by Jane Yolen
And fell.
His life barely had time to even begin passing in front of his eyes before his foot hit something solid.
Very amusing, he thought with just a touch of anger. The wizards must have thought it a great jest to place the bridge just a little lower than expected. The sensation of falling with no chance of injury. Just a reminder of how much I am in their power right now.
He shuffled carefully through the air, trusting that the bridge’s magic had not died along with most of the wizards. The ground sloped up and the invisible bridge down, so that by the time he was halfway across, the fall began to look survivable. By the time he reached the Eldritch Door, the rocks below had been cleared away, and if he fell, it would only be a short drop into soft grasses.
I get it: trust in us and we shall see you through. The wizards’ subliminal message had the opposite effect on him. It made him trust the wizards less, not more. He approached the tower cautiously.
The door was made of a single block of stone, though it was marked into four sections as if it were wooden and paneled. In each section was a carved face, four faces in all. Each turned stone eyes on Aspen as he approached.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” said the top left face, an elven warrior, pointed ears poking out of his helmet.
“And well met,” said the top right face, a Green Man with leaves in his long hair and beard.
“What business do you have in the tower?” asked the bottom left face, its boggart’s rat features pinched, squinched, and shifty.
The bottom right face had tentacles for eyes and a jagged slash where the mouth should go. It was hard to look at, yet hard to look away from, and it howled something unintelligible that made Aspen’s brain want to slither out his ear and run back to the palace on its own.
“I—I have come for knowledge,” he stuttered, forcing his gaze back to the elven warrior face. It was what one always answered when asked that question by wizards or their minions. Even if what you wanted was power or spells or the destruction of your enemies, you always answered “knowledge,” or the wizards were likely to refuse. His tutor Jaunty had taught him that.
“Then enter,” said the warrior, “and may you find what you seek.”
“And yet leave some behind for those who follow,” added the Green Man.
“Hrmph,” said the boggart.
The bottom right face said nothing, but its tentacle eyes waved at him as the door swung slowly open. Aspen sidled through sideways, staying as far from the capering tentacles as possible.
The room he entered was octagonal and tiled in pale stone that reflected the natural light.
Natural light? he thought. But there are no windows.
From the outside, the Wizard’s Tower was a windowless monolith. But here in the entryway, broad windows stretched to the ceiling twenty feet above, sunlight streaming through every one. All of them seemed to be showing the actual view from the tower.
Why not have regular windows if the magic windows just show what is outside anyway?
Aspen was certain there was another message here, but he failed to understand it.
That’s the trouble with wizards, he thought. Too cunning for their own good. No wonder no one trusts them. And the middle of a war is no time to be playing games.
The room was empty except for a short elf in a black robe. He stood in the middle of the room and looked up as Aspen entered, his face shadowed beneath a voluminous hood, making it appear featureless.
Bowing low, the elf said, “Welcome to our humble tower, Your Grace.” His voice was a pleasant baritone. “What is it you seek?”
“Knowledge,” Aspen said again. But all the while he was thinking: How many dark deeds are dressed up as a search for knowledge? Though he actually was after knowledge today.
“A noble pursuit.” The elf raised his right hand, and the giant windows faded away, replaced by seven spiral staircases. “Each staircase leads to knowledge of a different ancient realm.” He began pointing to each in turn. “Faerie, Tir na nOg, the Land of Men, Trollheim—”
More games, Aspen thought. “I was told to search beneath the tower.” He tried hard not to sound exasperated.
“Ah,” the elf said. The windows reappeared, but now it was night outside and thin moonlight illuminated the hall. “The Catacombs of Lost Knowledge.”
“Yes,” Aspen agreed, “that sounds like the place.” He hoped it was the right response.
The elf held his arms out to the sides, and his robe began to shiver. “It is not my place to advise or deter the seeker, only to warn: not all knowledge that was lost was misplaced. Often it was hidden. And only because it could not be destroyed.” The black robe dropped to the floor, and the elf dropped with it, both dissolving into a black puddle. Aspen stepped forward and looked down into the puddle. Instead of his own reflection, he saw the elf’s hooded face blurred by the rippling water.
“Good luck, Your Grace.”
Then the face became a hole in the floor with a rope ladder hanging down into darkness.
Aspen sighed. More games. More wasted time. If, he thought, we manage not to lose this war, I am going to ban all wizard games.
“Why can there not just be a set of stairs?” he asked aloud, not expecting an answer. Then, shrugging, he looked closely at the hole. The darkness seemed almost solid.
But if it was games the wizards wanted, he would play them. After all, he was the king of Faerie and fire danced at his command.
He called a ball of fire to his hand and sent it down the hole. The orange flames illuminated a tunnel with walls the same tile as the floor, leading deep into the tower. The long rope ladder went down and down. He could not see a bottom. But what did that matter? He either died here or in battle a few days hence.
Calling the fire back, he set it to float by his head as a constant light, first making sure it was cold, not hot. Then he levered himself over the side of the hole.
The ladder was steady, so he started down. At first, the going was easy. He started counting rungs and was to sixty when he sensed more than saw the tunnel open up into a room. The ladder was now hanging freely and swung slightly as he continued his descent.
“As long as it remains slightly,” he whispered, the sound of his own voice a comfort. He wished again that he could fly. But no amount of wishing gave him wings.
I must be close now.
But it was another twenty rungs before his left foot touched down on floor instead of ladder. He made certain the floor was solid before letting go of the ladder. Never trust a wizard, he reminded himself.
His cold light showed him that the floor was tiled like the room far above, but in black, which didn’t help alleviate the gloom. He reached for the fireball. Before he could set it floating about to show him the measurement of the room, torches sprang to life all around him.
By this new and brilliant light he could see that he stood in the middle of another octagonal room. Eight wooden doors led out of the eight walls, each with a torch on either side. In the middle of the room stood a short elf in a black-hooded robe.
Aspen sighed. Even more games?
“Welcome to the Catacombs of Lost Knowledge, Your Grace,” the elf said in a pleasant baritone. “What is it you seek?”
“Knowledge,” Aspen said, this time quite a bit more sharply. Then he added, “Um—are you the same . . . ?”
“Yes and no,” the elf said. “I am an iteration of the same source.”
As if that explains everything. Or anything.
“But he is the Welcomer,” the elf went on, “and I—”
The elf pushed his hood back, and Aspen saw that it wasn’t the shadows from the hood that had made the elf’s face seem featureless. His face was featureless. It was smooth and flat, with only the slightest protuberance where a nose should have been. Instead of eyes, there was just more smooth
skin. Below the nose-bump a thin line was just now opening up into a lipless mouth.
“I am the Archivist,” the faceless elf finished. “An iteration of my maker.”
“And who was your maker?”
“Is that the knowledge you seek?”
“No, but—”
“My maker made the tower to hold knowledge. And he made us to hold the tower.” The Archivist waved a hand at his featureless face. “Put too much of yourself into your creation and you may lose yourself entirely.”
“I do not understand.”
The Archivist inclined his head. “All magic costs. You wield the regal flame, but can you cast it for days on end?”
“Of course not! It wears me out.”
The Archivist nodded, said again, “All magic costs. The cost of an iteration was a piece of my maker.”
Aspen thought that maybe this maker could have spent just a little more of himself to give his creations eyes. But what do I know about iterations anyway? Then he realized something.
“I should ask you my three questions,” he said to the Archivist. “But I do not need to. Why is that?”
“Were you entreated to ask these questions of every creature you meet?”
“Yes.”
“I am not a creature. I am an iteration, so you need not ask me,” the Archivist said. “But you can. So tell me what you seek, as I understand your time is not limitless.”
Well, at last! Aspen thought of the Unseelie armies even now converging on his castle. “I have come seeking knowledge of the Sticksman. What he is and how he came to be and how he could cease being.” He hoped that would be thought of as one long question.
The Archivist was silent for a moment. He might have been deep in thought, but it was impossible to tell from his lack of face. Finally he spoke. “That knowledge is old. Older than the tower. Older than the kingdom. Almost older than the Seven Realms.”
“Does that mean you do not know it?”
The Archivist shook his head. “It only means we will have to travel to reach it.”
“Travel? I have no time to travel.”
“Interesting that you should say that. For that is exactly what we must travel through.”
“What do you mean?” Aspen said. “What must we travel through?”
The Archivist gave him a lipless smile. “Time.” He shot out a pale hand and grabbed Aspen by the shoulder. An icy blast of wind hit them in the face, and the Archivist’s cloak billowed out behind him like a giant raven’s wings. The torches guttered and died, and in the pitch black Aspen felt the floor disappear.
And then he fell. For a long, long time.
6
SNAIL’S MOUNTAINS
The ride to the first hill was easy on everything except Snail’s bottom. She didn’t complain. There was no use in doing so. But in her head, every third or fourth bump in the trot she thought, Ow! Ow! Ow! The cry was so loud in her head, she was sure everyone heard it, but of course, mind reading not being a Seelie gift, none of the troop was aware of her pain.
Snail thought Mums, riding right behind her, might have guessed from the stiffness of her posture, but if so, Mums never said a word about it.
That, Snail thought, is the problem. No one says a word. Though it would be nice knowing that someone understands my pain.
Instead, she endured in silence until they finally stopped to rest the horses and have a quick meal of journeycake and cold water fresh from a nearby stream. As they huddled together, their horses off grazing on the tall grasses beside the path, Snail saw Snaggle pointing.
She followed his finger, and just a few miles away, there was a mountain rising from the plains like a giant’s fist.
It must be the first of the two hills, Snail thought. Though it looks more a mountain to me. She didn’t know if it had a name, so she turned to ask one of the two warriors closest to her, Fen and Pad. In this light, she realized how much alike they were—large headed, short armed, with skin a slightly greenish tint, and hard, raised lumps as big as diamonds on their faces. They could have been brothers, or cousins.
Toad Clan, she thought. “Can you tell me . . .” she began.
“Little Sister,” said Pad, his voice loud enough to address the entire troop.
It took Snail a moment to realize he wasn’t talking about her but saying the mountain’s name.
“Looks big to me,” Fen muttered.
“Until you see the other,” Pad countered. “Bigger mountain, bigger valley.”
They began taunting one another, as warriors will, about things big and small, some of which brought a blush to Snail’s cheeks, so she turned away. Goodspeed seemed to sense her embarrassment and wandered a short distance away from the other horses to chew on grass that looked the same to Snail but must have tasted sweeter to her.
“Thank you, Goodspeed,” she whispered into the mare’s ear.
THEY RODE HALFWAY around the mountain, making sure to stick to the woods after Snap and Snaggle had gone ahead again to be certain it was safe. The tall fir trees lent them cover but also kept the forest floor clear of undergrowth. This meant it gave them a clear riding track but left nothing for the horses to graze upon.
There was no one—not fey nor human nor made creature—anywhere around Little Sister as far as the scouts could tell. And indeed the troop met no one along the way.
They came at last to a small meadow between two separate stands of trees—the firs that they had just ridden through and some old-growth forest.
“Father and the White Ladies,” Mums whispered to Snail, nodding in the direction of the second stand of trees, where a tall oak bent over with age stood surrounded by delicate, blotchy white birches. Behind them the oaks grew thick as an army.
Snail nodded, though she’d never heard them called that before.
Here in the meadow the grass was knee-deep, much to the relief of the horses and their masters. Alith had the troop set up a sketchy camp. “Unpack only essentials,” she warned. “We may need to leave at a moment’s notice.” Her face gave away nothing, not fear, not caution, not worry, not relief.
The troops were warned to be on whispers only; the horses hobbled, overseen by the Green Brothers, as Snail was beginning to think of Fen and Pad. After the horses had grazed for a while, then watered at the tiny south-flowing stream near the darker end of the meadow, long cloths like feed bags were tied around their faces.
“They are trained to quiet, m’lady,” said Mums, “but also to the muzzle. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Snail nodded in agreement, though she couldn’t think of a single moment in her life when she’d felt safe. She tried to go help with getting Goodspeed settled for the night, but once by the horses, she found herself in the way yet again. Fen and Pad—with the benefit of years of experience—had already dealt with all the mounts, even Goodspeed.
At this point, feeling useless, even helpless, Snail started to walk the perimeter of their little encampment. But angry looks from each one of the small troop sent her skittering back to the center, where a meal of sorts was being set out. They all clearly wanted her both out of the way and out of danger.
And danger to me, she finally understood, is more danger to them. I’m no help at all but an aggravation.
DINNER WAS MORE journeycake, plus a scraggly salad of gathered wild onions, horse mushrooms, fennel, dandelion leaves, and chickweed, all found either in the meadow itself or in the vicinity of a small stream that ran along the northern edge of the mountain’s foot.
Even as they ate, Alith set the watch. Everyone but Snail was to have a turn.
“Why not let me stand an hour?” Snail said to Alith, trying hard not to sound like a beggar outside the castle walls. “You’re already down one man, and it would give your people an hour more of sleep.”
Alith’s mouth twitched into a cont
rolled smile, one you might give to an unreasonable child before you put her to bed. It made Snail long for Aspen.
“Your counting is flawed, m’lady,” Alith said. “We’d have to set two to guard you during your watch.” Even the limited smile was gone now, replaced by a hard stare. “Easier to keep an eye on you while you’re on the ground and asleep.”
So she’d made it clear. Snail might be the most important member of the troop, the reason they were here. But as such, she needed guarding, guiding, watching.
“Your job comes later, m’lady.”
Snail understood the message behind what Alith said: if she were out on the front line, anyone might grab her—Unseelie, human, even a made creature. And if that happened, it would not only endanger every member of Alith’s troop—it would endanger the entire mission. And the mission was all that stood between the Seelie Court and total devastation.
How could I have been so stupid, Snail wondered, and for so long? She nodded at Alith. “Of course, of course.”
As soon as she’d finished her cold meal, she curled up where she was told, in the middle of the encampment, without a word more of complaint.
THE WIND HAD dropped, and Snail could hear the guards whispering. She listened for a while, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but it was cold and they were camping without fires. This close to their destination, Alith didn’t want to alert or spook anyone.
The guards spoke of the weather, the food, the conditions of their horses, anything but what really concerned them—the enemy, who might even then be creeping through the undergrowth toward them.
After a while Snail stopped listening, because she was really waiting for the moment when she could open her eyes again, unseen by anyone else.
Even pretending sleep, I can still keep watch, she thought. And be ready should there be danger.
Except, when she opened her eyes again, it was first daylight, a bright pearl of a morning. Everyone else was already up, and she was the last to get to her feet for another handful of cold journeycake and water. She couldn’t believe that she’d slept the night away, and without dreams.