Without another word, he slipped through the window looking out at the chimney smoke, and began climbing toward the sea.
"What!” Krumwheezle sputtered. “What? Does he mean suicide?"
"No,” Gaunt said, rising and patting the wizard's hand. “He is an acrophiliac. This is his way of unknotting a troubled brow. It took him great restraint not to scale your sanctum last time. I, for my part, would inscribe stormy thoughts upon a wax tablet. Only to melt them by the fire, so that only tablet and I would know."
Krumwheezle looked up from his hand, transfixed.
Gaunt said, “You've given us a diagnosis. Have you a treatment?"
Words rose to just behind his lips. There's nothing to be done. Unless you conceive with a man other than Bone, your child may be a monster, if you have one at all.
"I did think of a possibility,” he answered at last. “But it is perilous."
Gaunt smiled dimly. “Go on."
"When gods still walked the West, they shared mortal passions, meddled in mortal lives. Sometimes they contrived tests to prove that one mortal or another was worthy of this boon or that. Some tests concerned love, marriage, childbirth."
"I know such legends."
"Many have a basis in truth. And in scattered lonely places, some tests remain, retaining a modicum of the gods’ power. And even a fraction of divine power might undo your small curse."
Gaunt nodded. “When we tell Bone, he'll want to be about it by sunset. So let's determine which legend we're hunting."
They consulted Krumwheezle's library, which wrapped about a tall spiral staircase. Krumwheezle liked to see his whole collection at a glance, and only the shaft afforded such a view. The tight quarters necessitated grouping first by size, so that atlases shouldered against microscope sketchbooks, demonologies crouched beside hymnals, and agitators’ pamphlets concealed arcane codebooks. Gaunt proved surprisingly adept in following Krumwheezle's research, so much that he was glad of his cryptic indexing system. For the warmth of her body as they passed each other on the steps, and the bright eagerness of her mind as their voices echoed through the shaft, made his heart want to flutter up from his chest and peck out the ethical portions of his brain.
And his hand passed by a volume titled Midsummer Idylls and settled on one labeled Dooms of Dark and Frost.
* * * *
"Tell me again where we are going,” Bone asked, ducking below the self-motivated boom of the sailboat.
"Ages past,” Gaunt said, saving Krumwheezle the pain of meeting the thief's quick, darting eyes, “Arthane Stormeye, cold king of gods, favored an icy land of tall pines and hard people. And he laid many boons and dooms upon that folk. One such was a circle of fire about a castle called Nith. Arthane declared whatever man won through the fire to Nith was of the bravest heart, and would found a line generous and true:
Arthane decreed that as desire
Encircles love with hearts’ own fire,
That Castle Nith be warded same:
With ring of purifying flame
And only breeched by heart that burns
With lustier light. Such bravery earns:
Golden loot, storied song,
Betrothal bright, and children strong."
She frowned a little. “That at least is the gist I got from the book. The text is fragmentary, and my command of Old Morken is shaky."
"Yours is sounder than mine,” Krumwheezle lied, reclining. He sat with lit pipe by the rudder, and whenever he blew smoke in a new direction, the boat nosed to follow. The sail would flap like the wingbeats of angry birds, then swell full in the wizardly wind. “I trust your translation, and my divinations suggest Castle Nith still exists. Should this fire still burn, braving it will sear away the curse."
"I am sorry,” Gaunt said, “we did not find a solution less inflammatory."
Bone waved her off. “This is all commonplace enough—dooms, quests, the promising bit about loot.” He regarded the turquoise, white-frilled waves. “I simply want to know why we've sailed south to seek a legend of the cold lands."
"This was indeed a long age ago,” Krumwheezle said, jabbing his pipe at the dazzling disc overhead. “In those days the sun rose in the south and set in the north. What we now call the torrid zone was only warm far east of here, where the sun crossed the inland desert.” He inhaled on the pipe-stem, smoke wreathing his weathered face. “Only in that place are old things unchanged."
They threaded the three vast islands that defined the Spiral Sea, sailing down the Scythe, on past the Hook, out around the Claw. The water grew a richer blue, and shone like a noonday sky where it encircled land. Bird calls became numerous and strange. Rain was intermittent—but when it fell it was a deluge. The travelers dried quickly, and the scent of brine and sweat was faintly intoxicating. The poet and the thief seemed to find it so at any rate, and as the days grew warmer they shed more clothing, so as to better enjoy the dousing and drying—and laughing and touching. They were not so shy around Krumwheezle now.
He, a student of the Algebra of Atmospheres, was obliged to wear a Scuttlesand sweater and heavy pants, for a condition of weather modification was to be inappropriately dressed, and he needed to stoke the wind. He felt pickled in perspiration. He masked his discomfort (and the sight and smell of Persimmon Gaunt) with heavier shrouds of pipe-smoke.
These waters hid pirate havens, and twice they saw ships flying the Four Skulls—one for each of the sentient mortal-kind of the West, a big drake-skull at left and little skulls of human, goblin, and delvenfolk in a triangle to the right. But the travelers made a show of smiling and waving while their little ship steered itself; and these corsairs who boasted no fear of arkendrakes declined to follow a wizard.
Two hundred miles past the Claw, they found an uninhabited archipelago. Little mangrove-choked islands marked the watery graves of storm-crowned mountains. And one humid night, with the bright distant stars hanging over an encircling mist like the clouds of World's Rim (though that was far away) they saw, like a little orange lamp in the western fog, the fires of Nith.
"I am prepared,” Bone said.
* * * *
And indeed, after they beached on the little key's white sands next afternoon, Bone laid out an intriguing array of cables, pulleys, cloaks, ointments, and one extensible vaulting pole.
"And your heart?” Krumwheezle asked. “This sort of affair tests courage, not physics."
"There is the courage to die,” Bone said. “If that kind is required, I will fail. I have slipped death for many a year.” He looked at Gaunt. “But there is also the courage to live. To be oneself, and free. If that is the measure of courage, none is braver."
Krumwheezle looked away, and his cheeks burned beneath his beard. Almost he told Bone not to go. But he chanced to see the reflection of Persimmon Gaunt, blurry auburn crown and white shift clarifying down to warm shapely legs descending to the sea's kiss. He felt the curving dagger at his side.
"I am sure you will succeed,” he said.
They saw no castle amid the palms and mangroves that jabbed green blades at a cloudless sky. But at dusk, orange flickers danced behind branches at the island's crown, perhaps two hundred feet above the beach. It burned so bright it seemed strange the foliage had not been consumed long ago. They smelled no smoke, just the warm breath of the sea.
In the morning Bone had his bearings and wished them farewell.
Gaunt took his arm, then turned to Krumwheezle. “I've traveled many dark roads beside him. This concerns me as well. You're certain he must go alone?"
The wizard nodded, glad he did not have to lie. “Such tests—sphinx riddles, labyrinth threads—they are for individuals, ever since one man stole the secret of fire. And the legend does specify a man. Bone must go alone."
Bone touched her chin. “I spent most of my life alone. A day is not too long, to seal a future with you."
"You needn't do this for me."
"You know that I do."
Krumwheezle loo
ked skyward. When he lowered his head, Bone was ascending into the brush, following a dry streambed, hacking now and then with a machete. Birds of bright white and cool black spilled upward at the crunching of boots, the whacking of the blade. The birds did not appear to be seeking Bone's flesh, Krumwheezle thought with relief. The peril on this island was localized. Bone would meet his fate at its heart.
Gaunt turned to the wizard. Krumwheezle prepared his words of comfort.
"Show me his progress,” Gaunt said.
"Eh?"
"You are a wizard. You've spoken of divinatory gifts. You can show me his progress, can you not?” She patted a dagger, as if indifferently.
It seemed to Krumwheezle it would be risky to lie.
"I might,” he said.
* * * *
Through the circle of pipe-smoke they watched Imago Bone.
The thief did not reach the summit until late afternoon. Honed by second-story windows and trap-laden tombs, Bone's body clearly rebelled at tropical bushwhacking. Once he tumbled into a natural well, and came up gasping, clutching a severed crustacean claw big as his forearm; he scrambled up almost as fast as he'd dropped. Another time he stopped to pant and noticed a ten-foot brown snake curling around his leg. He leapt to a tree branch, and yelped as the branch snapped. Fortunately, snake and man fled opposite ways.
At last Bone saw fire.
He entered a rocky clearing. Here a cracked stone wall about twenty feet high inscribed a twice-broken circle containing a gray tower shattered at the level of any second-story windows.
Bone (and his watchers) could not discern the ruin's interior, spotting only some blue-fringed, finger-length lizards darting to and fro.
But the surprise was seeing the ruin in the first place. All had expected Arthane Stormeye's wall of fire to billow higher than a stallion's leap.
Yet the dead god's inferno had crackled many an age. Despite its searing glare, it now rose no taller than Imago Bone's knee.
Bone looked one way, then the other. He shrugged, and stepped over.
The flame nicked his boot, and he yelped, extinguishing it with rapid swats.
The circle of fire vanished. The ordeal was over.
* * * *
Beside Krumwheezle, Persimmon Gaunt watched Bone sigh and stretch as if shedding some unseen burden. And Gaunt in turn released her breath and reached one hand toward the sun, as if freed of a cage.
Krumwheezle's mouth hung open, as if it yearned to disavow the wizard's skull.
"Oh, Krumwheezle,” Gaunt said, in a tone he'd heard only in daydreams. “I feel as though a stone's vanished from my belly. I feel I could soar to the hilltop. Thank you, thank you."
"Well, ah, hm."
"You are the first magic-worker who has really been kind to us. We will never forget you."
She ran recklessly up the dry streambed.
"Wait!” he called. “You should not.... “But she was gone.
We will never forget you.
"Wicked, wicked Krumwheezle,” he muttered.
Bone had not perished in the flame, nor even been disfigured. But the flame was only half the trap Krumwheezle had set. If the ordeal didn't defeat the thief, the reward would.
* * * *
Krumwheezle urged himself to ascend the hill, using the exotic arts that might vault him there in a few jumps. He'd want to be on hand to wield the Scruplegore....
Act now, wizard of the Old School. Don't be the weakling Sarcopia thinks you.
But no, he needed to be there to abort his vile plan....
It's not too late, old man, to be who Scuttlesand and little Molly Mucklecomb and lovely Persimmon Gaunt believe you to be. But in a few minutes it will.
The twin thoughts canceled, and he kept his feet firmly against the earth.
He watched through the circle of pipe-smoke as Bone ceased dancing and skipping and took a second look at the tower. There was no need to proceed ... but what thief could resist a quick reconnaissance?
Bone slipped through a gap in the perimeter wall, noted the yawning tower doorway, then climbed the exterior. He reached the shattered towertop and peered down.
Below lay a treasure beyond all coins and jewels.
A pale young woman with long golden hair slept upon a bed of roses. Rubble lay all about, yet none had crushed, cut, or nicked her. She looked utterly at peace, for all that she wore chainmail, with a polished sword at her side and a red-painted wooden roundshield upon her impressive chest.
Armor, roses, and woman should long ago have become rust, mulch, and bones. But the enchantment of old Arthane had remained strongest here, keeping the maiden preserved even as the warding fire dwindled.
This living alloy of strength and beauty stole the thief's silence. “My,” he said.
The woman's eyelids fluttered open. She looked upon Imago Bone.
He ducked.
Bone could not understand the words she cried then, but Krumwheezle, listening through his divination, knew his Old Morken.
"My love!"
Bone scrambled down the tower in a clatter of stone shards and dust. Sneezing, he hustled for the outer wall.
"My love, why do you flee?” The shield-maiden had risen and fled the tower the easy way. Though unsteady on her feet she strode on in rapt amazement. Gestures that might have seemed imploring in other circumstances became menacing, with sword and shield for emphasis.
"I wasn't stealing your gear!” Bone cried over his shoulder in modern Roil. “I'm no warrior! Go back to sleep!"
"I do not understand you!” the woman shouted. “You broke my curse. You are the man of bold heart. Why do you run?” She stopped then. For she beheld the broken wall, the bright emerald foliage, the clear cerulean sky. So too, Krumwheezle thought, she must feel the tropical heat within her armor, hear the chatter of unfamiliar birds. “What place is this? What has happened? This is not my home."
Bone paused at the clearing's edge, not understanding but moved by her obvious pain.
He turned back, held up his hands. “Ah ... Arthane...."
"Yes! Arthane! His will put me here. Did the god send you?"
"Ah, Arthane, is, ah.... “Bone sighed, then mimed the motions of gasping, tottering in circles, and falling dead.
"My love!” The shield-maiden sprinted.
Bone squeaked and shot into the undergrowth, not noticing the tangle of cacti directly in his path. He stumbled and howled.
The woman yanked him off the spines, flung him to the ground, kissed him.
"That is for rescuing me,” she said, as Bone stared upward, short on speech and breath. “And this is for frightening me.” She backhanded him across the face.
Krumwheezle's view, predicated upon Bone's consciousness, became mere smoke.
"Wicked, wicked wizard of the Old School,” he muttered. He did not move, either to rescue Bone or to seal Bone's fate. He lit his pipe. The flavor was bitter. He breathed out smoke, regarded Gaunt's ascent.
* * * *
Gaunt moved fast as she could, and that cost her time. Once she lost Bone's path. Once she brandished her machete at an outsized snake. Once she tumbled down a slope, coughing up dust and dry twigs. The missteps cooled her fervor. When she finally approached Castle Nith it was with deliberate pace and a composed if bloodied visage.
Bone was nowhere to be seen.
Gaunt crept to the broken wall. Suddenly a blonde woman in chainmail flashed into the sun. She waved a shining blade as though it were an integral extension of her powerful arm.
"Name yourself,” the warrior demanded.
Gaunt would recognize Old Morken, Krumwheezle knew, but be uncertain in speaking it.
"Answer!"
"Ah, Gaunt. Who are you?"
"I am Nith, Ah-Gaunt. This is my keep."
Gaunt frowned.
"Why do you disturb us?” demanded Nith.
Gaunt mulled that over. “Us?” she wondered aloud. “Is Bone with her?” She shook her head, muttered, “I'm a fool. It was not �
��Castle Nith,’ but ‘Castle of Nith.... ‘"
"I do not understand your words,” Nith said. “But I do not like their sound. Begone, woman of these late days! I must care for my love."
Gaunt brought her hands together, touched them to her nose, breathed out. She bit her lip. “His ... sister am I,” she said finally.
(The ruse might work, Krumwheezle thought. Although Gaunt was a thick-boned, pale daughter of Swanisle, and Bone a wiry, darker son of the Spiral Sea, the wizard had observed that Gaunt's skin was pleasantly sun-browned. With less pleasure he had noted that Gaunt and Bone often mirrored each other's expressions.)
After a moment, Nith lowered but did not sheathe her sword. “Come then, Ah-Gaunt. But if you prove false, or steal my love away, I will cut out your heart."
Gaunt nodded and entered the dark ruin.
There Bone lay unconscious upon the slab of roses. A purple bruise filled half his face. The other half bled from dozens of tiny punctures. Gaunt knelt beside him, took out her flask, poured water over the welts. She gripped his arm. “Bone. Imago. You must wake."
He groaned, and murmured, “Persimmon ... An astonishing dream I had. I was a barbarian's love slave...."
"At last,” said Nith, and scooped him into an embrace.
"That would be the one,” Bone managed, before being smothered by Nith's hard kiss.
"Enjoying yourself?” Gaunt asked.
"Only...” Bone said, coming up for air, “in an academic sort of way.” His tone was light and cheerful. Then he added, “Help."
"Let me think,” Gaunt said. “By the way, I am your sister."
"A fine time to tell me. So you can speak to this, ah, fair creature?"
"A little."
Nith, clearly angry at being excluded, set Bone down gently and wheeled on Gaunt.
"You,” she said, “speak the tongue of free men."
"A little."
"Tell your brother that for mastering the flame, I am his."
In Roil, Gaunt said, “Say something pleasant, but not too affectionate."
"You have nice eyes,” Bone told Nith.
Gaunt said, “He says, how came you here?"
For a time Nith's proud face looked shrunken. Her eyes peered through her tangled hair like those of a beast in a cave, waiting for the rain to stop.
FSF Magazine, August 2007 Page 15