Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  “Wait. Pollen did you say?” Astron interrupted.

  “Yes,” Nimbia said. “We do not know for sure exactly how they play a role in the process, but none of the fey attempts to create or embellish without a large supply on hand.” She motioned to one of the sentrymen standing in the entryway. He retrieved a small chest that he brought forward and placed at Nimbia’s feet.

  Nimbia opened the arched lid. She gingerly reached in to withdraw a prickly sphere like the one Astron had seen Vastowen toss into the ring. It was far larger than the others, however, as big as a small melon. Nimbia held it delicately with extended thumbs and forefingers.

  Astron looked at the globe carefully and understood Nimbia’s cautious touch. The entire surface of the orb was covered with clusters of tiny barbs. Smaller hairlike shafts radiated in all directions from each of the prickly pylons and, in a blurry haze, these were anchorage for tinier projections still. Beyond the craft of the finest weaver in his own realm, the structure of sharp piercing points iterated into infinitesimals, far smaller than the eye could see.

  “We toss pollens through the ring of djinns to seed our thoughts in the void,” Nimbia said. “Our success seems greater the more massive they are. To create something of value before Prydwin comes, I would need to use the largest of all, but in all of my underhill I have only this one.”

  “Are they hard to find?” Phoebe asked. “Could a human wizard help in their retrieval?”

  “The flowers that produce them abound in a glen not too far away. The problem is not in harvesting them but harvesting them now. At present, the glen is alive with the hum of its guardians, and no one dares enter until they have gone on their way. After so many did not return, wisely did Finvarwin issue the prohibition—”

  “We seek a pollen as part of our quest,” Astron said. “This one that you desire, what is its name?”

  “This would be called harebell in the realm of men.” Nimbia nodded at the sphere in front of her. “That is why your question on our arrival struck such a chord. Of course, of all that I could wish, it would be the best. But of all that there are, it is the one I cannot obtain.”

  “Harebell pollen—and you can create,” Kestrel said excitedly. “Create for Finvarwin so that you can get answers as a boon—answers that Astron seeks.” His face broke into a broad grin. “Wipe the tears, Nimbia,” he said. “I have a deal for you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Harebell Pollen

  ASTRON adjusted the straps that ran across his chest. He had gotten quite used to the tunic and leggings of men, but now the rucksack was a totally new sensation. He looked out between the columns of the raised hilltop and saw Kestrel urging him to hurry. Beside the human stood six of Nimbia’s sentrymen, each carrying a long copper-tipped spear in addition to the dagger at his side. Their faces were rigid with tension; none showed Kestrel’s enthusiasm to be under way.

  Astron took a step forward and then hesitated. The opening in the wall to the left led to the throne room. He poked his head through the doorway and saw that Nimbia was alone, still sitting on her throne where they had left her when the planning was complete.

  Despite the short length of his training, Kestrel had been most glib. Whatever dangers lurked in the harebell glen, he had said, they well might not affect human or demon at all. With a modest escort to protect against a chance encounter with Prydwin’s forces, he and Astron would fetch the pollen and share with Nimbia what they obtained.

  Then, with boosted confidence from the pollen’s potency, Nimbia could create something that Finvarwin certainly would approve. They would not wait for the next judging or to see if they could fend off Prydwin’s attack, but go directly to the high king for a special presentation. Phoebe could even help in the control of the ring of djinns. At the very least, Finvarwin’s previous judgment would be reversed and Nimbia’s underhill regain its independent status.

  With Finvarwin’s answer to the riddle and the harebell pollen as payment for Palodad, the old demon would get Elezar restored to power and he in turn would explain to Alodar the innocence of Phoebe and Kestrel. With a little luck everyone would achieve exactly what was desired.

  When Kestrel had finished, Astron saw Nimbia’s spirits begin to lift. Now, a few hours later, as he prepared to leave, the sadness had totally vanished from her eyes; she stared off into space, presumably thinking of her new creation.

  Astron scraped his pack along the doorjamb and Nimbia turned at the distraction. She smiled and beckoned him to enter.

  “Any more questions, inquisitive one?” she asked as Astron drew closer.

  Astron looked at the perfectly sculpted face and graceful limbs. Another unanswered puzzle leaped into his mind. “You spoke of the great melancholy that comes when those of your kind cannot create,” he said softly. “I have seen your tears and I believe. But before we came, before Finvarwin’s judgment, what then was the corresponding joy?”

  Astron shrugged and folded his fingertips to his chest. “We shared thoughts in the forest,” he said. “There I glimpsed a sadness even deeper than that which is lifting now.”

  For a long moment Nimbia did not reply. She sighed and beckoned Astron to sit on the steps leading to her chair. She gathered her jeweled cape about her as he squirmed to get comfortable with the pack pulling on his back.

  “Yes, indeed it is a conundrum.” Her voice took on a hardened tone. “As you say, I am no less than a queen of underhill. My life should be like the foolish tales that men record in their sagas, with scores of smitten pages vying with one another to do my bidding and any hinted wish their fondest desire. Eventually, from all the rest I would pick the bravest, the kindest, the one most fair. Together we would spend our lives in a blissful happiness, about which others can only dream.

  “It is not so, demon.” Nimbia shook her head. “There are no hovering suitors trying to outdo one another to gain my favor. Most of the males in this underhill seem completely dumbfounded in my presence; their self-esteem seems to melt with my smile. Hardly any dare believe that they would succeed against what must be many others and so they do not try.

  “And the few that do hold their own value in high regard, the ones that, in desperation, I have run to, offering to subject my will to theirs—without exception, they have proven to love themselves far more than me. To one of them, I have been no more than an object, a trophy to prove yet again his own great worth.”

  Nimbia paused and sighed. “Even if I were able to accept that part of it, despite how much I might try, the liaisons have never been pleasant. Underneath the bragging of conquest, my mates have been consumed with insane jealousies, irrational fears that they cannot forever hold me as their own, and that I will tire and shame them in front of another.

  “It is a fantasy, demon. I do not fully understand why, but for one such as I there is no such thing as living happily ever after.”

  Nimbia looked at Astron with eyes once again filling with sorrow. He felt a strange stirring. The queen had shared with him some of her innermost thoughts and feelings and done so unbidden. There was no question of the domination and submission of wizardry of which he was familiar. She had trusted and given of herself freely. He knew something of another thinking being in a way that he had never experienced before.

  A sense of compassion for Nimbia’s plight bubbled up within him—and more importantly, an urge to show that he was worthy, that he understood, and that her trust was well-placed, with a friend rather than a stranger.

  “I—I was born without wings,” he heard himself blurt without thinking. “Unlike my clutch brethren, neither could I soar through the realm nor weave more than the simplest of matter. I have become a cataloguer, an observer of the bizarre in other universes, and a value to my prince.”

  Astron lowered his voice to a whisper and continued. “But I know of what you speak, of pains deep in the stembrain that no matter of higher logic can ever completely cover. I am only a shadow of a demon, Nimbia, only a small part of what i
t is my birthright to be. I look at the mighty wings of the splendorous djinns as they send the air into pulsing eddies with their strokes and a rage at the unfairness of it all burns deep inside. I lower my membranes and cover my ears from the power of the great explosions that my brethren can ignite at will, and a melancholy perhaps as deep as yours stirs from its deep burial.”

  Astron opened his mouth to say more but the words escaped him. What was he doing? His mind recoiled in numbness. The thoughts that he struggled so hard to keep buried were whirling unabated. And he had done no less than articulate them to one who was not even in the domain of his prince. He rose on one knee to withdraw but his limbs rapidly began to stiffen.

  “Forgive me,” he mumbled thickly. “Those words, those thoughts, they were not meant for another. I, I have—”

  Nimbia reached out and placed her hand lightly on Astron’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, seeming to ignore completely his sudden discomfort. “That is exactly what I needed. You serve your hillsovereign better than many of my own kind.”

  Astron managed to shake his head, straining against the tightening tendons. Then he caught Kestrel entering the throne room and felt a sudden relief at the human’s presence.

  “Yes, I am finally coming,” Astron said. Awkwardly he rose to his feet and adjusted the pack on his back. “A final word with the queen to learn more of the dangers.”

  Kestrel shrugged and motioned over his shoulder. “Walk with the rest of us now or catch up later,” he said.

  Kestrel left the throne room as rapidly as he had come. Astron scrambled to follow. Another confusion had piled on top of the rest. He had not spoken to Nimbia of dangers. For the first time in his life, just like a human, he had told an untruth.

  The trek to the glen of harebells proceeded uneventfully. The constant twilight did not waver. No one else was seen on the grassy trails. Shortly after Kestrel and the fey arose from their second sleep, the party began climbing a final hillock crested with giant ragwort and broad-leaved thyme. Astron inhaled deeply the aromatics which hung heavy in the air.

  Behind them, the lush green carpet spread as far as the eye could see, eventually vanishing into the softness of fog and mist. Like blemishes on smooth skin, clumps of mushroom, golden cowslips, and foxglove scattered across the lowlying grasses indicated the presence of springy marshes with ground far wetter than the rest.

  “What is it?” Astron heard Kestrel growl ahead of him. “We have come too far to begin slacking the pace now.”

  He looked up the trail and saw that the fey had stopped and Kestrel had almost closed the distance between them. Kestrel scowled and flexed his back, pulling at the straps of the rucksack he bore. Apparently the adjustment did not help; in irritation, he slipped out of the burden and let it fall heavily to the ground.

  “The shrill vibrations are worse than I have ever known them before,” the first of the fey said as Astron caught up with the rest.

  “What vibrations?” Kestrel shook his head. “I do not hear a thing.” He flexed his back again. “All I know is that we have been pushing hard for two days and the end is in sight. Now is not the time to have second thoughts.”

  “The irritation is part of the effect,” another of the fey said. “Perhaps the sounds are too high for your ears, but they are there, nonetheless. You feel them, even if you cannot hear.”

  Astron strained to catch some sense of what the others were talking about, but he heard nothing. Although demon sight was keen, their hearing was inferior to that of many other beings. Nor did he feel any of Kestrel’s irritation or the growing agitation of the fey.

  “The risk is too great.” The first shook his head. “Better to bear the burdens of Prydwin’s pollensacks than not to exist at all. Your words may have been smooth enough for the queen, but she does not risk the dangers of the glen herself.”

  He flung off his pack and grabbed at the arm of the second. For a moment the two hesitated and then, after wide-eyed glances back up the hill, they bolted in the other direction, gathering speed as they ran. The panic was contagious. The remaining four did not even bother to lighten their loads. Fighting each other for the center of the trail, they sprinted off after the others.

  Kestrel watched the fey depart and kicked at his own rucksack. Astron shrugged but said nothing. He stepped past and continued up the slope. For a long while, Kestrel stood with hands on hips scowling. Then he gathered up his equipment and scrambled to catch up with the demon. In a moment they were peering out from under the cover of a ragwort leaf into the glen of the harebells.

  The hill sloped downward from the ridge under a cover of thick-leaved grasses, just as it had on the other side. But midway down the slope, a wall of skyward-pointing leaves poked out of a heavy mist and blocked the view. From what looked like a thick forest of upraised green swords, fragile stalks rose even higher, almost to the crests of the surrounding hills. Impossibly slender, the ropelike shoots wavered in gentle rhythms, as if trying by an act of delicate balance to keep from crashing to the ground. And on the end of each, looping over and hanging as a massive weight, was a deep-bowled blossom that swung back and forth. All of the flora of the realm possessed massive proportions, but the harebells seemed among the largest of all. A man or demon could easily hide within a single flower, if he climbed that high.

  After a moment’s observation, Kestrel stirred and started down the hillside, but Astron grabbed his arm and held him back. The demon pointed at a hint of blurry motion above the mist and then at a second and a third. One of the harebells rattled with energy. Brilliant orange-and-black stripes emerged from the petals and then hovered still.

  “Bees!” Kestrel exclaimed as the recognition came to him. “Giant bees the size of the flowers.” He put his hands over his ears. “And the noise—it is their wings. They buzz so fast that one can barely hear.”

  Astron looked at the large insect before it darted away. Knowing what to look for, he spotted several more flitting through the flowers. Large, multifaceted eyes, like great blackened shields, rode above a mouth siphon bristling with golden hairs. The wings were a blur about the bright abdomen, to which were attached legs folded in an intricate maze. From the rear protruded the sharp tip of the stinger, glistening with venom. Astron shook his head. Judging from the size, the poison would be totally unnecessary. The thrust of the lance would bore right through the chest as surely as a shaft of steel.

  “If it were not for the tales of no one returning, we could risk it,” Kestrel said. “Just walk out and pick a stalk that none of the bees seems interested in. Perhaps we could even shake some of the pollen to the ground.”

  Astron did not immediately respond. Quickly he ran over in his mind what he had learned of bees in the realm of men. “Smoke,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps the ones that venture close can be subdued, if we surround ourselves with sufficient soot and ash.”

  “There is little here that will burn.” Kestrel shook the leaf overhead to release a shower of water. “Nothing about is sufficiently dry.”

  “There is one thing,” Astron said. He reached into his pack and pulled out the single grain of harebell pollen he had brought with him to ensure positive identification. Delicately, he placed it on the ground just beyond the cover of the ragwort, frowning in distaste at the many prickly barbs that pierced his fingertips.

  He withdrew one of the oil bladders he had used when studying thaumaturgy and stretched it into a crude lens with his thumbs and forefingers. “I had wanted to try the experiment when we got above ground, anyway,” he explained as he adjusted the focus. “Even with diffuse light, the energy might be converged enough if the material is sufficiently combus—”

  The harebell pollen grain suddenly began to smoulder. A ringlet of dense black smoke bubbled from the surface and rose into the air. Kestrel coughed. Astron put down the lens. He saw the surface of the pollen glow into incandescence around the origin of the fire and the circle slowly begin to spread outward in a growing ring. The smo
ke thickened and cascaded from the pollen in billowing waves, far in excess of what one would expect from such a small amount of flame. Like a black fog, it began rolling down the hillside toward the harebells.

  “Smoke subdues bees in the realm of men.” Astron motioned Kestrel to follow him as he stepped forward from under cover. He stopped and picked up the smouldering grain. “Let us move quickly before it burns itself out.”

  Kestrel watched Astron proceed halfway down the slope and then raced to catch up. Together they reached the slender stalks of the harebell without alarming any of the bees which buzzed overhead.

  “You stay here and keep the fire going,” Kestrel said when they reached the base of the nearest flower. “I will climb up and shake loose what I can.”

  Astron nodded and watched Kestrel wrap himself around the ropelike stem that soared into the air. The demon placed the pollen grain at the base of the plant. With both hands, he fanned the dense smoke sluggishly upward, enveloping Kestrel as he slowly rose.

  Kestrel reached the bowed apex of the harebell without incident. Then, letting his feet hang free, he descended hand over hand onto the bowl of the flower itself. Astron watched him tentatively test the strength of an individual petal and then pause, apparently trying to figure out the best way to get inside.

  Two of the bees swooped in Astron’s direction; but at the last moment, they both turned aside and buzzed off toward different flowers. Evidently the smoke was not something that they voluntarily wanted to encounter. Astron kept fanning the heavy billows outward and upward, watching warily for any signs of agitation among the darting insects.

  He looked up to see Kestrel dangling in midair, one hand holding the tip of a bluish petal and the other reaching for the knobby stamen that protruded from the center of the bowl. In an instant, Kestrel vanished inside the bloom. Then a moment later, a shower of pollen grains just like the one that was burning began to cascade downward to where Astron stood.