The Fantasy MEGAPACK ®

by Lester Del Rey

  “Fetch a scribe,’’ she told an attendant. The man ran to fetch graybeard Gutarn from the front shop. “We must have a party to celebrate my betrothal,’’ she said to herself. “Father will certainly spare me no expense.’’ She laughed. “And the first to invite is dear Abrizah.’’

  * * * *

  “Mistress.’’

  “What is it?’’ snapped Abrizah Gont. “Can’t you see I’m busy?’’

  And she was. Her uncle had just returned from a trading expedition to far-off Pavania, and he’d brought back a bolt of the most dazzling sea-blue cloth woven with silver threads so it shimmered with starlight at each fold. Servants fluttered around the room, preparing her new gown. It would be the triumph of Prince Ri’s harvest celebration next week. Surely that Hebbi girl would have nothing to compare with it.

  “Mistress,’’ the man repeated. “A courier brought this note.’’

  “Well, give it to me!’’

  “Yes, mistress.’’

  Abrizah snatched it from the lout’s hand. After ripping it open, she scanned the message.

  It said: Salahar Hebbi is pleased to announce her betrothal to Keit Kanerzi Shad. A small celebration will be held—

  “No!’’ Abrizah shrieked. She leaped down from the stool and stomped across the room, kicking at the furniture. Her mother’s seamstresses fled in terror. “No—no—no—‘’

  “Mistress,’’ the servant who’d brought the note began.

  “I’ll kill her!’’ Abrizah screamed, seizing the cloth shears and starting for the door. “The witch! The hag! I’ll kill her!’’

  “Mistress Abrizah, please!’’ the old man finally bellowed, blocking her way. “You’ll do nothing of the sort! Think of your dignity. What would your father say?’’

  Trembling, she just looked at him in all her murderous fury.

  “One must be civilized at all times,’’ he continued. “A true Gont would never get her hands dirty.’’

  “Then,’’ said Abrizah slowly, lips quirking to a half smile, “I must find someone else to do it for me.’’

  He paled. “Mistress?’’

  “Isn’t that what Father would do?’’ She went to the chest at the foot of her bed, threw it open, and withdrew a pouch filled with Zelloquan royals.

  “Here,’’ she said to him, pressing it into his hand. “See to it.’’ She stepped back onto her stool and shouted for the seamstresses. “Quickly, now!’’

  The old man shivered and looked away. But he said, “I will take care of it, mistress.’’

  * * * *

  The next morning, Salahar put on bright clothes, as befitted a betrothed woman, and went out to the market with the other female members of the Hebbi household. Strolling from wagon to wagon, examining the various wares, they laughed and joked and gossiped about men. Salahar found herself the center of attention, as always, and mentioned Keit and his many virtues at every opportunity. Everyone cooed properly over her triumph.

  Shouts interrupted them. Salahar turned, annoyed.

  Horses were galloping through the market, scattering the crowd. She gaped as a white stallion suddenly bore down on her, its polished hooves flashing like mirrors. She screamed.

  At the last second, the horse veered. Its rider leaned over and grabbed her about the waist, hauling her up in front of him. The breath whooshed from her lungs.

  Screaming a war-cry, the stallion’s rider whipped his mount to still greater speed, plunging through the market and up the street. Salahar raised her head and glimpsed bewildered-looking servants picking themselves up. Then the horse turned a corner and galloped up a side street.

  Salahar kicked furiously, screaming, “My father will have your head!’’

  The man shook her fiercely. “None of that!’’ he said. “Quiet now, or you’ll regret it!’’

  He turned at an alley and stopped. There were only three men, Salahar saw now, all dressed in the dark britches and linen shirts of desert folk from the north. She knew their type, and feared them, since they were savages.

  “What do you want?’’ she demanded. “Ransom?’’

  “Shut up!’’ he barked again. Pulling her around, he sat her in the saddle before him. His hands were rough, and he tore her skirt.

  Salahar sucked in a deep breath and screamed again. The man clamped a foul-smelling hand over her mouth and stuck a knife at her ribs. She grew quiet.

  “To the gate, Mik?’’ one of the other two said.

  “Aye,’’ said the man holding Salahar.

  They let their horses pick their way through narrow, twisting streets to the city’s northern wall. No one challenged them. As they passed the guards at the gate, Salahar took a deep breath, but the man pricked her with the point of his knife and she knew better than to scream. They will ransom me back to Father, she thought. Then he will hunt them down and kill them.

  The horses trotted out of the city, turning north, taking the road toward the distant mountains.

  Five minutes later, the man to her left said, “Let’s kill her and be done with it. We can bury her in the sand and no one will ever know.’’

  “Fool!’’ Salahar said. “Why kidnap me if not for ransom?’’

  Their leader, Mik, said, “We have our pay; it’s enough.’’

  “Pay?’’

  “To steal you from Zelloque.’’

  “Who paid you? Tell me!’’

  They remained silent.

  “You would never kill me,’’ Salahar said coldly. “If you let me go, perhaps my father will spare you when he finds you.’’

  They all laughed at that. The second one said, “Death’s too dignified. We should sell her to the slavers. She’d make a pretty flower in some Coranian brothel, eh?’’

  Salahar merely glared at him.

  Mik pulled her around and gazed into the perfection of her dirt-smeared face. Then he chuckled deeply. “She’s dressed for a wedding,’’ he said. “Let’s give her one.’’

  “Never!’’ Salahar swore. “I would kill myself first!’’

  * * * *

  As the day wore on, Salahar came to realize the three were part of a band of cutthroats, men who rustled cattle and raided caravans and murdered and stole for silver. Others had been waiting for them half an day’s ride from the city. She counted twenty more, then gave up. It was an army, she thought, and even her father’s guards would have trouble killing so many.

  They headed north for the mountains throughout the next week. They were to meet the rest of their cutthroat band for some great scheme, Salahar discovered, and Mik planned on taking her with them.

  As the days passed, her threats turned to pleas and promises of great wealth if only they brought her safely back to Zelloque.

  “We don’t take bribes,’’ Mik finally said. “Once we’re hired, we finish the job. Besides, whatever you promise, who’s to know your father will agree? We’re safer this way. We have our pay—and you.’’

  Salahar wept most pitifully. It had always wrenched her father’s heart to see her cry like that, but Mik only chuckled. “Surely you can do better,’’ he said, and gave her a kiss when she tried to scratch his eyes with her elegantly painted fingernails.

  A second week of trail-marching brought them through the mountain pass to the desert. The brown sands seemed to stretch endlessly ahead.

  They rode north until they came to a huge oasis, where stood a long line of brightly colored tents. Horses, sheep, goats, and other animals grazed on the lush grass, children ran screaming and playing, and men and women bent to their tasks with scarcely an upward glance. Some threw pots on little wheels, and others made grass baskets, or wove blankets on intricate hand-looms.

  Mik rode to the largest tent, dismounted, and went inside. Salahar s
tared after him, a sick, fluttery feeling in her stomach. Finally, some minutes later, he emerged with an old, white-bearded man.

  The old man looked Salahar over, nodded. He passed Mik a small pouch that jingled with coins, then went back inside.

  “Come on,’’ Mik said, grinning broadly and offering Salahar his hand. “Master Pelbar has agreed to take you.’’

  * * * *

  Inside the cavernous tent of Sek Pelbar, the two eunuch slaves moved about their tasks with ponderous efficiency. Aside from them, Salahar was alone, awaiting some horrible fate, she was certain. She sobbed helplessly for a few minutes, but stopped when neither slave paid her the slightest heed. Rising, she slowly circled the tent, studying the silken pillows, the thick carpets on the floor, the low tables with their silver bowls and pitchers. None looked as fine as her father’s had been.

  “Who is to wait on me?’’ she demanded, but the slaves ignored her.

  Finally she washed her own face and hands. When she finished, she left the towels on the floor. Neither slave moved to pick them up. Disgusted, Salahar moved to the doorway, half threatening to get their master.

  Since neither stopped her, she poked her head out. Master Pelbar wasn’t in sight. On impulse, Salahar left the tent and took a few hesitant steps. Nobody spoke; nobody ordered her back inside. She turned, walking between two tents, and found herself alone and unwatched.

  Then she began to run. Up a grassy dune, down a small depression, then up the next dune. She headed straight for the hazy gray mountains to the south.

  It wouldn’t take her long to reach Zelloquan lands, she thought, gathering up her skirts. She’d be there in no time.

  * * * *

  Night fell not long after that. A cold wind whipped up from the east, stinging her face with little bits of sand and grit. Salahar shivered uncontrollably and tried to huddle deeper inside her tattered bridal dress. It had been scorchingly hot only a few hours before; now it seemed all the heat had been sucked from the land. Her throat felt raw, and her scalp itched, and she only wanted to be home safe in her bed.

  Still she staggered on, unwilling to give up or try to go back to the oasis and Sek Pelbar. Sand crunched endlessly under her slippered feet. She felt a millions years old.

  Overhead, stars glinted like little silver pinheads. Slowly they began to wheel around her, descending like fireflies to dance before her face.

  She swung leaden fists at them, cursing, staggering drunkenly across a huge sand dune. Slipping, she fell and rolled endlessly downward. Finally something hard and cold as ice brought her to a stop.

  It was a block of stone, she realized. She shook her head and saw clearly for the first time in what seemed hours. Her thirst had strangely gone, and her whole body felt light, as though she’d drunk too much wine.

  When she stood, she saw the ruins of a city spreading around her in all directions, streets radiating from the square in which she stood like the spokes of a colossal wheel: here immense stone blocks scattered and broken; there a fountain long run dry; here an archway; there a sculpture, a great winged man with his arms outstretched as if in welcome.

  She wandered forward as though in a dream and soon found herself in front of the winged statue. An inscription glowed on its base:

  Those who enter empty shall leave full.

  Salahar laughed. Her father, the greatest trader in all of Zelloque, would have thought these people mad and taken their wealth like a child plucking flowers in a meadow. No wonder the place was deserted.

  “Not so,’’ said a voice.

  Startled, Salahar jumped. “Who said that?’’ she called. “Where are you?’’

  The statue moved, stretching stone muscles as though having just awakened from some great sleep. It spread its wings and glided to the ground.

  “I am the last guardian of Ru Ishtl. I am he-who-sleeps, once named god-friend, now a forgotten child from the first days of man.’’

  The statue’s lips weren’t moving; the words seemed to form in Salahar’s mind. She drew away, obscurely terrified. “What do you want?’’ she whispered.

  “Whatever you want,’’ it said.

  “I want to go home, to Zelloque!’’

  “Do you? I think not. Your happiness lies here, in the desert.’’

  “How would you know?’’ she snapped back.

  “I see all that you are and all that you might be. Your life is like an onion within you, and I have peeled back the layers to what lies at your heart, the jealousies that made you seek to marry Keit Shad, the hate and hurt and pride which drives you away from those who might love you. It has been a thousand years since last I woke. I know these things. Need brought you here, for there is a great magic in the shifting sands of the desert. You may not leave Ru Ishtl until I am satisfied.’’

  She fell to her knees and began to sob, but the statue stood silently. It waited until she finished.

  “Here,’’ it said. It held a gold pendant in its hands. “You prize beauty. I ask you to accept this pendant, for it is magical. Should you take it, it will show the truth within you. And, in the end, it will bring you justice.’’

  She bent her head, still sobbing, wanting only happiness—even the happiness the statue offered. If so little comfort remained to her, she would take what was offered.

  It hung the pendant around her neck, then touched her forehead.

  “I am satisfied.’’

  Darkness took her.

  * * * *

  When Salahar woke, it was as though she had never left Sek Pelbar’s tent. She lay inside, on heaped pillows, staring up at a white canvas roof.

  The city—the statue—had they been some wild, fantastic dream? She touched her throat and found a pendant there, the golden one the statue had given her. It will show the truth within you.

  “You are awake,’’ a soft voice said.

  Salahar whirled to find a young man staring at her. He stood tall and strong, and he had the curly dark hair and beard of the desert-folk.

  “Who are you?’’ she asked.

  “Arune,’’ he said. He took a step forward, awkwardly, shyly. “I am the fifth son of Sek Pelbar, the caravan master. And you are to be my wife.’’

  Salahar moaned and hid her face in the pillows. She heard Arune come to her, and he began to stroke her hair.

  “Quiet now,’’ he whispered. “Can it be so bad as that?’’

  And, in the end, it will bring you justice.

  * * * *

  They were married that night, in a great ceremony that began with sacrifices to the gods. Musicians played soft many-stringed desert harps, reed pipes, and drums. Everyone danced and drank and laughed and played the marriage games—everyone except Salahar, who only wept.

  In that way did she join the wandering caravan on Sek Pelbar and his family.

  Arune was not a bad man, she slowly discovered; though she scorned his love, he never beat her. Rather, he read long poems to her in the twilight hours, composed verses to her beauty, and mourned openly when she shunned his every gesture.

  Weeks passed and her father did not come. No mention of ransom or rescue would ever be made. Salahar realized then that she truly would spend the rest of her days among the wandering desert-folk. Others might have despaired, since Arune was poor and had no servants. If she wanted something done, she had to do it herself or go without. But she remembered what the statue had said—that her true happiness lay in the desert—and so resigned herself to learning the ways of her new people. They taught her to tend goats and sheep, to spin hair twine, to weave carpets and blankets.

  She found the work hard, but curiously satisfying. As they moved from oasis to oasis, she did all the tasks Arune set for her, and finally she accepted him and did her best to be a good wife. Once she did, she found it easy t
o love him.

  And, it seemed to her, he tried to be a dutiful husband. They always had enough food, and occasionally he brought her presents. They spent the long desert evenings talking or telling stories. He took no other wives, and she took no other lovers.

  So the months passed, and they were content.

  * * * *

  The next summer, Salahar gave birth to a son, whom Arune named Haddon.

  “We must return to Zelloque,’’ Salahar said one day, as her child nursed. “My father should see him.’’

  Arune said, “Your father would kill me for marrying you.’’

  “Let me send him a letter, then,’’ she said. “I will tell him of my happiness here, of my love for you, and of his grandson. If you send him gifts his anger will pass.’’

  To this Arune agreed, and he brought pen and paper for her. When she had finished the letter, Arune sealed it and sent it to Zelloque, along with presents of oil and incense he took from his father.

  In a month they received an answer: the oil returned befouleld, the messenger’s head cut off and put into the basket of incense, their letter burnt to ashes.

  Salahar’s sadness knew no bounds. She wrote secretly to all her old friends, to all her relatives. None answered.

  Finally, in desperation, she even wrote to Keit Shad. With her letter she enclosed the magical pendant the statue had given her so long ago. It was her greatest possession, and she knew Keit would realize this, and take pity on her, and intercede with her father. He would have been her husband: he owed her this much. And wasn’t the pendant supposed to bring her justice?

  * * * *

  Abrizah Gont’s plans had worked well: after a polite few months, Elder Shad again sought a wife for his son. Abrizah’s bribes had been well placed; her name was mentioned and her many virtues sung. Arrangements were soon made, and three months later Keit Shad became her husband.