by Lyndon Hardy
PART TWO
The Realms of Men and Skyskirr
CHAPTER SIX
Wizard’s Wood
KESTREL shifted uneasily as the demon materialized above the flame in Phoebe’s cabin. In barely a dozen heart beats, the creature stepped from the flame, apparently as solid from head to toe as the wizard he had just subjugated.
“I am Astron, the one who walks,” Kestrel heard the demon say. “I command you to take me to Alodar, the archimage of all men, so that the message from my prince to him can be made known.”
“I am a wizard of Brythia, the hindermost of the Southern Kingdoms,” Phoebe answered in a slow monotone. “The great Alodar resides in Procolon far to the north, beyond Samirand, Laudia, and even Ethidor.” She turned her hands palms upward and shrugged. “The petty squabbles of the princes have closed the border between us. Unless you are willing to wait for several months more, you will need the service of men-at-arms to cross it, not the skills of a master of the arts. Give me some other task, one for which there is some hope of success.”
Astron looked around the room. “The rate of time is never quite the same among the realms,” he said, “but several of your months will be far too long.” The demon’s eyes fell on Kestrel as he finished stepping clear of the fire that was fading into glowing embers and curls of smoke. “If not you, then perhaps your lackey. Why can not he lead me to the archimage by your command, just as you must obey my wishes as your own?”
“Ah, pause for a moment,” Kestrel said. “There is a slight error in your logic.” His mind was suddenly made up. More anvilwood he could obtain somehow. Getting entrapped by a devil was another matter altogether. “I am but a simple woodchopper, not a hero from the sagas. I was just stopping by to show my wares. If the lady is not interested, then there is no obligation I have to her.”
Kestrel stepped quickly to the side, aiming to place Phoebe between him and the demon. He glanced at the door and calculated how many more glides it would take to be safely away.
“The task is as I have stated it,” Astron persisted. “My control of your mind, wizard, is not so great to smother all thought. Perform what I command and I shall set you free. Let your creativity be the key to your release.”
Kestrel slid two more steps to his left. He kept his head down and avoided looking at the demon. Catching a demon in the eye was to be avoided at all costs, he remembered.
“Acting together, the wizards of my local council might successfully petition for a writ of safe passage,” Phoebe said slowly. “But it is difficult to get them to agree on anything so concrete, especially if there is no gain in it for them.”
“What then is the motivation that would prod them to act in haste?”
“The wizards of my kingdom are enamored of the tangible rewards from their craft,” Phoebe said. “It is to the golden brandels of Procolon or the magic tokens of Pluton across the sea to which they listen the most.”
“What of these things do you have?” Astron asked.
“My wealth is the greatest of any on the council, it is true,” Phoebe said. “But divided and spread among them, the enticement would not be all that strong. There are ten of them and each has at least three-quarters of what you see here.”
Kestrel stopped in midstride. Ten times three-quarters, he thought quickly. More than seven times the potential gain of what he had hoped for from Phoebe alone. If there were only a plausible story with which to approach the entire council, something that would appeal to their individual greed but force them to act collectively, some dealing with the realm of demons that no wizard could afford to let pass by. The allure would have to be quite spectacular, something that would withstand the scrutiny of not one but half a score.
Kestrel almost involuntarily jerked up his head and looked at Astron. The demon did not appear all that ferocious. Perhaps, with Phoebe under his command, he had no lust for another. Perhaps, in fact, the sagas were distorted and the risks far less than the babblings that had been recorded. It would be just what he expected of wizards—concocting a great peril to enhance their own importance and the magnitude of their fees.
Kestrel had hoped for ten brandels from Phoebe’s purse. If he could get the devil to agree, he might leave these hills with over a hundred. And besting not one but ten so-called masters in one stroke would be all the more satisfying as well. The more he pondered it, the more the risks dissolved away and the rewards grew increasingly tempting.
“Your first instincts were correct,” Kestrel called to Astron as he returned to Phoebe’s side. “I am the key to getting the necessary petition from the wizards’ council. Just do as I say, and we both shall be compensated as we desire from our efforts.”
Astron wrinkled his nose. “As you say? It is I who have asserted the more powerful will in coming through the flame. I control the wizard who called me and, through her, any of those bound to her own command.”
“This is not like that,” Kestrel said quickly. “Your command of the wizard is part of the plan I have in mind, but between you and me, it is more of a mutual agreement.” He stretched his face into a smile. “A contract between partners that we both swear to uphold—like the formal exchanges between alchemists and apothecaries for rare ingredients and tested formulas.”
“If not the wizard, then who is your prince?” Astron asked. “And what do you mean when you speak of contracts and swearing to uphold?”
“I am a free man and have obligations to no one, neither king nor master,” Kestrel said. “My will is my own.” He saw the demon’s face distort further and he rushed on. “The important thing is that we agree to act in each other’s behalf—on our honor, not by threat of penalty but by being true to our innermost values of being.”
Astron did not speak for a long while. He looked from the placid face of the one he controlled to Kestrel’s sudden enthusiasm. “In my realm, one serves a single prince and no other,” the demon said at last. “Breaking allegiance is such a personal shame that the will to resist the great monotony is shattered as well. Is that what you mean by contracts and honor?”
“Why, exactly so,” Kestrel said. “I could not have explained it better myself.”
“And if I follow your instructions, you will arrange my audience with Alodar the archmage?”
“Yes, that will be our agreement—on our honor.”
Kestrel saw Astron’s face relax. The demon stuck out his right hand toward Kestrel. “I do know some of the customs of the realm of men. I agree, human, to what you call a contract, working to mutual benefit upon our honor. Here, clasp my hand to seal the agreement and then let us begin.”
Kestrel grasped the offered hand and shook it slowly, hardly noticing the coarse texture next to his own skin. “Listen carefully then. Here is my plan,” he heard himself say, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Something about the demon was strangely disturbing. He had agreed all too quickly—too soon for Kestrel to figure out what his real motives were. An agreement on their honor—it sounded as if the devil actually meant it.
Kestrel clapped his hands for attention. Several hours had passed swiftly since he outlined his plan to Astron. Now it was nearly noon, and nine wizards had gathered in the small garden outside of Phoebe’s cabin. The eldest three sat on a long wooden bench next to a small pond lined with smooth stones. Behind them stood the rest, all robed in black and wearing faces heavy with the seriousness of their craft.
Kestrel stood next to Phoebe on the other side of the pond, next to a tier of dove cages and neatly trimmed bushes that flashed waxy leaves at the high sun. He glanced once at the small scroll of parchment he had tossed into the pond before the wizards’ arrival and smiled. As yet none of them had called attention to it; it would serve its purpose well.
To the left, Kestrel’s wagon stood hitched and ready, his mare nibbling contentedly on a bed of flowering hornweed. The birch-framed canopy over his pinewood-filled sacks fluttered in a quickening breeze. The last of the doves dispatched with a summons circ
led overhead, apparently building up the courage to return to its roost just beyond Kestrel’s reach.
Kestrel ignored the hovering bird. The message tied to its leg probably stated only that the last wizard in Phoebe’s council would not come. Enough were already present to make the production worthwhile; judging from the pleasant jingle of their purses, the effort would be worthwhile indeed.
Kestrel took a moment to study the masters seated in the front. Undoubtedly they were the ones to convince; then the others would follow. The one in the middle, Maspanar, appeared the most bloated with self-importance. Any revelation of facts would have to be his; monetary aspects were of less concern.
On Maspanar’s right sat Geldion, a shriveled hulk that stared back with piercing blue eyes. He seemed to dare Kestrel to speak, to commit some error that immediately could be pounced upon and exposed to the others.
The last of the three, Kestrel decided, was his primary target. Benthon’s black robe was a trifle newer than all the rest. Golden rings adorned slender fingers not smudged by charred embers or sooty ash. The eyes danced about the confines of Phoebe’s garden, searching for an opening, an opportunity for gain that would continue to feed his expensive habits.
“Masters, if I may have your attention,” Kestrel said after he had satisfied himself that he could predict how the assembled wizards would react. “Your colleague in craft apologizes for the lack of words of greeting and sweet wine.” He waved his hand in Phoebe’s direction. “But her startling discovery is of such great importance that she dare not break her concentration for trivial amenities. When you have witnessed what she has to demonstrate you will understand why.”
“Who is this that speaks for the wizard Phoebe?” Geldion demanded. He looked over his shoulder and spoke to the masters standing behind the bench. “He wears no robe with a logo, nor have I heard her talk of any bondsmen in her service.”
“I have interrupted my studies merely as a courtesy,” Maspanar said. “I doubt greatly that the youngest of our council—and a woman at that—has found anything not yet well known to most of us.” He shrugged massive shoulders beneath a robe that had been patched more than once. “If the dabbler has found a means of amplifying our powers as her note indicated, then let her explain her alleged discovery and be done. There is no time for the smooth tongues and empty thoughts of others.”
Kestrel forced his smile wider. Years ago when the opinions of other mattered, such rude manners would have hurt and given him pause. But now he was as hardened as the rest. He would give them what they deserved, matching their insensitivities with a disdain of his own. Kestrel looked out for himself and no one else. Let the masters beware.
“A simple flame.” Kestrel pointed back through the open doorway into Phoebe’s cabin, totally ignoring the challenges. It would serve no purpose to spar with Maspanar or Geldion until after Benthon was securely hooked. “You can all see it burning within the pentagram on the floor. Perhaps the keenest among you, even from the distance, can guess what fuels the blaze.”
“Simple pine logs,” Maspanar shot back. “The height of the yellows, smoke with little soot, and the lack of intense blues mark it as nothing else.”
“Yes, dried pine it is,” Kestrel said. “The tunnel between the realms for small imps and sprites and little else. For demons of true power, more exotic woods and powders must be consumed to bore through the barrier that keeps them from us.”
Kestrel paused, replacing his smile with a serious mask. “More exotic woods are needed for demons of true power,” he repeated, “or so one would expect.”
With a sudden thrust of his arm he reached into the cabin and grabbed the door by the knob. In a blur of motion he repeatedly opened the door a crack and then slammed it shut, a staccato burst of sound filling the small garden. After perhaps a dozen slams he flung the door all the way open, again permitting the wizards to view the interior.
Kestrel’s smile returned as he saw Astron stride forward from the flame, exactly as he had planned. The decorum of the wizards dissolved into babble of excited voices.
“Impossible,” Geldion said. “No demon of that size could come through such a simple flame.”
“Some trace element, perhaps,” Maspanar replied. “A substance of great power so that merely a small amount was necessary.”
“But what of the control?” Benthon spoke for the first time. “That is indeed no small imp of little will. Our voices distract too much and place Phoebe in great peril.”
“I am yours to command, master.” Astron bowed to Phoebe as he exited from the cabin. “Give me your instructions so that I may serve.”
Phoebe frowned as she heard the words, mouthing them silently for a second. Then she suddenly shook off her lethargy. “Do not concern yourselves with the risk, my colleagues,” she said. “Observe, I need devote merely a fraction of my attention to control.”
She turned and looked at Astron as he emerged. “Go among them, devil,” she said. “Let them examine you at will. Perhaps the experience will be of interest.” Then, with a flourish, she turned her back and began picking a bouquet of flowers from a bed near her feet, her features totally hidden from the others.
Kestrel saw Phoebe’s face relax to a lifeless stare as her hands mechanically groped for nearby stalks. He looked back at the wizards, but their attentions were all focused on Astron as he came forward. Things were going well. He would be far away before anyone deduced that Phoebe’s words were merely the ones the demon beforehand had commanded her to say.
“Not an imp but neither a mighty djinn,” the talk of the wizards continued.
“But if from simple flame and with no great struggle of will, the phenomenon does deserve some investigation.”
“This is indeed most surprising, I admit. My respect for the woman must climb a notch. She may become a credit to us yet. Tell us, Phoebe, what is the name of the one you have so effortlessly summoned? How was his domination achieved?”
“I am called Astron, the one who walks,” Astron said. “But that is of little matter. I have done my part. Now I wish you to perform yours with haste. Surrender to the man whatever it is that provides my audience with the archimage. It is the agreement that we have sworn on our—”
“Masters, your attention, please,” Kestrel cut in. “Surely your interest is more on how Phoebe was able to perform her feat rather than its result.” He frowned in the direction of Astron. He had been so busy beforehand explaining how Phoebe should be controlled that he had neglected to tell the demon to keep his own mouth shut as well. “I have been instructed by your colleague to explain her discovery while she keeps the devil under control,” he said. “But be advised it might take several hours, and any attempt to rush could completely destroy what is being demonstrated.”
“Several hours,” Astron said. “How curious. It must be a ritual I have not witnessed before. Under any other circumstances, I would be most eager to add the details of its performance to my catalogues.”
“Masters, if you please,” Kestrel persisted. He flexed his shoulders trying to dislodge the tiny burr of apprehension that had suddenly made its presence felt under the smooth blanket of confidence in his scheme. “The key insight that Phoebe exploited in her experiment was the willingness of the demon to come. It is true that mighty djinns, virtual kings in their own realm, are ill-disposed for the journey through the fires. Only with exotic woods to reduce the barriers and great struggles of will have you been able to woo them.
“But consider instead another approach—an approach in which you provide a bait, an enticement for the devil to journey on his own accord. Phoebe has shown it to be true; simpler flames are all that is needed, and the demons’ spirits are more docile when they appear in our realm. One must provide in addition only the cadence of sounds that sends notice of the lure to the realm where they live.”
Kestrel paused and looked at the assemblage carefully, one by one. “Think of it,” he said. “Mighty djinns at your beck and call. No mor
e costly expenditure for rare powders and woods.”
“Another example,” one of the wizards behind the first row called out. “Although this one before us is no simple imp, he seems to have little more value beyond his increased size.”
“Little value?” Astron said. “But I am a cataloguer. I know perhaps more of your realm than any other of my kind. My prince values me highly. Because of that I am here rather than any oth—”
“Exactly so, a cataloguer.” Kestrel scowled at Astron again. “He was enticed here by the scroll that Phoebe laid out before the flame. See it there in the pond. It was the lure that made possible a transition even in the fire of pine.”
“That is the second time you have looked at me that way,” Astron said. “What message are you trying to convey?”
“What is this that the demon is asking?” Geldion said. “Phoebe, have you given him leave to speak of his own free will?”
“No, no, pay him no heed,” Kestrel said. “Focus instead on the second experiment. The key is to assemble a lure from your possessions that will entice another demon here. I will manipulate the door as before and you will see.”
“What kind of lure; what do you mean?” Benthon asked.
“Anything,” Kestrel said. He felt his apprehension lessen. Benthon speaking now could not have been more nearly perfect. “Anything at all. It seems the greater the quantity, the mightier is the demon that responds.”
He paused a moment and nibbed his chin. “I guess there is one thing, however, that you of course will not attempt to employ. I have heard the jingle of your purses and could not help thinking of it. A brandel from Procolon will fetch a gold imp, a sackful, a bigger devil of the same bent. Their only interest is in hoarding. About the only useful command you could give them is to go and find it in the ground where it is not yet discovered by men.”