Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  Astron looked at Phoebe, who was smiling at Kestrel in the dimness. A bonding was growing between the two—perhaps even the one that men wrote so much about in their sagas. What could be so different from the duty to couple with a broodmother whenever a prince commanded?

  “I knew you would come,” Phoebe said.

  “Yes, and evidently now we must see it to the end,” Kestrel answered. “Instead of merely weaving a story for the archimage, all we have to do is solve a demon’s riddle, discover the most powerful natural law of them all, transport harebell pollen, whatever that is, across a flaming barrier, and restore a prince to power, thereby saving the entire realm of men. Then we might have a chance somehow to return to the archimage and convince him that we were right all along.”

  Phoebe laughed. “You left out the part about a female wizard proving her worth,” she said.

  Kestrel snorted. “At least it does not appear quite as bad as I had imagined. Except for the size of things, this could well be a sheltered valley in any of the kingdoms that border the great sea. Once we understand better what goes on here, we just might survive after all.”

  Astron looked out onto the glade a second time. The trill of the pipes was louder, and soon there was motion on the crest across the way. A row of flute players bobbed into view. Behind them, several rows of dancers were leaping in unison to the sad melody that wafted through the air.

  The leaves rustled at Astron’s side and he smelled a sweet fragrance as Phoebe drew near. “We must be dreaming,” she said as she squinted up at the procession. “Look, Kestrel, besides the creatures of a childhood tale, what else could they be?”

  Astron looked intently at the procession. The pipers and dancers were drawing close enough that rough features could be seen. The tallest would tower two heads above Astron, but a weighing scale would tip in the demon’s favor. Slender limbs protruded from tunics of deep green, and long delicate fingers arched gracefully over the shafts of the flutes. Tumbling curls of gold bounced above delicate features that gave no hint of gender. They were lithe and thin, like the skyskirr, but somehow shrouded in a delicate beauty, rather than a repulsiveness that made men want to turn away.

  The step of the pipers was light, and those of the dancers lighter still. In impossibly long glides, they darted from one point of the slope to another, hovering in midleap till they barely touched the ground.

  “Men know of the fey?” Astron asked. “The words of the archimage lead one to believe that this realm should be as new to your kind as was that of the skyskirr some few time-ticks ago.”

  “Only in legend,” Kestrel whispered back. “Tales for wee ones to send them to sleep. Strange beckoning music that one must at all costs avoid. Outwelling light from deep forest mounds. Tiny enough to hide in the bowl of a flower or under a curling leaf—not the size of a man; the scale is all wrong.”

  Kestrel stopped and darted a quick look around at his surroundings. Cautiously he reached upward and stroked the fine hairs that lined the underside of the leaf overhead. “Legend,” he muttered, “a coincidence. It can be no more than that.”

  Astron saw more ranks come over the crestline of the hill. He spotted the dull sheen of copper and felt the stir of his stembrain. Two more lines of pipers marched in precise step behind the dancers, their faces all grim and unsmiling, and with unsheathed blades attached to their belts. While those before them descended to the stream that transected the glade, the sentrymen fanned out to circle the shallow bowl. In a matter of a few moments, they were standing at attention, a sentry next to each of the toadstools that ringed the glade. One was barely a stone’s throw from where Astron and the others hid.

  The trilling of the pipes intensified. Astron saw a litter come over the crest of the hill. Surrounded by fluttering attendants, what could only be the equivalent of a prince’s carriage jostled down the slope. The one inside was dressed in a tunic like the rest, but fancy embroideries of brilliant reds decorated a green deeper than that worn by the others. A garland of tiny blossoms crowned the brow where the yellow curls had faded to the color of pale straw.

  Behind the first ruler came a second and a third, and then a disarray of others, some in clumps of twenty and others in twos and threes. The chatter of many voices began to be heard among the melody of the pipes. Occasionally what Astron thought might be tinkling laughter sounded with the rest. Finally, the litters came to a halt directly in front of the door into the rock. All the music faded away. The richly dressed occupant of the first rose to his feet and spread his arms to the sky. His face showed the first signs of age, and there was a cruel hardness in his eye. His melodic voice, barely deeper than that of a human woman, filled the air.

  “What is happening?” Kestrel whispered. “Can you understand the tongue?”

  “Yes,” Astron said. “On my previous visit I learned it well from one kinder than the rest.” He concentrated for a moment on the words coming from the stream side and began translating them for his companions.

  “Come forward, high king Finvarwin, venerated judge. It is the season,” Astron repeated. “Come forward, Finvarwin, and decide which creations have sufficient beauty, which will be granted the privilege of continued life. Tell us all who will receive the rewards for their efforts and who must render service as penalty for failure. I, hillsovereign Prydwin, speaking for all the others, request your presence.”

  The wooden door suddenly swung outward. A frail and stooped figure shuffled out into the light. The top of his head was totally bald, with a few long stringlets of bleached gold hanging to his shoulders. His face looked caved in, as if struck by a mighty blow. Squinting eyes sat atop a flattened nose. The chin jutted out from under a mouth long since vacant of teeth. Rather than a tunic of green, the newcomer wore a long robe of white, cinched at the waist with a rope made of vines.

  “I am ready,” Astron heard Finvarwin say. “I will judge as I have so many times in the past.”

  Finvarwin waved his hand out over the assemblage and then shielded his eyes. “Which one is Nimbia?” he asked. “Which one attempts to create without the aid of a mate?”

  One of the fey standing somewhat apart from the rest came forward and dipped her head. “It is my creation that you have asked to inspect, venerated one. May your judgment be keen and fair.”

  “Look at that one!” Kestrel suddenly gasped in a voice almost loud enough for the nearest sentryman to hear. “I do not know how these creatures judge, but if she were in Procolon, men would fight for just one of her smiles.”

  Astron looked more closely at the one called Nimbia. She was a bit shorter than the rest, about his own height, and wore a plain tunic, with no added embroidery. Her face was slender, with soft angles, high cheeks, and a tiny upturned nose. Large eyes danced beneath a halo of gold. The way she moved was in some indescribable way different from the rest, a dancelike flow of smoothness, to be sure, but yet each step brought attention to the bounce of her breasts. In the realm of men, she indeed would be judged a great beauty, Astron thought, and from what little he did know of the fey, in their underhills as well. He puzzled for a second time about the lust that went beyond the duty to couple and wondered if it affected those before him in the same way as it did Kestrel and his kin.

  “You will be the last,” Astron heard Finvarwin say to Nimbia. “I will judge first those more likely to prove worthy. Vastowen, prepare the ring for the use of all.”

  The occupant of the second litter, more heavy-set than the rest, bowed and then addressed the assemblage. “A dozen djinns,” he said. “At least a dozen for I am confident that what I have started has begun to grow of its own volition.”

  The pipes again started their trilling. Everyone present focused their attention to the three fires burning on the streambank. Vastowen motioned to one of the females standing nearby. Shyly, she came forward and clasped his extended hand. Together they waded across the stream to the side on which Astron and the others hid.

  Vastowen grabbed a handful
of powder from a pouch at his waist. With a fluid motion he distributed the dust into the three fires. The flames roared skyward, each suddenly a brilliant purple of glistening heat.

  “Come forward, djinns of the circle, I command you,” Vastowen said. “Come forward and make the bridge so that we can see into elsewhere.”

  “He is a wizard!” Phoebe said. “A wizard, but evidently a foolish one at that. One djinn is sufficient a contest of wills for anyone; against a dozen no one can withstand.”

  “They are all wizards,” Astron said. He felt his stembrain stir at the thought. “The high king, the hillsovereigns, the litter bearers, even the sentrymen formed into the ring. It is what makes a journey here so risky for one of my kind. The struggle of dominance or submission could occur with each and every one that I meet.”

  Astron waved at the figures before him, now all concentrating on the three fires at Vastowen’s feet. “And if a single one of them has insufficient strength, he can enlist the aid of another. In twos and threes or even scores, they can meld their wills as one. A solitary devil or even a prince is no match for the scores you see before you here. They can summon and control a dozen djinns with ease. It is no wonder that none of the princes who rule cast covetous thoughts toward a realm such as this.”

  As Astron spoke, a transcendent djinn materialized in the first of the three purple flames. In an instant after, the other two were populated as well. Vastowen waved his arm in a great vertical circle. Astron heard the great demons grunt acquiescence, bowing their massive heads to their chests.

  The djinn from the second flame beat his wings. With one great stroke he vaulted onto the shoulders of the first. Wisps of purple plasma trailed along with his jump; when the third took position on top of the second, the slender column of flame rose to an unbelievable height. The air roared with bubbling energy. Astron felt the heat penetrate even the shelter in which he hid.

  More djinns appeared in the two abandoned fires. Each after his display of submission placed himself on top of those who had preceded him. In a matter of moments, a column of twelve djinns encased in a sheath of dancing flame ascended high into the pale sky.

  “And now the circle, I command you,” Vastowen said when the last had taken his position. “A great ring of demonic flame from the realm of the fey to the one that I direct.”

  A terrible groan escaped from twelve mouths in unison. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. But imperceptibly and then moving faster, the column bowed from the vertical and arced toward Astron’s right. The djinns each gripped their hands upon the legs of the one above and the topmost of all extended his arms over his head, reaching out into the empty air.

  Like a supple blade of steel, the column of djinns bent more and more to the right, the one at the base leaning farther and farther in the opposite direction in response to the lateral forces which pushed on his shoulders. For a moment, the topmost demon cantilevered parallel to the horizon; then, with increasing speed, he turned head downward as the curvature of the column increased.

  The tower bent into a great hook and tightened further. All around the loop, what had been the topmost djinn touched ground a span away from the fire into which were still anchored the feet of the first. Now nearly horizontal himself, the last djinn in the line pulled himself forward with his hands until he was able to grasp the legs of the first and drag them onto his shoulders. The dozen djinns had formed themselves into a fiery ring that was four times the height of a tall man.

  Astron felt Phoebe stiffen next to him. The power of twelve mighty djinns bent to a single purpose probably was something that she could not easily imagine. But in the realm of the fey, Astron knew, such feats were commonplace, a single element in their own complex rituals. As he watched, the pale sky that was surrounded by the ring clouded and darkened. The groans of the djinns intensified into shrieks of true pain. The air heaved and buckled, distorting the view of the hillside beyond the ring. Bolts of lightning materialized out of nothing. Rolling thunder echoed throughout the glen.

  The scene within the ring dissolved into a blur of dull colors. The hillside appeared to melt into a formless slag that oozed outward to the edges of the ring. Eventually, the entire area of the enclosed circle was nothing but an indistinct gray that occasionally pulsed and twitched.

  “Is this a sorcery?” Kestrel asked. “An illusion like the ones constructed on Morgana across the great sea in my own realm?”

  “Of the five arts used by men, only wizardry is employed by the fey,” Astron said. “They are using that single art now to command those of my kind to open a passage into yet another realm.” Astron paused and squinted at the amorphous blandness contained by the ring. “But look how they accomplish it! Not a small path that flits an imp from one universe to another. Yes, I understand now that I witness the event firsthand. Within the ring we can all see from one realm to another.”

  As Astron spoke, the grayness began to take on shape. Colors deepened. Bright lights started to shine through the gloom. Muted tones appeared first, and then saturated reds and yellows. In sunbursts of color, tiny, bright, spinning balls came into sharp focus. Moving in complex yet graceful trajectories, what appeared to be intricately carved spheres spun rapidly on randomly aligned axes and darted in and out of sight within the boundaries of the ring. Occasionally two would pass close by one another and alter their velocities, revolving for a moment about a common center before dashing on.

  “Ah, the music of the spheres,” Vastowen said. “Look at the vibrancy of the dance, Finvarwin. I included no friction so they will orbit about one another forever. I—”

  The female next to Vastowen pulled on his hand. He stooped forward to listen to what she had to say. For a moment they exchanged animated whispers, then he nodded and reached into a second pouch at his belt.

  “And there is yet more, Finvarwin,” he called to the high king. “My soulmate’s inspiration soars beyond the richness of what has already been revealed. Look, we cast in more pollen and with our combined effort cause there to be more.”

  A cluster of small nodules sped from Vastowen’s grasp and through the ring of djinns. The scene wavered and trembled, returning back to a muted gray. Astron saw the female fall to one knee with a gasp, although she did not release her grip on the hand of her mate. Beads of sweat popped into being on Vastowen’s smooth brow. Wiping away the salty drops that streamed into his eyes, he stared at the opening, straining until his arms and legs began to tremble.

  In silence, everyone around the glen watched the opaque grayness of the disk. Then, as quickly as it had formed, the indistinct fog retreated to reveal once again the whirl of the brightly colored orbs. Only this time Astron noticed there were more of them rushing among one another with trajectories tightly packed. In an instant, two collided with a burst of brilliant light. In the wake of the collision, dozens of even smaller spheres, as bright and complexly decorated as their parents, popped into being and exploded outward in wild arcs of their own.

  “It is not rich enough.” Finvarwin waved his arm at the display. “I need not waste time by seeing more. A multitude of such dim fuzziness soon becomes tiring. I suspect that eventually all of those tiny blobs will dissipate far from one another, devoid of interest. No one will want to watch. Everything that you have shown will all fade away.”

  “No!” Vastowen shouted. “The creation has volition. I know it does. I can feel the energy of its life forces pulsing inside. Suspend judgment if you must. Let the patterns intermingle and produce new variations. We can all wait and thrill in its blossoming richness, which will be all the greater when we gather the next time.”

  “You know the rules as well as any hillsovereign.” Prydwin stepped forward to stand next to Vastowen. “Once shown to the high king, a creation cannot be withdrawn and substituted with another.”

  “But we added to the basic premise even as you watched. Surely that—”

  “Enough,” Finvarwin said. “You have presented fairly, and fairly have
I judged.”

  Vastowen opened his mouth as if to say more, but he looked around the glade and stopped. Even the retainers that had come with him had backed away from his litter and did not return his glance. Vastowen dropped his mate’s hand to his side. The scene within the ring of djinns returned to a muted gray. With hushed expectancy all of the fey awaited Finvarwin’s next words.

  “To Prydwin,” he said. “Yes, to Prydwin. The entire underhill in its entirety. To dissipate Vastowen’s holdings among the rest, rather than grant a single boon, might encourage similar exhibitions of little skill.”

  “Thank you, venerated one.” Prydwin quickly sank to one knee and tilted his head. “I will make great use of the resources that you have so generously—”

  “Enough,” Finvarwin said. “Who is next? What does he present?”

  “But the disposition of your largesse.” Prydwin rose to standing. “It is only right that everyone knows.”

  Finvarwin grunted. Prydwin’s face broke into a smile. He turned to face Vastowen and his mate. “For you, hill sovereign, my mercy will be swift. You may choose which of my sentrymen will guide his dagger to your heart.”

  The expression on Vastowen’s face did not flicker. “My sovereign,” he mumbled. Glancing for a final time at his mate, he squeezed her hand and then pointed out randomly at the circle of mushrooms. “That one,” he said. “That one will be as good as any.”

  “Not yet.” Prydwin put up his hand to stop the sentry from leaving his post. “First there is the matter of the rest. You will probably want to hear.”

  Prydwin turned his attention to the litter bearers and the others of Vastowen’s retinue. “For those who remained underhill and did not come, their penalty is to travel to my own domain and there begin service as I direct. You there, carry back the empty chair so that they will know that their hillsovereign is no more.