While waiting for Zylas’ switch, Collins opened his backpack and examined the contents for anything that might prove useful without revealing who he was. Unless he developed a headache or heartburn, he saw no need to risk discovery of the medicines. He would have loved a bath with soap and shampoo, a liberal application of deodorant, and a good tooth-brushing; but those scents might attract undue attention. The illusion made a close razor shave unnecessary on his face, and he knew the Barakhain women left their legs and armpits natural. He was not a hairy man. He slipped his multitool into a shift pocket. It might come in handy, and he believed he could keep it safely hidden. He balanced the lump with his mag light and one of the packs of matches in the opposite pocket, then ran his hands along his clothing. He could feel the items, but they did not leave obvious bulges. No one ought to be touching him, and an accidental brush would not reveal the nature of the objects he carried. It seemed safe enough.
By the time Collins had made his selections, Zylas was pulling a tan tunic over matching leggings. The outfit looked strange on the albino, who usually preferred black. As he adjusted his perception, however, Collins realized the new color suited his friend better. It made his ultra-pale skin seem less stark in comparison. Zylas added a leaf-green cloak to the outfit, which brought images of forests and Merry Men to Collins’ mind. Had Zylas added his usual broad-brimmed hat, he might have passed for the taxman-thieving Robin Hood himself.
Noticing Collins’ regard, Zylas bowed regally. “You approve?”
Collins shrugged. “It’s . . . different.” Caught staring, he now regarded Zylas from every angle, pacing around him with a thoughtful glower. “Suits you.”
Zylas grimaced, his small, well-formed nose pulling upward to immerse his sky-blue eyes into a squint. “I’m supposed to be a royal guard, so I’ll take that as a dire insult.”
Collins threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll remember that the next time I decide to give you a compliment.”
“See that you do.” Zylas approached Prinivere, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. “Ready, my lady?”
The dragon’s old head bobbed. As usual, she conserved motion, though she did not seem wiped out by the spell she had cast on Collins. On his last visit, the magic she had cast to allow him to communicate had left her nearly comatose through the following day. Collins felt a warm flush of pride at the realization that he had, apparently, accomplished something by stealing the crystal from the castle.
Zylas approached. The dragon raised her massive foreleg and clamped her weathered claw over his face. This time, Collins could not actually feel the magic, but he smelled ozone, heard an erratic hum, and saw random sparks and flashes emanating from the contact. The process fascinated him, drawing and holding his gaze until he doubted he could pull it away even should he wish to do so.
“What do you think, ma’am?” Aisa’s voice, even as softly as she spoke, startled Collins, though he managed not to show it outwardly. His heart thudded faster in his chest, and he silently caught his breath.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Who else?”
Collins glanced around the cave, at the damp, mossy walls and the craggy floor empty except for his own backpack and a few scattered satchels. “Prinivere. Falima. Someone you might refer to as ‘ma’am.”’
Aisa raised her shoulders, studying the magical activity in front of them. “You’d better get used to it.”
Jarred to the remembrance that he was masquerading as a woman, Collins knew Aisa was right. He smoothed his shift with his hands and drew the cloak more tightly around him, trying to make the gestures look feminine and casual. “Thanks for the reminder. I guess I’d better.” It occurred to him that women often played the part of older boys and young men in stage productions, such as Peter Pan. He would simply reverse the tradition. He strutted toward the entrance, swinging his hips. “How’d I do?”
Aisa’s gaze followed Collins, and she loosed a snickering snort. “Way too much.” She shook her head with unspoken disdain. “Just stick with your normal movements, all right? Orna’s not a particularly womanly woman, not what one could describe as dainty or . . .” She pinned her gaze on Collins’ hips. “. . . grotesquely over-the-top flirtatious.”
Thank God. Collins hopped back up beside Aisa just as Prinivere released what used to be Zylas’ face. His forehead had become broad, his eyes dark and widely set, his ears low and partially hidden by a fringe of thick, sandy hair without a hint of wave or curl. Though fair, his skin seemed positively swarthy compared to his milky hands.
Prinivere clearly addressed Aisa, though Collins, and presumably Zylas, heard the question, too. *What do you think?*
Aisa stepped between Zylas and Prinivere. Her right thumb and forefinger pinched her nose, the other three fingers curled around her pursed mouth. At length, she released her face to touch Zylas’. “A bit broader here.” She brushed a fingertip along the bridge of Zylas’ new nose. “And a touch of red to the hair.”
Prinivere reached for Zylas, and a few more sparks flew from the contact. A moment later, she had made the changes.
Aisa nodded her approval. “Perfect.”
Zylas explained. “Most birds have a good eye for small details. Aisa’s great at that.”
“Thank you.” Aisa stepped back, still examining Zylas. She nodded again. “Yes, perfect.” Her stare fell, and she stiffened. “Almost perfect.” She crossed the cave, grabbed a satchel, and returned. Dropping it to the ground, she opened it to reveal jars of varying colors, slim sticks, and a slate. She opened three of the pigments and began mixing colors on the slate with a stick. Glancing between her work and Zylas, Aisa messed with the mixture several times, adding a bit of this or that until she finally seemed satisfied. “Remove your cloak.”
Zylas did so, and Aisa painted his arms and hands with the mixed pigments. As she worked, she glanced back and forth from her work to Zylas’ face, occasionally pausing to add some color to the mix.
Collins appreciated her intensity and her eye. She seemed a definite asset, and he wondered why Zylas had not chosen her the first time they had met rather than the hostile and flitty hummingbird, Ialin.
The answer came sooner than Collins expected. Even as Aisa worked on him, Zylas twisted his head to his companion. “Ialin will meet up with us.”
Surprised that Zylas seemed to have read his mind, Collins started, “How did you . . . ?” Figuring it out, he turned his attention to the dragon. “You told him, didn’t you?”
Prinivere rolled her gaze to the ceiling and gave no reply.
Zylas seemed to take no notice of their exchange. “It’s important that we have someone who can let the others know if we need anything or something goes awry.”
Still a bit leery of the hummingbird/man, Collins looked longingly at Aisa. It seemed impossible that, just a day ago, he had wanted Ialin back. “Can’t she do it?”
Zylas closed one eye and squinted along his nose at Collins. “Uh . . . no, Ben. We need someone who can . . . um . . . fly.”
“But she can . . . ,” Collins started, then understood. “. . . but not until evening. Ialin’s a bird during the day.” 9:00 A.M. to 9:00 P.M. He had gotten better at remembering that every human was an animal and every animal a human, except for fish; but he still had trouble with the inviolate sanctity of each individual’s switch-time. That seemed the key to its inconvenience. If people could choose when they took each form, he wondered if they might not actually consider it an advantage rather than a curse.
Apparently reading Collins’ discomfort, Zylas added, “He’s just going to keep a lookout. For safety reasons. If he’s doing his job right, you won’t even see him.”
Collins flipped his hands palms up in acceptance. In his most desperate situation atop the castle parapets, menaced by guards in one direction and facing a seven-story fall in the other, he had passed the crystal gladly to Ialin. The hummingbird/man had come through for the renegades repeatedly. Whatever h
is personal feelings about Collins, Ialin seemed to have the morality to keep him secure. In case of trouble, however, Collins had no doubt who the small, androgynous man would rescue last.
“Ready?” Zylas said.
Before Collins could reply, Aisa did. “Not yet. I need you to remove your leggings.”
“What for?” Collins and Zylas said, almost simultaneously.
Aisa sat back on her haunches, stick in hand. “I need to do your legs.”
Zylas’ and Collins’ gazes fell to the leggings.
“They’re covered,” Zylas reminded.
Aisa stirred the pigments on the slate. “Just do it. You never know.”
Zylas complied, grumbling, “You just want to see me naked.”
“I’ve seen you many times.” Aisa kept her attention on the circular glide of the stick through color. “Believe me, it’s nothing special.”
“Thanks.” Zylas removed the leggings. “Is this some sort of conspiracy, or is threatening and insulting me right before I risk my life supposed to make me more competent?”
Aisa applied pigment to Zylas’ legs. “I’m only kidding. I’m just worried because your coloring alone could give you away.”
Seized by a sudden nervousness, Collins headed for the opening. Excitement edged with terror thrilled through his chest. After the attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center, a wave of patriotism had made him consider joining one branch or another of the military. But, by the time his physical therapy ended, he had disabused himself of the notion, at least until he finished graduate school. Now, he found himself preparing to enter a war in which he had no real personal stake without the benefit boot camp or other training. It seemed crazy that he had not enlisted in the National Guard but instead joined the ragged renegade force of Barakhai.
Collins looked out over the forest one more time. Sunlight sheened from the treetops, lancing through rare holes in the upper foliage. He could see a glimmer of gold between the trees that he believed represented Falima. Seized by a sudden urge to tell her good-bye, he headed out the opening.
Zylas caught his arm. “Whoa, boy. Don’t forget this.” He thrust a sword belt, dragging a heavy wooden sheath and blade, into Collins’ hand.
Collins stared at the weapon dangling from his fist. “What’s this for?”
“We’re off duty elite guards, remember?”
“Off duty,” Collins repeated. “Yeah.”
“They often carry swords.”
“Oh.” Collins examined the buckle, a crude arrangement of metal that appeared to stab through the cloth. He wrapped the length around his waist. When he tried to pull the sword free, it wouldn’t budge, and his efforts sent him staggering around like a drunkard.
Collins found every eye abruptly on him. He stopped trying to draw the sword and stared back. “What?” he demanded.
Zylas stifled a laugh, turning it into a quiet snort. “Maybe it’s a fashion statement where you come from, like backward hats. But, here, castle guards don’t wear their sword belts inside out.”
Collins fingered the buckle, freeing it from the fabric. “Where I come from, we don’t have castles, guards, or swords.” It was not exactly true. “Except in museums.” He unwound the belt, re-fastened it the reverse way, then experimented with pulling the sword out. It felt heavy and awkward in his hand, worse at his side. “You know I’m not going to be able to actually use this thing.”
Zylas fastened a similar belt around his own waist. “I’m betting that, if you need to, you will.”
Collins had to agree. With his life at stake, he believed he could kill someone. “Sure I will. Just not very well.”
Zylas reached up, as if to touch his face, then dropped his hand to his side. “It’s too late to teach you.”
“I know how to shoot if that’s any consolation.” Collins had gone on a few hunting trips in high school, though he had never had the heart to actually aim at anything living. Luckily, his friends had mostly arranged them as an excuse to get away from their parents, party, and bang away at a few targets.
Zylas took Collins’ arm and led him into the forest. “None whatsoever. We’re not imitating bowmen.”
Collins went with his friend, lips twitching into a smile. He wondered what Zylas would think if he knew the truth: Collins had never held a bow in his life.
Chapter 5
A DISGUISED Benton Collins and Zylas approached the castle of the king of Barakhai about an hour after Zylas’ change to human form. The forest opened to a grassland grazed by solid, patchy, and speckled cows in a myriad of whites and off-whites, tans and dark browns, blacks and agoutis. Goats ranged between them, their colors displaying a similar spectrum, grazing and prancing, pausing to rear, sidle, and slam their horns together at intervals. Those, too, ran the gamut, from broad and squat to long, tapering corkscrews, hoary pink to ebony. Chickens and ducks ran crazily between them, chasing insects dislodged by the larger animals’ hooves.
Though unchanged, Opernes Castle captured Collins’ full attention with all the intensity and violence of his first glimpse a year and a half ago. Four square corner towers thrust toward the heavens, the turreted, rectangular roof supported between them. They seemed higher than the last time, and he shuddered to think that he had once jumped from one of those towers nearly to his death. The jagged shadows of the inner courtyard wall peeked over the outer wall he and Zylas would have to face first. It consisted of defensible block work, interrupted at regular intervals by semicircular towers with the round sides facing outward. A still, crystalline moat ringed the entire structure.
On opposite sides of the wall, a peak-roofed structure supported by two of the towers formed a gatehouse. Collins and Zylas walked toward one of these, trying to look casual. Despite his attempts, Collins’ heart beat a frantic, whirlwind cadence, and he fought a war against nerves that tried to drive his hands to a million ordinary tasks: finger-combing his hair, rubbing his eyes, stroking his chin. He contented himself with smoothing his unfamiliar clothing, allowing that small task to occupy hands that seemed determined to reveal him.
A figure on the left tower gestured broadly at them, and Zylas returned a crisp wave. Others shifted on towers and parapets while they drew closer. Then, apparently recognizing them, the guards lowered the drawbridge on sturdy chains. The plank came down with a squeal of rusted hinges, and the lip struck the ground beyond the water with a dull but massive thud. Zylas kept his pace stolid and even, and Collins tried to match it. The urge to run across and inside burned only a bit less brightly than the one that drove him to turn and bolt in terror. Strolling casually through enemy gates barely came in a distant third.
Strangers in the familiar uniforms of King Terrin’s horse guards peered down at them. One spoke in a gravely voice, “Orna.” He nodded. “Narladin.” Another nod. “What were you two up to?” His tone held a hint of teasing singsong.
“None of your business,” Collins growled before he could think of something better to say.
Zylas added with a crooked smile. “It is our day off. She has a point.”
“A point, indeed,” added a woman peering over the right tower. “She’s a regular spear.”
Everyone laughed heartily, except for Collins who did not think the joke merited more than a gruff chuckle. He guessed translation weakened it and supposed it probably had a sexual connotation in Barakhain. His sophomore room-mate’s girlfriend had been fond of saying that men saw a penis in anything with more length than width—and they turned anything wider than it was long ninety degrees. Nevertheless, it seemed appropriate for him to sidestep the mirth, being the butt of the joke and known for having little sense of humor. Grunting, he waved the others off and headed across the drawbridge without waiting for Zylas.
The other man’s footfalls scurried after him. As he drew closer, Zylas whispered. “Tread a bit more lightly. For all her crustiness, Orna’s still a woman.”
Collins eased his step, trying to make it appear as if he had stompe
d off in mild offense. As they reached the halfway point on the drawbridge, the double oak doors into the gatehouse flew open, revealing the smaller side doors that opened onto the towers and the enormous oak ones that led to the outer courtyard. They marched inside, and the bigger doors slammed closed behind them with a loud finality that made Collins stiffen, though he managed to resist the urge to whirl and face them. He glanced at Zylas, who stood in easy silence and stared at the second set of doors like a passenger on an elevator. The world plunged into a darkness that seemed nearly total, at first. Then, Collins discovered the many small cracks in the wood and stone construction that admitted small squiggles of light. A ratcheting sound echoed eerily through the confines, the sound of the drawbridge rising. Then silence entombed them.
Muffled voices wafted to them as an eternity seemed to pass in the dull prison of the otherwise empty gatehouse. Collins lowered his head and fought welling panic. He tried to convince himself that discomfort was expanding time tenfold or more, but it still seemed way too long.
“Something’s wrong,” Zylas whispered, deliberately using English.
A surge of terror jarred bile into Collins’ throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to think around the fear.
The right-hand tower door banged open, and a blond head appeared. “You two are having altogether too much fun alone in the dark. Would you finish up, please, so we can all go back to our jobs.” The speaker wore the standard elite guard uniform: tunic white above the breastbone, patterned with stretched aqua clovers, then finishing with the blue-green fabric to just past his knees. He wore a bowl-shaped helmet, and mail showed at his collar and arms. His boots were stiffened cloth.
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