggling painfully by ones and twos to survive in patches of dirt clinging precariously to depressions in the rocky crest.
No wind song. John had never felt anything but a light breeze in this world. (The exception, the evil wind caused by Auro before John defeated him.) All they could hear was the occasional chirp and scrape of insects, and the shrill of an invisible bird.
With nothing else to see but distance until they were off that peak -- Hero Mountain the tallest pinnacle in a chain of lesser ridges crooked back like a dragon's spine -- John led them left to flank the castle, following a path that was the approach to the castle gardens, the track winding through violets, pansies, and rose bushes.
Entering the formal plantings through an arboreal arch, they continued through flowering trees, the air scented with multiple fragrances.
The path (now a flagstone walk) meandered through hedges, dwarf conifers, and sheltered nooks, benches of stone and wood inviting the weary wanderer to rest in shaded woodlets.
Further on, frothy, gold, water jets shot up from platinum basins, the water reflecting the saffron sky. Bending over a reflecting pool, they saw bright fish dart through glass-clear water. Most shiny gold. A few orange, red, white.
Eventually dazed by too much beauty, then sat on a slatted bench beside a languidly flowing rivulet, the air laden with the sweet smell of lavender; the turf at their feet jeweled by azaleas, buttercups, and white alyssum.
"I can't get over the sky," Ellen said, looking up for the twentieth time. "So uniform in color and so gold."
"Though you couldn't tell from inside, at a distance, you can just make out the sky over the next "inward" band. Green. That's Malachite." John pointed, Ellen standing on tiptoe to see a little further.
"In the opposite direction, you can see a half-circle of Orange over Realgar. When I was in Realgar, at mid-day when the air was clear of fog, I could make out the barest sliver of a Red crescent. The red of the outermost band -- Cinnabar.
"How wide are the bands?" she asked, settling back on the bench.
"I don't know exactly. Since this world is pancake flat, there's no horizon line, making it possible to see for great distances. At least until the evening fog sets in."
"And you said its foggy every night?
"Every night. And every night it drips rain. Never what you'd call a downpour. Moisture collects on the iron dome above -- say the natives -- and drips down at night.
"No sun."
"Or stars or moon." John shook his head. "Though it's still hard for me to take it all in, I've come to think like the locals: that this is a flat world with an iron dome for a sky. That day and night are produced, not by the planet's rotation like on earth, but by a huge, dazzling Crystal that revolves at the world's center, the Crystal turning slowly, the light from the Gem reflecting off the dome. When the black half of the magic ball rotates up, the dome turns dark and it's nighttime. The Crystal's location in what's called Eyeland."
"Anybody claim to have been there?"
"Eyeland?" She nodded. "No one I've met. There was a young man named Golden, who I got to know. A minstrel with pretensions of being king of Malachite. Anyway, he used to sing sometimes, his songs, like those of Greek minstrels, reflecting the legends of this world. From bits and pieces of the folklore of the place, I gather that something's very wrong about Eyeland. Extremely heavy gravity. Radiation. Something."
"I wish Paul could see this," Ellen said in a hushed voice. "I miss him. and the children." Given the strangeness of the cross-world experience, it would have been difficult for anyone not to feel a little homesick, John told himself. He was missing Cream, for God sake!
"They don't miss you."
"What?" A wary look. The way she used to appear before the light-magic here began to cure her.
"You're forgetting about the time differential. To us, days -- weeks -- have passed. To them, only minutes -- maybe seconds. Paul is still asleep. Your mother is looking after the children, snug in their beds. By the time I get you back, almost n
o time will have passed. If fact, I've begun to think it works both ways. That time spent in our world doesn't count for much time passing here. Why this should be, I don't know. When you factor in magic, anything's possible."
"And you think I'll stay healthy after I return? I keep thinking of the legend of Shangri-la. About the girl who was young until she tried to leave that mountain kingdom. Only to become her true age -- growing old -- overnight."
"How do you feel? Right now?"
"Fine. Except for being ... so far from home. As for tonight, I don't know. I slip back at night. But I'm better day by day. I guess, when I'm completely well after dark I'll be ready to return."
"And if, for some reason, you to slip back to illness, there's always another trip to this world for renewal."
"A hard way to go at a cure."
"The passage between worlds takes it out of you. But less so, the more you come.
"As for the way you are now, I've never seen you looking better."
A noise! Coming down the path, John on guard against unexpected entrances. He'd had too many nasty surprises in this world to take anything for granted.
A ... slavey. Approaching timidly.
"You want to see me? Come closer."
She did. This, the young soubrette.
"Tell me."
"It is ... a man," the girl whispered, eyes on her shoes in the presence of the Mage.
"Go on."
"Asking to enter."
"Hero castle?"
Nod.
"Do you know who?"
"A soldier said, the Navy Head."
"The Admiral?" Stil-de-grain had lost its navy in the latest war with Malachite. "Admiral Coluth?"
John hardly dared hope it was the old captain of the Roamer, a merchant ship where he'd first met Coluth, the Roamer's captain becoming his friend. Following the naval disaster in which the old Navy Head had been killed, John had appointed Coluth Admiral. Put him in charge of rebuilding the fleet, Coluth a man to trust in a shape-shifting world.
"I think ... that is the name."
Coluth. First Leet. Then Coluth -- if the girl was right. Better and better! Nothing like having friends to guard your back!
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 7