Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  Nimbia eyed Astron critically and then touched her index finger to the palm of her other hand. “First, there is the keenness of mind,” she said. “In no other of your realm have I observed such an ability for deduction.”

  “Palodad and other princes that rule—” Astron blurted out, suddenly uncomfortable, as he had been before. But Nimbia put her finger to his lips for silence and then placed another beside the first.

  “Secondly, there is the dedication to your quest,” she said. “Despite the hindrances and dangers, you pursue the goal with an unrelenting intensity. Surely I have seen it matched in none of the mighty djinns with their easily distracted flitter of thought. And, now that I think of it, none in the realm of the fey would have persisted as long as have you.”

  Astron felt the beginning of a smile appear on his face, despite the discomfort. Other delicious feelings began to stir underneath. He wanted again to protest the sweep of her hyperbole, but thought better of it as Nimbia retracted her hand and began to say even more.

  “Last, and perhaps most important, demon,” she said, “is the comfort that you bring when we are together. I do not have to worry about somehow breaking through an impenetrable shyness or warding off a self-image that never can be satisfied. I do not have to remember that I am a woman and you are a man.”

  The seductive sweetness bubbling up inside Astron suddenly turned sour. Somehow Nimbia’s words of praise were no longer a delight. Despite his best efforts to keep a placid composure, he felt his eye membranes quiver and his stembrain stir from its slumber with discontent.

  Astron shook his head in the manner of men. Why did all of her words now affect him so? Was there a residual effect from his transposition into Kestrel’s body that he somehow still retained?

  Before he could begin to sort out any of the confusion of his thoughts, he saw the first of Byron’s men appear on the crest. The aleator had thrown sword and shield away and was running as fast as he could. Astron scowled and pushed the feelings away. They would have to be examined later. First there was the matter of the darling of destiny and passage to the grand casino.

  Three more of Byron’s minions crested the hill in full rout and then six after that. Immediately behind the last, tall, well-fed swordsmen with purple surcoats over close-knit mail came racing close behind.

  Astron looked out across the trail as the first of Byron’s men staggered past and then back to Nimbia to see if she was ready. The rest of Byron’s followers sprinted down the path into the interior of the island with the first of Myra’s aleators on their heels. Astron saw a half-dozen talismans dancing about the necks of those in the foreground. Gritting his teeth, he let them pass. A score of swordsmen sped by, shouting and laughing as they ran; then behind them came a half-dozen stragglers more, not so richly endowed as the rest.

  Astron waited until the last three were just beginning to rush past the hidden rope. Then he jerked it tight and held it as firmly as he was able. The first aleator unexpectedly leaped over a small boulder jutting in the way and hurled clear of the trip rope, evidently not even noticing its presence. The other two, however, were caught just above their ankles and pitched forward onto the ground. Both landed gracefully on glove-protected hands; but more importantly, just as Astron had hoped, the talismans about their necks hurled free to land a few body lengths beyond.

  “Now,” Astron shouted, “now, Nimbia, while we have a chance.”

  Nimbia sprang out onto the trail, her sword pointing the way. The two sprawled warriors rose to their feet; then their eyes widened in terror as she moved between them and their charms. Instantly they returned to their knees with hands spread wide, indicating surrender. One looked longingly at what lay a few feet away and began to sob.

  Astron ran out behind Nimbia and scooped up the treasures. He flung them over his head and then turned after the third warrior who had stopped to see what was happening behind. Astron waved his sword with one hand while pointing at his own chest with the other. “Not one standard issue but two,” he said. “You do not have a chance.”

  The third warrior froze. He unbuckled his sword and let it fall. Sagging on one knee, he bowed to the ground. Astron did not hesitate. He ran forward and, despite the small rocks that seemed to get in his way, pulled the third set of talismans away from their wearer.

  “Over there.” He pointed his sword back to Nimbia. “Do exactly as she says.”

  Astron saw the man-at-arms nod in submission. Without waiting to ensure that he fully complied, Astron began running down the trail as fast as he could manage not to stumble. So far, everything was proceeding as he had hoped. The aleators were so conditioned to depending on luck in everything they did that, without their charms, they felt completely helpless. When confronted with an opponent better endowed, they gave up rather than attempt a fight.

  Astron bounded down the trail, catching up with two more warriors who ran behind the rest. He tripped over a bared root in the trail and barely kept from falling. Circling his sword over his head, he froze his face in a berserker’s stare, yelling an incoherent challenge. Over a dozen talismans now bounced from his chest as he ran, and the men-at-arms’ eyes immediately focused on their dance.

  Just as the others before, the two warriors immediately assumed postures of surrender, letting Astron snatch their charms with a clumsy swipe before they guessed his intent. More aleators looked backward, and a shout of warning coursed through their midst. The pursuit of Byron’s followers slowed and then completely halted.

  Byron’s warriors sensed the slacking of pursuit and halted their own flight. With a rallying cheer, they turned and began to strike at the aleators who were looking over their shoulders at what was attacking their rear.

  Astron yelled as fiendishly as he could and slashed blindly left and right. Aleators on both sides stepped backward, tumbling over one another and off the trail into the brush to get out of the way. One of Myra’s captains in the vanguard caught sight of Astron’s weight of treasure. He looked down at his own chest, barely ducked a swipe at the side of his head; then with a shudder, he bolted from the trail into the brush. Two more followed his lead, then a half-dozen more on the other side of the trail. In barely an instant, only five men-at-arms remained, all facedownward, offering their swords in surrender.

  Astron pulled to a halt, barely believing what had happened. More than a score of well-armed warriors had been routed by a single foolhardy rush. Shaking his head, he grabbed the talismans that remained and added them to the rest. With stooping shoulders, he walked slowly back up the hill to see how Nimbia was faring in her stint at guard duty. For a moment he felt a rush of elation. He had performed as well as could have been expected of even a mighty djinn. But then, just as quickly, he put the thought aside. He was still a long way from securing any anvilwood. There was yet the rescue of Kestrel and Phoebe to be managed. The lightning djinns that pursued might discover them at any time. And Byron? If he had survived the rush down the slope, what more could be expected from the one who seemed to covet Nimbia more and more with each passing moment.

  Astron scowled at the frustration born of the inactivity. His stembrain was becoming increasingly difficult to control. He looked about the evening campfire erected just down the seaward slope from the crest of the hill and shook his head. Byron sat on the other side of the dying flame, talking quietly with two of his lieutenants and one of the captured warriors, as if the day had been the same as any other. The bloodstained rags which bound the tall warrior’s leg looked blotched with black in the dimness of evening. Felled by the first man he met, Byron had been left behind when his ranks broke and began retreating up the hill.

  Then, when Astron and the others returned in triumph, the aleators that remained in Myra’s ships all transferred onto a single barge and sailed away, leaving the other vessel behind. Evidently, she had reasoned that she was confronting a force much more powerful than her own and did not wish to suffer the same defeat. With the next dawn, Byron had said, his ow
n band would follow the same course and be led by her luck directly to the grand casino.

  Astron ran his hand over the skin of his neck. Reluctantly, after the abandoned ship and the prisoners had been secured, he had given up the talismans to be destroyed. His arguments about the men-at-arms who had run into the forest possibly returning were ignored. The luck had to be dissipated back into the ether. Byron had insisted. To do less would not be true to his quest.

  Astron looked over at Nimbia on the far side of the clearing. At least for the moment, she was occupied with other thoughts than tending to the tall warrior. Instead, the queen was watching with interest the preparations of Sylvan and Centuron for the breaking of the charms.

  Astron rose and stretched, trying to remove some of the tension that froze the muscles of his back into tight knots. He supposed he should investigate the dissipation process as well. There might be something to be learned that could be used later. Besides, it probably was the last chance to talk to the hill sovereign without Byron being in the vicinity. Tomorrow they would be confined together in the barge for the final journey across the sea; then once in the grand casino, from what little Astron had gleaned, there would be little time for anything other than struggling for survival.

  As Astron approached, Nimbia was peering over Sylvan’s shoulder and gesturing, while the aleator slowly stirred the contents of a small cauldron over a sputtering flame. Nearby a second fire was roaring fiercely as it consumed branches of dry pinewood that Byron’s followers had faithfully carried with them from the beginning of their trek.

  “I think I understand what you ask,” Sylvan said, “but a more intense flame makes the film too fragile. The only purpose of the heat here is to thin the liquid to the proper consistency.”

  “It looks like the sap of what we call the soapbark tree in the realm of fey,” Nimbia said to Astron as he drew near. “Here the aleators tap the trunk and let it drip into waiting buckets.”

  “The same is done for syrups in the realm of men,” Astron answered as he fell into the mode of automatically translating.

  “This is for a greater purpose than delighting the tongue,” Sylvan said. “Without its protection, the risk of contamination is far too great.”

  “I thought that fires destroyed the concentration of luck,” Astron said. “If you must ruin the talismans, why not just toss them under the stewpot while it heats?”

  “The heat would crack the shell that resists the great pressure of the gas, it is true,” Sylvan said, “but when it rushes out in a burst, there is no way to tell which way it will surge. It might all lodge in a nearby tree or worse yet, in one of us who attends the fire. No, the luck must be released slowly in a way that we can control.”

  “Then you coat the talismans in this paste?” Astron asked.

  “Watch and you will see.” Sylvan shook her head. She motioned for Centuron to come forward, and the old man lumbered up, holding one of the talismans at arm’s length, as if it had a foul odor.

  Sylvan dipped a circle of wire into a cauldron and then drew it back. Astron saw that it emerged with a thin film of the soapbark sap stretched across its interior. She blew gently on the film, deforming it from a plane into a bulging hemisphere. Centuron continued forward until the dangling talisman met the shiny surface and then passed through it to the other side. Sylvan exhaled one more strong burst of air and a glassy bubble separated from the ring, completely enveloping the talisman.

  “Now we can apply the heat.” Sylvan looked back at Nimbia. She took the leather thong from Centuron’s grasp and slowly moved the talisman with the encompassing bubble over toward the second fire. The bubble bounced slightly, but remained suspended, not touching the charm at all but somehow remaining hanging from the point where it was pierced by the thong.

  Sylvan held the talisman bubble over the fire so that it was warmed by the rising heat, but the flames did not touch. Two or three others of Byron’s followers gathered around Sylvan as she adjusted the height of the bubble, all silently waiting for what would happen.

  For several hundred heart beats Astron detected no change. The fire crackled and wisps of smoke rose into the air, enveloping the bubble in a sooty haze as it floated skyward. Then, just as his interest began to sag, he noted a slight change of color on the surface of the brightly painted wood inside the glassy sphere. The yellows and reds began to fade. The blues paled into gray; the whites started to blister. In a moment, the polished surface turned to a dull, ashen indistinctness. The charm seemed to start vibrating, although Astron could not hear a hum. The sharp outlines of the intricate carving blurred. With a sharp crack like the breaking of an egg, a jagged rip appeared down one side from top to bottom.

  Astron saw a sparkling iridescence suddenly shoot from the fissure and dissipate itself against the interior curve of the bubble. Like the spout of a tiny geyser seeded with reflective glitter, the essence of the talisman rushed out of its confinement and began to fill up the sphere. Sylvan waited a long while more until the exhaust from the charm had slowed to a barely discernible trickle. A slight opaqueness filled the bubble, where before it had been perfectly transparent and clear.

  “Now for the controlled outgassing,” Sylvan said, motioning to Centuron, who was already making his way forward with a circle of twine about one hand and a needle in the other.

  “Popping the bubble would serve no better than cracking the talisman unprotected,” Sylvan said. “But the strength of the soapbark film is high. It allows us to proceed with much more care.” She took the circle of twine from Centuron with her free hand between extended thumb and forefinger. Very gently, she placed the ring against the surface of the bubble and quickly withdrew.

  Astron saw that the band of twine did not penetrate the surface but, instead, floated on its glassy slickness, pulled into a tiny, perfect circle.

  “It is the surface tension in the liquid,” Astron said. “The same force that holds the bubble together in a sphere against the gasses inside deforms the string into a ring.”

  Sylvan ignored the comment. She carefully turned so that the floating circle was aimed away from the rest of the camp and outward toward the open sea. Reaching from the side, she quickly stabbed the needle into the small ring of film trapped by the twine.

  Astron expected the bubble to pop with an explosive spray of what was contained inside, but it did not. Instead, only the small ring of film within the circle vanished, leaving the bulk of the bubble intact. Wisps of the glittering gas oozed through the opening out into the air in a gentle flow.

  Astron watched, fascinated, as the bubble slowly contracted. Totally unlike a fragile sphere of film and rather like a balloon made of a cow’s bladder in the realm of men, the orb grew smaller in a stately manner. As more and more of the glittering gas vented to the outside, the surface tension contracted the bubble into a tinier and tinier volume. Finally the radius became so small that the film touched the ragged edge of the rip in the talisman. With a tiny pop, the bubble flashed into nonexistence.

  “Most interesting,” Astron said. “I suspect that such a procedure would work with the soaps in the realms of men and the fey as well.”

  “But to no great practical use,” Nimbia said. “There the laws are different. It would serve only to amuse the young.”

  “Perhaps,” Astron said, wrinkling his nose.

  Back near the main campfire, Byron suddenly threw back his head and laughed at something his lieutenant had said. Nimbia quickly looked his way and then flushed as she noticed everyone watching what she had done.

  “It is too bad,” Centuron rumbled. He waved at the two fires as Sylvan stirred the small cauldron. “Some luck can be undone.” He looked at Nimbia and shook his head. “Yes, the dabblings of men can be unmade but that which is bestowed by fate at birth is a burden forever.”

  “What do you mean?” Nimbia asked after Astron translated. She glanced at Sylvan and hesitated. “Are you the one until now the most in his favor? I am sorry, but if nothing
yet has been decided, then surely there is no harm—”

  Nimbia’s words trailed off. Sylvan looked down at the cauldron and began stirring more vigorously without answering. The queen looked back to Centuron, eyeing the old man carefully. “What is your wish in the matter?” she said. “Is Sylvan here a personal favorite? If not, certainly the words of one so venerated will carry a great weight, if there is to be a decision.”

  The old aleator coughed and stood a little straighter. He closed one eye and studied Nimbia a long time before answering. “Can you not imagine how heavy the burden of time hangs over my head?” he croaked. “Do you not wonder what it is which drives me to rise on each new morrow, rather than curl up into nonexistence, disturbing as few as I can?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  Centuron raised his hand and swept trembling fingers in a wide arc. “All of this that we see, all of the realm that lies beyond I have sampled more than once in my prime. And if Byron is cut to ribbons as soon as he enters the floor of the grand casino, there will be no more mysteries of which I long to taste.”

  Centuron coughed again. Astron noticed that an intense gleam came into his eye.

  “But suppose he is not,” the old aleator continued. “That is the chance of it that makes it all worthwhile. If somehow, without manipulating the tenets of luck, the pompous one manages to survive to the final struggles, then there is where I want to be—at the very center of the realm, when all those who have cast their lot with the vagaries of chance begin to doubt the foundation of their existence.

  “Yes, I know of the futility; even Byron only guesses at it. Years ago, messengers through the flame revealed to me the workings of a distant master’s plan. When the walls become dim and icy fingers of the void start to clutch at each and every heart, when I finally lie down to die, then it will all be worthwhile, knowing that I do not cease to exist alone.

  “So you see, your question does not require an answer, unfortunate maid. With either outcome, your wish will be denied. Either the sands will run with Byron’s blood or—”