by Lyndon Hardy
Astron stopped his fanning and removed his pack from his back. Scampering about like a small child, he harvested the grains and stuffed them into the empty pouch. He gathered a dozen grains and then three or four more until the pack was filled. He brushed his hands with satisfaction. Nimbia would be well pleased with what they had done.
When the flap was secured and the pack returned to his back, he glanced at the burning pollen grain and saw the color of the smoke lighten into soft grays. The burning ring of fire started to sputter. Only a tiny disk remained of what once had been a sizable volume. He looked upward to call Kestrel down and his stembrain suddenly jolted in spasm by what he saw.
The bright abdomen of one of the bees protruded from the flower into which Kestrel had vanished. A second was buzzing angrily around the stem, apparently awaiting his turn. Astron reached back to untie the pack, but then he saw the wings of the first bee flutter to life in agitation. Its stinger began to extend and the entire body contort inward toward the blossom.
Astron shook his head savagely to rid himself of his stiffness. He bent forward and blew on the smouldering pollen grain, bringing the flames back to life. A wave of smoke billowed out over the ground and covered his feet in inky blackness.
Astron started to fan the coiling tendrils skyward; then thought better of it. They would be too diffuse at the height of the blossom. He grabbed the grain gingerly in one hand and cupped its prickly surface carefully against his tunic. Savagely pushing aside yet another wish for wings, he grabbed the stalk and awkwardly began to climb.
Astron heard a high-pitched whine for the first time as he struggled upward, evidently caused by the confines of the harebell petals against the insect’s wings. In agonizing slowness, he proceeded, occasionally catching glimpses of Kestrel’s dark silhouette through the translucent blues of the petals. The human’s body was pushed up into a tight ball at the very base of the flower, trying to avoid the larger blob maneuvering itself deeper into the bowl.
Finally, Astron reached the height of the drooping calyx of the harebell. All he could see of the flower’s interior was blotted by the carpet of coarse orange-and-black hairs on the back of the bee. He wrapped his legs as securely as he could about the swinging stem and stretched out his hand containing the burning pollen grain.
Only a small curved disk remained of what once was a sizable sphere. He blew down the length of his arm but the flame responded only sluggishly. A few wisps of black rose into the bowl of the flower. Astron exhaled vigorously, pushing as much life as he could into the remains of the smoke. The twitching of the bee as it twisted itself deeper into the harebell slowed but did not stop altogether.
Astron looked at the remains of the pollen grain and the progress of the bee. Something more desperate would be needed if Kestrel was to be saved. Almost without thinking, he discarded the last dying embers and coiled himself up into a ball on the wavering stem. Then kicking as best he could, he hurled himself across the distance to the dangling flower, grabbing the hairs on the bee’s back with both his hands.
With a noise like ripping paper, the bee’s claws tore through the petals as the added weight pulled it downward. In an instant, the insect was dragged free; with Astron clinging to its back it hurled toward the ground.
Once free of the confines of the blossom, the huge wings exploded into a blur of action. Stinging blasts of cold air raced across Astron’s body as the insect tried to right itself. The bee lurched to the right and Astron felt a stab of pain in his shoulder as he struggled to maintain a grip. With a flip that hurled Astron up over the insect’s back, the bee wobbled into a horizontal position. But the ground came rushing up too fast. With a jarring thud, they crashed into the ground.
Astron felt the air rush from his lungs as he slammed into the bristly back. Stunned, he rolled to the side and fell to the ground. The bee tried to rise on its legs, but only uncoordinated spasms shook its body. Its wings fluttered out of synchronization, blowing up a scatter of dewdrops among the wide blades of grass that covered the slope.
Astron looked quickly about, trying to clear his vision. He saw motion near the base of the stem and guessed that Kestrel was scrambling to safety. A pungent odor began to fill his nostrils; he saw the stinger of the bee at his side fully extended and glistening with a foul-smelling oil. In awkward steps on three legs, the insect was gradually turning its abdomen about to where Astron swayed as he tried to regain his composure. His head still rang from the contact and, against his will, he fell to one knee.
“Come on,” Kestrel shouted behind him. “Somehow they can communicate. Look, the others are coming to the aid of the one you brought down.”
Astron felt a firm grip under his arm and rose reluctantly to his feet. He followed Kestrel’s tug and began to place one foot in front of another. Almost mindlessly, he picked up speed and began running up the slope. The ringing in his head grew more intense and almost painful. He placed his hands over his ears, trying to concentrate on keeping up with the human as he ran.
Almost without knowing, they reached the ragwort and burst over the hill crest. Astron’s vision began to clear; the high buzz in his ears started to fade away. In a few moments, they had raced down onto the wet flatlands and were heading back to Nimbia’s underhill.
“You did it again, Astron,” Kestrel said after they had caught their breaths. “You saved me when you had no real cause. First Phoebe and then you. I’m starting to expect it. It’s almost enough to restore my faith in human nat—”
Kestrel paused, looked at Astron’s demonic features carefully, and then laughed. “Well, maybe that would be going just a bit too far,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nimbia’s Challenge
ASTRON and Kestrel retraced their journey across the hills and glens as rapidly as they could. Without the fey to guide them and no directional aids in the sky, their progress was slowed. More than once, they wandered away from the faint trails and were set right only by Astron’s keen eye and memory for detail. It was only after Kestrel had risen from his fifth sleep that they estimated that Nimbia’s underhill was drawing near.
The last lush green hill beckoned them forward. Sparse groupings of blooming foxglove and withered cowslip past its prime dotted the hillocks. A carpet of ferns crowded close onto the muddy trail that squished in wetness with each step.
“So you knew nothing of thaumaturgy before possessing the archimage’s book,” Kestrel said as he paused for breath where the slope steepened. “Burning lenses and alchemical balloons. You are well on the way to becoming a master of many arts yourself.”
Astron shook his head. “No, as I have tried to explain, nothing I have done involves any magical skill. I have learned only of adjuncts that can be used independent of the crafts—by you as well as any other.”
“This journey has given me no more knowledge of the magical arts.” Kestrel shook his head. “Indeed, if it were not for Phoebe’s safety, I would not even be here.” He shielded his eyes from the diffuse glare, trying to catch sight of something familiar. “Come,” he said, “we have wasted too much time already.”
“It is because I am a cataloguer,” Astron continued as they resumed their march. “Unlike my brethren, I look beyond the facts as they are presented to the deductions that logically follow.”
Despite his rush, Kestrel laughed. “If I were to judge, looking beyond what is apparent is perhaps where your faculties need mostly to be sharpened.”
“What do you mean?” Astron wrinkled his nose. “As you have said, I was the one who calculated that balloons of lead could fly, that—”
“And the one who did not understand how a group of wizards would react when presented the opportunity for monetary gain.” Kestrel held up his hand to stop the protest. “Nor even how to entrap the imps which you say you have known for eras.
“There is more to thought than a logical progression from one truth to another, Astron. Sometimes there is value as well in postulating alternatives, in
letting ideas flow free.”
Astron’s puzzlement deepened. “I do not understand. How can such lack of discipline help me in my quest? Our course is clear; we merely have to follow the path to its end.”
Kestrel rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. He looked up to the hilltop. For a long moment they trudged in silence.
“Well, for example, consider the matter of this Gaspar of yours,” Kestrel resumed after they had climbed thrice the height of a man.
“He is not my prince,” Astron said. “He would find my existence not pleasing. In a tick of time, I would be given to the lowest of his djinns for sport. I serve Elezar, who finds pleasure in riddle and delicate weavings, rather than explosion and chaos.”
“Exactly so.” Kestrel panted. “From what little you have told me, Gaspar is a demon most unlikely to compose a riddle that would baffle your prince. Even if he could, it would not be his style. Think of it, Astron. Why has Gaspar acted as he has? From where has he obtained the plan to baffle your prince? There are inconsistencies here that cry for explanation.” Kestrel shrugged and then put on a fresh burst of speed.
“That is what you should be thinking of,” he said, “the deeper meaning of the riddles, not the relative weight of air and lead.”
Astron adjusted his pack and hurried to keep pace. “Then what is the answer?” he asked. “Tell me what secrets this other way of thinking reveals. Do you mean to imply that Gaspar is under the control of a wizard, just as Elezar has succumbed to the archimage—that there is a being in some realm with a will great enough to subdue a prince of the lightning djinns?”
Kestrel stopped a second time at the crest of the last hill, while Astron struggled to catch up. “I do not know enough of your realm,” the human said. “Perhaps there is no substance to my conjecture and everything is proceeding as it has been presented. But, as I have suggested, let your thoughts roam free. Perhaps, when you least expect it, an insight will come.”
Astron wrinkled his nose. “It is hard to see the utility of such speculation,” he said. “Although if that is the process by which you found a way to put imps in a bottle—”
The scene which stretched before them suddenly reached Astron’s consciousness. He looked once at Kestrel and they both began to race down the slope. At the nadir of the glen, Nimbia’s hillock stood elevated on the slender pillars as it had on their first arrival. But this time the underhill was ominously quiet and empty.
In silence, they ran onto the heavy stone flooring that had been raised from below the ground. Obviously no one was about. Many of the interior walls and partitions had been removed and carted away. The dais of the throne room was bare. Empty sky showed through, where before had hung a delicate tapestry of vines. Two empty vats tipped on their sides were all that remained of the store of pollens and seeds. Several flutes and horns were scattered in a litter of leaves and copper swords on the stone floor. Here and there, spatters of blood mingled with the remains of other debris.
Kestrel and Astron raced about the empty corridors and then descended into the passageways below ground. They found almost everything ransacked there as well. They entered Astron’s cubicle and saw that only the book of thaumaturgy remained, tossed into a corner, pages down. Evidently its strange script was of no interest to whoever had come. Astron turned to leave but Kestrel ran forward to the book. He flipped it over and pointed excitedly to the inside of the front cover. There in a precise script Phoebe had left a final message.
“Pipers of Prydwin have been seen in the glen,” Astron read aloud. “Nimbia fears that he plans to come just before the next judging and claim the bondage that is his due. Even without the pollen, she must create for Finvarwin. It is one last desperate chance, even though Prydwin will certainly be there. I will accompany her and aid with my wizardry as best I can.”
Kestrel quickly counted on his fingertips and looked at the notches carved in the doorjamb. “It is already the time of the next judging,” he growled. “To the glen with the stream. If Phoebe and Nimbia escaped before the arrival of Prydwin’s sentrymen that is where they will be.”
Astron tapped the bulging pack on his back. “But without the pollen there is little chance they will succeed.”
“Exactly,” Kestrel shouted as he sprinted back up the stairs. “Somehow we must break through the ring that guards the glen and get them the help they need.”
Astron felt his stembrain stir. Pulling Nimbia out of the ring with total surprise was one thing, but breaking through to Finvarwin’s rock long enough to use the harebell pollen properly was quite another. A shuddering spasm squeezed the breath from Astron’s chest. He remembered all too well the crushing power of the combined wizardry of the pipers. He had expected one of Kestrel’s clever deceptions as the means to allow Nimbia to compete again, not an insane dash that the humans enjoyed so much.
Astron watched Kestrel bound up the steps three at a time. Obviously the thoughts of Phoebe in peril had been too much for the human. He had surrendered to the panic of his stembrain, rather than think through what must be done. Grimly, Astron forced calm onto his own churnings. He would have to use the best of his reason to convince Kestrel to formulate a plan.
Astron laid a hand on Kestrel’s shoulder to restrain him as they peered out from the cover of the ragwort. The temptation to wrestle with the human’s will flitted through his mind, but he put the thought aside. There was no time for that. He would have to hope that the logic on which they had agreed would work instead.
“Look at them down there,” Kestrel whispered desperately. “They are all alone, with not a single piper to guard them. At worst, Nimbia will become a slave to Prydwin; who knows what will happen to Phoebe.”
“Yes, look at them,” Astron answered. “Phoebe is cloaked. No one questions that she might not be one of their own kind.” He touched the reassurance of the hood he had scavenged from the debris of Nimbia’s underhill. “I can pass through the ring with the same pretense. Your presence will only sound an alarm.”
“You are a demon and know nothing of this sort of thing,” Kestrel growled. “If it were not for the fact that your command of the language is better, I would be the one wearing the cape.”
“It is what we have agreed,” Astron said quietly. “Propose another plan if you have one better.”
Astron saw the muscles in Kestrel’s face contort with indecision. After a long moment, he sighed and slumped to the ground. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Just remember to answer any challenges the way I have indicated, quickly and with confidence—as if it is totally bizarre that there should be any suspicion.”
Astron nodded and began to rise, but Kestrel caught him by the arm. “And none of those fool questions of your own. There is much at stake here, not a petty exercise in collecting data for one of your catalogues.”
Astron pushed away a sudden rush of irritation. “Cataloguing is by no means petty,” he muttered. “No other djinn under Elezar’s command—”
He slammed his mouth shut. Kestrel was right. There were more important things to attend to now. He looked down toward the bottom of the glen, from under the cover of the ragworts. Finvarwin stood adjacent to his rock. Next to him, a circle of djinns arched into the sky as they had upon Astron’s arrival. Prydwin stood in front of the flaming ring, partially blocking a view into another realm.
Within the fiery window, Astron saw what looked like two armies engaged in hand-to-hand combat, breaking limbs and spattering blood with intense dedication. The warriors on each side were thin-framed and delicate, like the fey. Their blows struck and parried in an almost stylistic dance, creating complex visual patterns that grew and decayed as the battle progressed. From the very center of the conflict, precisely straight paths of ashen white radiated out in many directions on a plane of gray and continued into the vanishing distance. Astron shook his head; he had never seen or heard the likes of such a place before.
A little farther to the right, he recognized Phoebe, despite the cloak; and n
ext to her, similarly disguised, must be Nimbia, nervously pacing while she waited. As before, copper-daggered sentrymen ringed the slopes of the glen, adding the force of their wills to the control of the djinns who strained to bridge the gap between the realm of the fey and those that lay beyond.
Astron grimaced and concentrated for the last time to push the laggings of his stembrain far beneath his conscious thoughts. He adjusted his hood to cover as much of his face as possible and stepped out onto the grassy slopes.
He walked slowly down the hillside directly toward one of the sentrymen, looking past him toward the bottom of the glen.
“Halt,” the guard said when Astron was close enough for him to hear the swish of his cape. “Prydwin defends his creations against a challenger from a far underhill. He displays no less than his realm of reticulates. There is to be no interference until the judging is done.”
“I bring pollen that is plentiful in that far underhill for my queen,” Astron said. “She is expecting my presence and I must pass.”
A strange thrill ran through Astron as he said the words. They were filled with untruth and tasted strange on his lips. Yet he noticed that the sentryman did not immediately reach for his arms. Instead he rubbed his chin in indecision and looked closer at what had interrupted his concentration.
“Lower your hood so that I see that you indeed are not from a local glen,” the sentryman said. “King Prydwin did not capture Queen Nimbia and all of her followers when he seized what had been granted to him in the last judging.”
Astron’s stembrain rumbled. He felt sharp impulses rip through his legs, compelling him to step backward. He clenched his fists and willed his thoughts into control. “I am disfigured,” he said quietly. “A dagger such as yours severed an ear from my head and left a great scar. I wear this hood to cover my shame. Surely you can let me pass so that no one will see.”
The sentryman hesitated. Astron stepped boldly forward. “In any event, I am within your ring,” he said as he glided past. “You will have opportunity to challenge me again after the judging is done. For now, I must obey my queen, who bids me come forth.”