by Lyndon Hardy
“As for the rest who were so bold as to accompany their liege.” Prydwin’s smile broadened. “Your yells and screams shall serve to inspire me to greater creations still. The pain may not be brief, but at least you will have the consolation of adding to the greatness of the art.”
Several of the fey around Vastowen’s litter suddenly started to run; but before they had travelled a dozen steps, the sentrymen cut off their escape and herded them back toward the stream.
The first two began whimpering softly as their hands and feet were bound with a vine bristling with thorns. Like slaughtered pigs, they were fastened to a beam that was placed between two pairs of crossed stakes. The oily contents of a plant bladder was spilled over their tunics. Then, without further ceremony, they were set ablaze.
The fires burned slowly, billowing up dense clouds of pungent black smoke. Through a growing haze, Astron could see the march of the smouldering flames burning outward from where they were first lit, down each leg and arm and toward the head.
The death cries of the fey were high and piercing, so much so that even Kestrel had to release Phoebe so he could cover his ears. Astron saw the complexion of the two humans wash chalky white as they stared at what they saw.
“Let us be away,” Phoebe whispered urgently. “They are so many. This is no place for us.”
“We do not know where.” Astron shook his head. “A moment more and perhaps something of value might be learned. See, the sounds have stopped and the hillsovereign Prydwin speaks again.”
Astron translated Prydwin’s words. “Those are the briefest. The rest I will save for later when there will be more time to enjoy.”
He looked at Vastowen’s wooden face and chuckled. “I have saved the best for last,” he said. “Your mate, Thuvia, is a comely one. I think that my creations too will benefit from the experience of her pleasures.”
Vastowen looked toward Thuvia, tears streaming from his eyes. “Do not be afraid,” he said so that Astron could barely hear. “Perhaps he will be gentle.”
“Gentle?” Prydwin suddenly barked with laughter. “To my underhill and remove her of her garments,” he roared. “Prepare the pinchers and tongs. We will see if you judge me gentle.”
“Enough of the unimportant,” Finvarwin’s reedy voice cut in. “Who is to be next in the judging?”
“I am, venerated one,” Prydwin said. He turned his attention away from Vastowen’s followers, their fates apparently totally dismissed from his mind.
The hillsovereign gestured to the females who stood by his litter, and one came forward to stand with him in front of the ring of demons. With an almost staged casualness, he waved his arms once, dissipating the muted gray in an instant. Splotches of color filled the disk, reds and yellows and vivid greens. Like an artist’s palette left in the sun, the hues flowed into one another, creating greater blotches still of purples and orange.
To Astron, the motion appeared to be quite random. Only the greater size and amorphous shape distinguished what he was seeing from Vastowen’s spheres.
“I sense the power of your creation,” Finvarwin said after a moment of watching the slow movement within the ring. “The massive forms transform with purpose and dedication. Yes, the creation is worthy—not as complex as those of the chronoids and reticulates that you have seen before, but vibrant nonetheless. There is no penalty, Prydwin. Instead you fairly may receive a boon.”
“You have blessed me many times already, venerated one,” Prydwin said. “Of material things I have little want. I ask instead that you give me knowledge, arcane knowledge of our own realm that only you remember, knowledge so that my own worth might grow.”
“Very well then, the answer to three questions shall be your prize. Think of them carefully, Prydwin. When all ceremonies have been completed, then you may ask.”
Prydwin tipped his head to the high king and retreated back to his litter, satisfaction wreathing his face.
“Who next?” Finvarwin repeated. “Who next to be judged by the high king?”
Astron heard a soft murmur run through the assemblage on the other bank of the stream, but neither the owner of the third litter nor any other came forth.
Finvarwin waited a moment more and then motioned toward Nimbia. “Then the time has come,” he said, “the time for the reckless one who dares to create without a mate.”
Nimbia waded across the stream and addressed herself to the ring of djinns. She performed no bold display, but the gray began to dissolve slowly away. Astron saw that, rather than into a riot of color, it transformed into a field of deepest black.
Astron squinted his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sparks that danced around the circle of djinns. He drew his membranes into place, and that helped even more. In the smoothness of the deep ebony he saw the beginnings of subtle movement and then a texturing that rippled across the field of view from left to right. An occasional glint of light, reflecting from an unseen source, gave a sheen to the surface, highlighting at first regularly arranged depressions and then ribs and furrows that oscillated in sinuous patterns.
With each passing moment, the texture of the surface changed from one form to another. Astron watched fascinated, not able to predict what would happen next, but delighting in each new variation as it emerged. The effect was totally unlike the presentations of either of the other two; the slow melodic pace soothed, rather than agitated with jerks and starts. Astron glanced at the high king, wondering what his judgment would be.
“Enough,” Finvarwin said. “I let us view longer in order to give you the benefit of the doubt. But there is little there to distract one from a boredom greater even than the attempt of Vastowen. The punishment can be no less. To Prydwin with your underhill, Nimbia. It is for hillsovereigns who are proficient in their art to hold sway over the fey.”
“Sentrymen, to your duty.” Prydwin motioned from his litter. “Arrange an escort so that her honor might not be unduly tempted. Bring her with Thuvia. It will be a pleasure deciding which will be first.”
“Never,” Nimbia suddenly shouted in a voice almost as deep as that of a male. “I will not meekly submit like Vastowen, just because a few wish it so. Our traditions are ancient ones, but there are times when even they must be disobeyed.”
She kicked at the dagger of the first sentryman who approached, sending the blade twirling to the ground. Then scrambling in front of him, she retrieved the knife before the surprised guard could react. With a wide swipe, she spun quickly about, waving off the others who had begun to approach.
She looked quickly at those who stood near the high king and then at the sentrymen converging from across the stream. “You all saw the images,” she shouted. “You do not need the age of Finvarwin to search for small subtle differences. Be true to what your eyes have shown you. Mine was a true creation, a difficult balance of predator and prey. Prydwin’s was no more than the bubbling flow of plasma, thick pastes swirling in convection in a heated pot.”
Except for the closing sentrymen, no one moved. Finvarwin squinted at Nimbia, then shook his head.
“Your underhill is no better protected than all the rest, Nimbia,” the high king said. “Against all the rest, eventually it will fall. You are dealing with the inevitable. Prydwin has offered to accept you as his mate. Go with him in peace. Perhaps together the two of you will combine to produce an imagination greater then either of its parts—just as the fourth dictum states.”
“Prydwin!” Nimbia spat. “Never.” She waved the dagger in the air. “Who among you has the courage to act as his heart tells him?” she called out. “The courage to aid a lady of the realm when she calls in distress?”
“The hillsovereign speaks with too much boldness for one defending herself alone,” Prydwin said. “Fan out and cover all of the trails. She may have aid just beyond our view.”
“That is the signal that we start to move.” Kestrel tugged at Astron’s arm. “I doubt it will do us any good to be mistaken for part of the losing part
y.”
Astron shrugged off Kestrel’s hand. “The one named Finvarwin is one that we need to interrogate further. Perhaps more than any other he would know of harebell pollen and even the ultimate precept.”
“Yes, the old one certainly,” Kestrel whispered back. “But at a time when not so many are about. Now we must be going, before it is too late. Being hunted in two realms should be enough, even for a demon.”
Astron looked out at the ring closing in on Nimbia. He glanced over his shoulder in the dimness. Kestrel was right. There was a path leading through the dense underbrush and he should lead, because he was more familiar with what they would encounter.
Astron glanced a second time at Nimbia. His thoughts took a strange turn. Kestrel also had been right about how to get the imps into a bottle. The way the human had planned to manipulate the wizards at Phoebe’s cabin was something no demon would have conceived on his own. For the dozenth time he realized there was much about the mortal that Astron wished to learn.
But the words Kestrel spoke were sometimes so unexpected and peculiar that Astron could not fully comprehend the intent—duty to oneself rather than a prince, lures for gold djinns when none such existed, or travelling through the flame for Phoebe and no other.
Perhaps mere words would not be enough to unravel the mysteries of men; perhaps their experiences would have to be sampled before understanding could come. Astron looked one final time at Phoebe and Kestrel, standing close together with their arms about each other, and made up his mind.
He stripped away the hood and cape from his back. Gripping the book of thaumaturgy firmly in both hands, he suddenly sprang out from the cover of the heavy leaves. The sentryman standing nearest turned in the direction of the rustling sound, but grappled for his dagger too slowly to defend himself as Astron rushed forward. The demon swung the book high overhead and then crashed it down on the skull of the startled guard.
The fey crumpled to the ground. Astron staggered to retain his balance and somehow managed to tuck the bulky volume under his arm. He bounded down the hillock toward where Nimbia still waved a dagger of her own. A shout of alarm went up from the onlookers. Everyone seemed to freeze in their tracks. Astron felt the beginning of a compelling pressure in the depths of his thoughts.
He grimaced in resistance, pulling his face into a tight little ball, forcing the mental probes away. Through eyes half closed, he saw Nimbia dip her dagger cautiously as he ran up and extended his free hand.
“To safety, through the underbrush,” Astron shouted as he closed. “If no one else will defend you, then I am the one.”
Nimbia hesitated a moment, but then firmly clasped Astron’s outstretched wrist. He felt a surprising tingling when the smoothness of her skin touched his, but pushed the sensation away. Almost jerking Nimbia from her feet, he reversed direction and began racing back up the hill.
The pressure against his thoughts increased. The fey dealt with a demon by force of will, not slashing blades. He felt the probes of many minds mold into one unifying whole. “Stop, desist,” a voice inside his head seemed to say. “We are many and you are one. You cannot resist the combined will of us all.”
Astron stumbled over a small rock, but continued his climb. His limbs began to stiffen. The panic in his stembrain stirred from its slumber. As they reached the sentryman Astron had felled, Nimbia drew even with the demon. In half a dozen more steps she was tugging on the grip between them, pulling Astron forward into the cover of the bush,
“Why did you do that?” Kestrel shouted as the pair ducked under the leaf. “Have you gone mad? Has some wizard put you under his control?”
“I do not know for certain,” Astron said thickly. He waved at Phoebe and then dropped his arm heavily to his side. “But then I would not have had to, if you had explained—explained why you rescued your wizard when you could have been safely away from her cabin.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Paradox of Beauty
A dagger soared into the underbrush over Astron’s head, entangling in the drooping leaves. Retreat deeper into the foliage was an immediate necessity or else Nimbia would not be the only one captured by hillsovereign Prydwin.
But Astron found his thoughts becoming much more sluggish. His limbs would barely move. It was difficult enough understanding the words of both Kestrel and Nimbia as they spoke in their respective tongues.
“There are only three of you!” Astron heard Nimbia exclaim. “And none from my own underhill as I had supposed.”
Another dagger crashed into the canopy. Kestrel pushed Phoebe to the ground out of its path. “Well, what is the rest of the plan, demon?” he asked. “You know this place as we do not. In what direction do we proceed?”
“Only three,” Nimbia repeated, “but then effective, nonetheless. Prydwin’s kind are so used to his will being obeyed without resistance that his sentrymen have little chance to do more than serve as a frame for the presentation of his creations. As I think of it now, none of my kind would have succeeded. The daggers were too many. A bold action, demon, was precisely what was needed.”
Astron felt her grip tighten in his hand. “Come,” she said. “If we escape safely back to my own underhill, even though you are not one of the fey, you will be rewarded.”
Nimbia turned into the darkness toward the huge trunk and pulled Astron after. He clutched the book of thaumaturgy to his chest and struggled as best he could not to stumble. Dimly, he was aware of Kestrel and Phoebe following behind.
The little light that filtered between the overhanging leaves vanished altogether. Astron saw Nimbia pull what looked like a gnarled root from her belt and, with her free hand, extend it overhead. The tuber glowed with a feeble yellow light that just managed to illuminate the obstacles that lay in their way.
The thick trunks that supported the overhang grew closer together. Aboveground, suckers caused more than one stumble as they ran. Grublike insects with bodies as big as the arm of a djinn scurried out of their way. Rasps and loud clicks blended with the stomp of their feet against the ground.
For how long they raced, Astron could not tell. Except for Nimbia’s glowroot, the darkness was as deep as the void in his own realm. His chest began to hurt from the exertion. Sharp pains crackled through his knees. He was a demon of contemplation and not used to such stressing of his body. What little weaving he was capable of to supply his basic needs was being severely overburdened.
Then suddenly Nimbia stopped at the base of a particularly large trunk. She gestured upward and released her grip on Astron’s hand. Like an acrobatic gibbon in the realm of men, she grabbed hold of a low branch and swung herself upward. Kestrel grunted in understanding. He cupped his hands to give Phoebe a boost. With Nimbia astride the limb and pulling, Kestrel pushed from below. Phoebe clawed her way onto the limb in a tumble of cape and long skirt. Kestrel followed quickly. Only Astron remained on the ground.
The pressure to submit grew in intensity. Astron found he could barely move. With agonizing slowness, he raised the book for Phoebe to grasp and then cupped the branch in his hand.
“Hurry,” Kestrel whispered. “They cannot be far behind.”
“It is the contest of wills,” Nimbia said. “The followers of Prydwin command him to be still.”
The thought that Kestrel and Nimbia had no way of understanding each other floated slowly across Astron’s mind. He should serve as translator, but somehow he no longer cared. Perhaps it was hopeless to run further. Eventually they would be found anyway. Why not at least take a rest at the base of this bush, rather than exert himself any more?
Astron felt his grip on the branch loosen. With a feeling of peace, he began to slide to the ground. Slumped in a heap at the base, perhaps he would not be seen. Or even if they did see him, what really did it matter? Astron curled up into a tight ball. A crooked smile formed on his face.
But just as consciousness began to fade, a thought of piercing sharpness ricocheted through his head. Resist, it commanded. I am
the closest and have the greater influence. Resist their wills because I wish it so.
Nimbia! Astron stirred from his dimness. She was a wizard like the rest. Her thoughts churned with the others. And somehow they were different—strong because of her nearness, to be sure. But the crushing drive to dominate was held in restraint. Her will was adding to his, repelling the others, giving his own consciousness room in which to function, time to construct barriers against the pressure to quit.
Astron vaguely became aware of many hands tugging on his body and of being lifted into the air. He felt the rough fiber of the stringy bark against his skin. He flailed past the first horizontal level of branches and then several tiers more. Finally he felt an embrace that held him firm. Nimbia’s arms coiled around him. He smelled the exotic aroma of her closeness and heard the rustle of her tunic against his own.
“Do not fight me, demon,” he heard her whisper. “Blend your will with mine. Cling to me and do not let go. When they pass below and do not find us, their command will be for you to come forth, and you must not.”
Astron saw the dance of glowroots in the distance and a line of sentrymen fanning out along the crude path on which they had fled. He heard Phoebe suck in her breath and the three about him stiffen into nervous silence.
As Nimbia had predicted, the voices inside his head changed their direction. No longer was he implored to stop and freeze. Instead, he felt a growing urge for action, to bolt forth and run into the open, to flee the dismal dark cover to the gentle light of the glen.
Astron’s limbs began to tremble. With all the concentration left to his command, he clutched Nimbia harder, willing his arms to stiffen. He must hold on.
Nimbia seemed to sense his struggle. Her grip tightened and her thoughts blended with his. He felt the strength of her inner being, like a vault of steel. He poured his own essence into it, molding to the contours of the container, pressing against her, like an annealing of the alchemists that could not be torn away.