Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  She looked back at Kestrel and smiled. “There is also the second tenet,” she said. “The entropy of luck always increases. Your wards might be a marvel of which I know not, but no matter how cleverly constructed, I doubt that they could withstand the heat of a flame.”

  Kestrel steeled himself from smiling in return. He forced a look of apprehension onto his face. “Just a moment.” He licked his lips quickly. “We have excellent shields, it is true, but I said nothing about being so foolish as to subject them to a fire.”

  Myra’s smile broadened. “Ah, the composure does seem to waver a bit,” she said. “Perhaps you were right. Nothing in this room would provide a sufficient test.”

  “You know as well as I what happens when fire is applied to any container, no matter how clever its construction.” Kestrel put protest into his voice. He waved his arm about the room. “Never mind what I said. You can do with us what you will with any of your devices; but like everyone else, we shun the flame.” Kestrel stopped and lowered his eyes. “Please,” he said softly. “We have struggled too long to build up what we have. Anything but a fire.”

  “Thus it shall be.” Myra slapped her side. “Yes, this will be far more rewarding than any of the simple tests that the likes of Jelilac would try.” She looked over her shoulder and yelled out onto the deck. “Bring the kindling and the spark. We shall set them out on a raft where the logs can be the fuel. After he has performed the ritual as the tome instructs, whatever luck they accrue will be burned entirely away.”

  “But—” Kestrel began.

  “Silence,” Myra commanded. She motioned to a sailor in the hatchway and he came forward, clutching a large leather-bound book like a servant with a tray. Balancing on its upper surface was a sextant of gleaming metal.

  Kestrel forced his eyes to open wide and then slumped his shoulders. Hanging his head, he stepped aside while two more sailors pulled the swinging blade out of the way and untied Phoebe. He squeezed her hand as a signal for silence as she rose to her feet. They could be safely away, he thought. With just a little more luck—He stopped the race of his thoughts. Holding his breath, he managed to offer a token resistance to the arms that propelled him out of the cabin as the final piece of convincing.

  As Kestrel watched with what he hoped was a defeated expression on his face, the entire crew seemed to come alive with a blur of activity. A small raft was lowered over the side, tethered to a long rope, and pushed by poles away from the hull. Matches and kindling were assembled and an archer was ferried across from the second of Myra’s ships.

  While he and Phoebe were guided by knifepoint to a small boat, the archer began donning a thick, padded vest and hood. In silence, the two of them were rowed out to the raft and unceremoniously pushed onto its rocking deck. Kestrel saw the archer place his hands in thick gloves with which he could barely grasp his bow. Bulky shields were placed behind his back. At arm’s length, he gingerly struck a spark that caught some curly shavings on fire. The archer dipped a tar-soaked arrow-tip into the blaze, involuntarily flinching backward as it burst into a smoky flame. Aiming awkwardly, he nocked the shaft and pointed it at the small raft.

  Kestrel turned to Phoebe and smiled. “I hope that this idea is a better one than tossing the ball into the hoops,” he said.

  Kestrel put down the book and arched his back. Most of an hour had passed. He looked at the archer still straining at attention on Myra’s barge and felt a grim satisfaction at his discomfort. It had, of course, been too much to expect that he could read as well as understand the language of the realm, especially since their initial luck had all been siphoned away by Milligan. A little more time would be a reasonable enough amount for study, he judged, and then he would go through the motions of sighting.

  “When I am done and shout back the heading,” he said to Phoebe, “they will undoubtedly give the instruction to fire the shaft. Let it start the raft burning and then use some of the powder you obtained from the archimage to summon Camonel to our aid.”

  “What about the sextant and book?” Phoebe said. “If they are from beyond this realm, might not they reveal some clue about Astron’s riddle as well?”

  “The sextant is of some arcane design, but I think I have figured out how to use it in a convincing fashion.” Kestrel shook his head. “Except for a few unusual features, the book appears much as one would expect, page after page of tables.” He shrugged and again shook his head. “If Astron were here, he might make something more of the instructions, but the significance I cannot tell.”

  Kestrel rapidly thumbed through the bulk of the volume, grunting as the pages fell through his fingers. “It must have been constructed by more than one scribe, and certainly they did not talk to each other. See, the style changes with the entries for every few days. Initially there are four columns on each leaf, with what I guess from the accompanying logos to be the position of the sun on the upper half and the brighter stars beneath. Next, it changes to data in rows, if the headings are to be believed, and after that the solar elevations are completely separated from the rest. On and on it goes, with fancy scrollwork and then harsh starkness, changing the format every fortnight or so.”

  He set down the tome and laughed despite himself. “It certainly was designed to be well used. The entries run on and on for what must be hundreds and hundreds of years. I doubt that anyone would really care, unless it was passed on from one generation to the next. Surely what is here will last Myra and her crew before a twentieth is spent.”

  Kestrel shrugged and hefted the sextant. “But enough of that. Prepare to toss your powders into the fire.” He looked in the direction of the setting sun and found the brightest of the evening stars. The slosh of the waves against the raft was definitely greater than against the massive sides of the barge. Only with difficulty was he able to keep what he looked at in the center of view.

  Kestrel grunted at the heaviness of the sextant, swinging it slowly to the second sighting. The screws felt awkward to his touch and wobbled in their shafts as he tried to adjust a cursor. He ran his hand over the blistered skin of iron that framed a cloudy lens. The craftsmanship was quite primitive, but he supposed it did not really matter. The heading he would shout back to Myra’s barges would be the first that popped into his mind. It would depend solely upon her luck if it were accurate or not.

  When he had completed the last sighting Kestrel thumbed through the book as if he were searching for corresponding entries. Phoebe tensed at his side with her hand in the pocket of her cape, ready to toss out the powder. After a moment, he stood up on the rocking platform and cupped his hands to his mouth. “A third of a circle away from the direction of the setting sun,” he shouted. “The calculations have been made and there is no doubt about—”

  Before he could finish, the archer released his bow. The arrow sliced through the gathering gloom of night and hit the raft squarely on the side closest to Myra’s ships. Kestrel bent over and fanned the flames, no longer caring about what the aleators thought of his actions. He looked at Phoebe and saw her face flushed with confidence. With clenched fists, she waved her arms upward, seeming to add energy to the flame. The sparkling powder danced from her hand and fell squarely into the blaze.

  Kestrel felt his own tension grow. Soon it really would be over. Without the rush of combining realms Camonel could head directly to wherever they wished. He could find Astron and Nimbia and send the small demon back to his own realm. Then with Palodad—Kestrel stopped. He had not fully thought through the reason they wanted to find the anvilwood and send Astron home alone in the first place. Suppose he was right and Camonel was under the control of some wizard; perhaps even Prydwin was manipulating things beyond his own realm. Kestrel touched the sextant at his side and frowned. Manipulations in another realm—a navigator’s almanac and sextant served exactly the same end.

  Kestrel reached out and touched Phoebe’s shoulder, even though he knew he should not. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if it
were some other demon that you—”

  Kestrel’s words were cut short. With a hiss of foul-tasting air, the massive djinn stepped from the flame and stood as a sinister, dark silhouette against the last rays of the sun.

  “I, Camonel, submit to your will because my prince Palodad instructs it,” the demon said. “There is no need for a struggle of wills. Speak your command and it will be mine to perform.”

  “Never mind about princes and allegiances in the realm of daemon,” Kestrel said before Phoebe could speak. Her eyes darted to him, but he rushed on, ignoring her puzzlement. “It is your mastery which we wish to know. Yes, not princes but masters. Is the wizard here the one who dominates your will totally so that you must do all that she asks, or is there another who instructs you instead to say the words that prevent any true struggle from taking place?”

  Sparkles of blue began to dance about Camonel’s teeth in the twilight. In the faint glow, Kestrel saw the demon’s scowl grow into one of true menace. For a long moment, the djinn was silent. Then his rumbling voice again came forth.

  “Where is Astron, the one who walks? It is not only the pollen. He is needed as well.”

  “Your master—who is it truly?” Phoebe asked suddenly, apparently catching the drift of Kestrel’s thought. “Now that I think of it, each time was too easy. I was too flushed in victory to examine closely how I felt. You merely said that I was yours to dominate, but never was there a true test.”

  “Prince Palodad instructs that I serve and—”

  “Not him,” Phoebe interrupted. “Not another demon—your master. What is his name?”

  Kestrel sucked in his breath. He looked up at the glowing yellow eyes of the djinn and felt a cold numbness creeping down his spine. If Camonel was not under Phoebe’s control, what would happen then?

  Again Camonel was silent for a long moment. His face distorted in indecision. Finally he answered in a staccato popping of sparks that shot from his teeth and lips. “I am to do whatever I am asked by you, provided that it does not conflict with what I otherwise have been told.”

  “Then the need for Astron to accompany the pollen, Palodad’s words that the grains held some clue to the answer—”

  “Of that I cannot say.” Camonel shook his head.

  Kestrel grabbed the sextant, just as a large wave sloshed into the raft and tumbled Phoebe into his side. “Is your master the manipulator?” He waved the instrument in front of Camonel’s chest. “Is it he that brought about the collapsing of the two realms of symmetry? Did he leave the sextant here so that those like Myra would doubt, so that there would be damage here in addition to the rest?”

  “Yes,” Camonel said. “To speak of the manipulations themselves I am not bound. But this is only one realm of the many that swim in the void. What is your command? There is much yet to be done.”

  “And Gaspar,” Kestrel continued. “Is your master behind his riddle as well?”

  “Gaspar is a demon of little brain,” Camonel said. “Even though he is a prince, he could never—”

  “Take us back to the realm of men,” Phoebe said. “Then return and find Astron and Nimbia as—”

  A sudden wave bigger than any before raced under the raft. Kestrel tipped forward, just barely managing to grab Phoebe before she fell. The water lapped over the edge of the logs and spilled into the fire. In a flash of smoke, the flame was instantly doused and Camonel was gone.

  Kestrel tried staggering back to his feet, but the agitation of the sea increased. Stunned by what had happened, he looked out in the growing blackness toward Myra’s ship and heard the aleator calling out over the bulwark.

  “The first is spent but it has done its job. See the increased agitation of the surf. A great wave is coming and their luck does not ward it away. Pull them back aboard and we will slip offshore a league or so until the disturbance passes. Then on the morrow we will set sail as the glib one has directed. Keep them in bondage. If I can think of no new amusement during our journey, then certainly they can serve as shields on the floor of the casino.”

  Almost in a daze, Kestrel pulled Phoebe to him and held her tight. He looked at the last wisps of smoke from the doused fire and cursed his luck, what little there was of it. Now they would have to travel to the casino. There would be no chance that Myra would be persuaded to light a fire again. Yes, to the casino and hope that Astron would somehow be there as well. He kicked the sextant overboard and then gave the almanac a shove—devices of the manipulator, the one behind the merging realms and the riddle as well. There might indeed be something of significance to them, he thought, but it would take someone like Astron to discover what it was. Now, until they dropped anchor, he had to focus all his attention on keeping Myra’s thoughts away from more testing with her swinging blade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Broken Talismans

  ASTRON peered out from the cover of the brush at the line of the crest. Leaves of deep green scattered tiny droplets of dew as he pushed them aside. Behind him, buzzing insects filled the interior slopes of the island with a blur of sound. No one had yet stirred from either of Myra’s ships lying at anchor in the bay below. But in only a few moments more, Byron’s force sneaking down the hillside would inevitably be discovered.

  From the look of the anxious faces of those who had followed the tall swordsman, not everyone was as convinced as he about their role in his destiny. Armed only with blade and shield, they would be no match for aleators with necks ringed by talismans. But surely at least some would survive long enough, Astron thought. Long enough to bolt and flee back up the slope along the wide path that ran by his hiding place. And just as surely, some of Myra’s aleators would follow.

  Astron tightened his grip on the rope of twisted vines that ran from his hand down onto the wide path past the bush. There was every chance that it would break or even come untied from the base of the tree across the way, but he could think of nothing better to try.

  He glanced at Nimbia, kneeling at his side, a sword of steel dangling from her hip. “The words you had me say to Byron about my prowess in battle felt most uncomfortable,” he said. “I am a cataloguer, not a hewer of men.”

  “I saw how you led the reticulates at more than a single node,” Nimbia answered. “Do not be concerned about the discomfort, demon, though the modesty is becoming.”

  Astron wrinkled his nose. He should have felt pleasure in Nimbia’s words, but he did not. Somehow the aid he offered to Byron increased her stature, rather than his own.

  “Nevertheless,” he growled, “too much time has been wasted in my translation of fluffs of conversation back and forth. It is better spent in observation of the realm, collecting facts that later can be used to advantage.”

  Nimbia smiled. “I do not consider the exchange of information a waste,” she said. “You are serving me well. Without the facility of your tongue, I would know nothing of Byron beyond grunts and stares.” She stopped and lowered her eyes. “And just as important, he would know as little of me.”

  Astron felt his annoyance grow. He did not care for the way that Byron stared at her when she was distracted elsewhere. When in Byron’s presence, she behaved like a human female from the sagas. Her interest in the aleator went beyond the needs of their riddle-quest or even wresting some anvilwood from the grand casino. More than once she had laughed when he translated Byron’s words and shook her head at the chastisement he suggested as a reply.

  “Byron has made clear more than once that his destiny is his primary focus.” Astron pulled tentatively on the rope. “Everything else is of little concern.”

  “A secondary position would not be so bad.” Nimbia shrugged. “I have not fared nearly so well in the realm of the fey.” She flipped golden curls over her shoulder. “He is comely enough so that no one would whisper when we are seen together. Among his own, he commands a station of respect, one that fittingly links with a hillsovereign.”

  Nimbia stopped and looked Astron in the eye. “Besides, when al
l is done and you return to your own realm, what then is to happen to me?”

  The wrinkle in Astron’s nose deepened, but Nimbia did not seem to notice as she rushed on.

  “I can tell that he is interested,” she said. “Constantly he devours me with his eyes. His boldness is far better than the hesitant glances and turned-away faces that were the features of most when I was the one who held sway. Yes, he has great interest; and yet, at the same time, he shows measured restraint. Unlike the others who become victims of their own lust and interpret each gentle hesitation as a stunning rebuke or a sure indication that there is someone else, he is game for the chase.”

  “You have special qualities as well.” Astron stumbled. “Your creations were as much for your minions as yourself. No prince have I seen display such concern. You would have earned your diadem, even if it were not given by default. And a wizard besides—only ones of that ilk can a djinn ever truly respect. You shielded me in the tree when—”

  “Enough.” Nimbia laughed. She reached out and touched Astron on the cheek. “You need not sing of my virtues, demon. Your place in my retinue is secure. It is rather I that should list the praises so that you are encouraged to even greater glories for your queen.”

  Astron started to reply, but then quickly snapped shut his mouth. He halted the idle flexing of his grip about the rope and froze dead still. Without moving, he looked at Nimbia expectantly.

  Nimbia’s face clouded in puzzlement. “Demon?” she said. “What is the matter? Did something happen in that stembrain of yours?”

  “I am waiting,” Astron said simply. “Waiting to hear the list.”

  Nimbia threw back her head and laughed. Her voice tinkled like a shower of golden brandels tossed against a shield. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “You deserve no less.”