He glanced at her. “Ah, so soon, lass? There’ll never be a sweeter or prettier Clotho than you! Give me a buss!”
She submittted to his embrace and hugged him back. She had had liaisons with him on occasion, as appropriate, and so had Lachesis. “How’s it going. Warrior?”
He released her. “Always a novelty! See that line of refugees?”
She looked where he pointed. A seemingly endless line of bedraggled civilians were walking along the side of the street, going north. Obviously they had been bombed out of their homes and were fleeing to whatever safety they could find.
Now he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the other way. “And those?”
She looked dutifully. Another line of refugees was traveling south. “But they’re each going where the other’s coming from!” she exclaimed.
“True. What do you make of that?”
“It has to be a tragedy! No hope for either group!”
“Now you have it, lass,” he agreed gruffly. “War is hell.”
She knew better, but she couldn’t help herself. She challenged his rationale: “How can you encourage such an appalling situation. Mars? Those are living, feeling people there, surely innocent of the causes of this war!”
Mars, always ready for combat, answered without hesitation. “Aye, lass, that they are, by your definition. But not by mine! They sought freedom, so brought this consequence on their heads!”
“Freedom?”
He nodded. “Freedom to speak, to assemble, to read, to choose their own work. They forgot they were a satellite nation. Those tanks are here to remind them.”
“And you approve of this?” she demanded incredulously.
“To be sure! Freedom is the most precious thing man can grasp, and its price is commensurate. These people suffer to prove that they are worthy of what they seek, and I’m proud of them!”
“And what of the tanks?”
“I am proud of them, too.”
“Oh, Mars, you’re impossible! I wish I could save even one of those poor souls!”
Mars made a gesture that included both lines of refugees. “Take your pick, Clotho.”
“What?”
“If you are exchanging your office in a few minutes, you can do it with one of these. She, at least, can be spared.”
The incredible boor! Lachesis thought.
But it may be true, Atropos replied. “All right, I will!” Niobe walked out to the line going north and stopped the first young woman she spied who seemed to be traveling alone. She was a dark-haired, pretty girl of perhaps twenty, toting a large suitcase. She stared at Niobe.
“Would you like to become Fate?” Niobe asked. The woman’s large eyes looked at her blankly. “To exchange places with me and be forever free of this?”
The woman spoke unintelligibly.
Of course! Atropos thought. She’s Hungarian!
Doesn’t Mars speak all tongues? Lachesis thought.
“Yes!” Niobe said. She took the woman by the hand and tugged her across the street toward the Incarnation of War. The woman seemed to have been stunned by the horror of the violence around her. Perhaps she thought Niobe was offering her a place to stay in safety for the night.
“Mars, tell her,” Niobe ordered. “Ask her to exchange.”
Mars spoke to the woman in her language, gesturing to Niobe. The woman shook her head, not believing it. Then a shell landed nearby, blowing out part of a building, and the woman changed her mind. She nodded affirmation. “Any port in a storm,” Mars translated. It was Atropos’ turn to handle the change. She assumed the body. “Farewell, Niobe,” she said. “It has been a pleasure working with you.”
Good-by, sister Aspect, Lachesis thought, giving her a mental kiss.
Atropos took the woman’s hand—and Niobe found herself standing separately, in her own body, facing Atropos. “Farewell, sister Aspects!” she cried—and as always, tears flowed.
Mars touched one of his pockets and brought out a fragment of reddish stone. “Take this, Niobe,” he said gruffly. “It is from my planet. It will guard you from harm until you can reach your destination.” Niobe took the stone. She opened her mouth to thank him. Another shell burst, close by, momentarily blinding her and causing her to cower. When she straightened up, both Mars and Fate were gone. She was on her own. Deprived of her two alternate Aspects, she felt abruptly naked. They—and immortality—were no longer part of her. Her tears continued.
But she could not remain here, crying in the street of the war-torn city. She knew where she was going. She hefted the suitcase and started walking.
—9—
TWIN MOONS
Thanks to the Mars fragment, she made her way safely from Budapest, across the Iron Curtain, and to Ireland, where Pacian was waiting for her. She was tired and bedraggled and felt exceedingly mortal, but she was ready to marry him.
But first she consulted with her son the Magician. “Satan swore to harass me and mine,” she said. “Is it possible to be secure from this?”
“Satan is constrained to operate somewhat through channels,” he replied. “My power does not approach his, but I can protect us all from his mischief.” He gave her a bright green garnet, mounted on a silver chain. “Wear this always. Mother, and you will be secure. I will see to the daughters in their turn.”
“Thank you, son,” she said, smiling. He was now forty, she twenty-four, physically.
“And one for Pace,” he said, handing her another.
The wedding was in spring, and by summer Niobe was pregnant. The Magician’s wife, Pacian’s daughter Blenda, turned up pregnant that same summer, after five years of marriage, by what coincidence or design only Lachesis might know. Niobe and Blenda took walks together and compared notes, still seeming like sisters though Blenda was now five years older physically.
When spring came again, both women gave birth to daughters within a week of each other. Niobe named hers Orb and Blenda named hers Luna, for they were like twin moons. The Magician presented each baby with a polished moonstone, to protect her from misfortune.
The two girls were raised together and were amazingly similar even after allowing for the fact that they were closely related. Niobe and Pacian were the ancestors of both; strangers assumed that Orb and Luna were twins. The Magician still tended to bury himself in his studies, and Blenda had retired from teaching in order to assist him, so that Luna would spend days at a time at Niobe’s house. Pacian, always a farmer, was now going into tree farming, gradually remaking the wetlands without destroying it; this took long hours. Thus most of the child care fell to Niobe. She loved it. She had given up her first child. Junior, and now was glad to make up for it by raising two. It was her fulfillment as a mother, forty years delayed.
She put them together in a double pram for walks through the countryside and, when they grew old enough to do their own walking, she took them through the wetlands to admire the fine magical trees Pacian was cultivating. Sometimes they would ride their family carpet to the place where she and Cedric had lived. The old cabin had been replaced by a modern bungalow, complete with electricity and central heating, but the old water oak remained. The hamadryad was now a middle-aged nymph, showing it more by manner than by form, but she remembered Niobe, once she introduced herself, and came down cautiously to play with the little girls. Niobe was as happy as she had ever been, despite the nostalgia. But she always made sure both girls were wearing their protective moonstones, for Satan could be lurking, awaiting his chance for mischief.
The children reached school age, and Niobe took them there together and got them enrolled. She had to wrestle verbally with the clerks who assumed that two similar children whose surname was Kaftan had to be sisters if not twins. “Orb is mine, Luna is my son’s child.” They stared at her, for she was physically thirty.
Both girls were bright as well as pretty. Niobe’s side of the family accounted for the beauty, and the Kaftan side accounted for the brilliance. It was genetics more
than merit, but still she was inordinately proud.
As school progressed, the girls became more differentiated. They adopted different clothing and hairstyles; one would wear pink, the other green, and then they would switch. One would grow her hair long, while the other cut it short—and again they would switch. Luna’s hair was clover-honey, like her mother’s, and her eyes were pearl-gray; Orb’s hair was buckwheat-honey, like Niobe’s, and her eyes pale blue. But they could still be very similar when they chose.
Luna became interested in art, while Orb liked music. Luna showed real talent with pictures, proceeding from crayons to pastel chalk to watercolors and finally to oil; her efforts were always prominently represented in class shows. Orb started with the guitar and gravitated to the piano, then centered on the harp. She had genuine talent for it, and when she was ten, she gave a recital of The Shepherd’s Song that sounded so like the magic music her father and grandfather had had that Niobe was stunned. She had the magic—and it reached a short way out beyond physical contact to touch those who listened closely. The audience, though it heard only the physical music, was still entranced, and applauded her enthusiastically.
By the time they were twelve, both girls were almost as pretty as their mothers had been, and their talents were solidly established. “It’s time they had better equipment,” Pacian said and he took Niobe to see the Magician.
“The instruments exist,” the Magician said. “But they have to be won. They are in an annex to the Hall of the Mountain King. The King sleeps, but an attempt to steal anything would wake him, and that would be unfortunate.”
“I don’t want them stealing anything!” Niobe protested. “They’re honest girls!”
The Magician smiled tolerantly. “To be sure. Mother. But you must understand the Mountain King’s definition. He will freely give the instruments to any person he deems worthy of them—but what he calls worthy, we might call theft.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Not so. Mother,” he informed her patiently. “A person who can take the instrument deserves it; the one who cannot, but who tries to, is a thief.”
“There are standards—an examination?”
“A series of three challenges to gain entry,” he said, “Then a demonstration of proficiency for the specific instrument.”
“Challenges?” She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of it. Not for twelve-year-old girls.
“The Annex is deep in the mountain, of course. There are cliffs, pitfalls, monsters—that sort of thing. Routine.”
“Routine! I’m not sending my child or yours into that! Those girls are only—”
“Twelve years old,” he finished for her. “Mother, the challenges are only illusions. No danger—as long as the unworthy person does not attempt to steal an instrument.”
Now it was coming clear. “They run the course—and if they get through without making an error, then they can try for the prizes?”
“Precisely. And if they do make an error, they have simply to depart immediately, without waking the King. He gets angry when awoken.”
“And proceeding on, after an error, wakes him?”
“Yes. It really isn’t wise to do that.”
She pondered. “Exactly what would happen if he wakes?”
“He would turn the challenges real.”
“Real pitfalls, instead of illusory ones?”
“That’s it. Mother,” he said with the calmness that a person of normal intelligence assumes when dealing with one of limited intellect. “And if that person attempts to steal—”
“Then—not that our girls would, but—?”
“Then the Mountain King would personally intervene. I could not protect them in the King’s hall; he is omnipotent there. The moonstones protect them from evil, but the Mountain King is not evil, just tough. But it should never come to that.”
“I wouldn’t let them take the risk!”
He shrugged. “Why don’t you go along to chaperone them? Then you can be sure they don’t do anything foolish. The Mountain King is a fair man; he will not bother anyone who honors his rules.”
“I can do that? Run the challenges with them?”
“Of course you can. Mother!” he said, as if her intellect had turned out to be below his already-modest expectations. “The King is not fussy about details. I would take the girls in myself, but he wouldn’t tolerate my presence. Rival magic, you know.”
“The instruments are good ones?”
“The best that exist, Mother,” he assured her patiently. “State of the art.”
She sighed. “Then I’ll do it.”
She took them in, parking the car beside the huge sign: MOUNTAIN KING—ANNEX. They entered the marked aperture, which resembled a jewel-encrusted cave. The girls were thrilled and nervous. They had heard stories about the nefarious halls of the Mountain King, but had never hoped to visit them personally. They had wanted to dress prettily, but Niobe had insisted on jeans and sneakers. “This isn’t a fashion show!” she snorted.
Inside were signs with arrows: TOURISTS—CHALLENGES. They took the latter direction.
The passage opened into a large cave with a rocky floor. A painted yellow line wound around between the rocks to the far side. Several motorcycles were parked at the near side. A big sign said INSTRUCTIONS.
Niobe moved over to read the sign. Smaller print on it clarified the conditions of the challenge. She read and whistled. “This really is a challenge!”
The girls read the sign. “Mother, we can’t do that!” Orb protested.
“I confess I don’t like it,” Niobe agreed. “But remember: the hazards are not real. They’re illusions.”
The challenge was to ride a motorcycle along the line, which was the only safe route across the minefield. Because this was the first, one error was permitted. Because the mines were illusions, they would merely flash brightly when set off, rather than blow the transgressor apart. “How sweet of the Mountain King,” Niobe murmured with a certain irony.
“But if we set off two,” Luna said, “we can’t get our instruments?”
“That’s right, dear. Because if we took anything after failing the challenge of passage, those mines would become real.” It was, she had to admit, a nice device of selection. Those who could handle the challenges would have no problem; those who could not would be absolute fools to trigger the non-illusory threats. The Mountain King played a hard but fair game.
“Ooo,” Orb murmured softly. She was the more reactive of the two, quicker to turn on or off, quicker to anger or to forgiveness. “But if we play the game honestly, we have nothing to fear.”
“That’s right. That’s a good rule for life.” Niobe looked at the motorcycles, and at the minefield, and the meandering line. How much clearance was there on either side of it? And the girls—neither had ridden more than a bicycle before. One would be sure to waver too far. This was too much of a challenge!
“I’d better take you across, one at a time,” Niobe decided. “The largest cycle will handle two.”
She wheeled out the large motorcycle, started it—trusting that the cave was large enough to handle the fumes of the exhaust—and rode it up and down the side, making sure she had the hang of it. Obviously the Mountain King had expected a man to challenge, rather than a woman and girls. When she was satisfied, she put Orb on it behind her, the girl clasping her about the middle, and rode up to the side again. “Now lean with me when I make the turn,” she said. “The balance has to be just so, as with a bicycle.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Luna, you have the eye for depth. You watch us, and cry warning if I seem to be misjudging a curve.”
“Yes, Grandma.” The girls enjoyed their real relationships in private; in public they preferred to consider themselves cousins.
Niobe nerved herself and started along the line. The first curve went well, but when she hit the reverse curve, Orb got confused and started to lean the wrong way. She corrected herself in a moment, bu
t it was enough to nudge the cycle off the mark. A mine was touched, and a brilliant flash blinded her.
“I can’t see!” Niobe cried.
“Neither can I!” Orb screamed.
The motorcycle wavered as she tried to guide it along the course by memory. But she knew it was hopeless; by the time her vision recovered, she would be in the middle of the mines, and thoroughly disqualified. Unless—
“Luna!” she called. “Can you see?”
“Yes,” Luna replied. “You’re drifting right.”
“Direct me!”
Luna was a smart and levelheaded girl. She understood immediately. “Bear left.”
Niobe obeyed, maintaining a velocity so the cycle would not waver out of control.
“Now turn right, slowly,” Luna called. “A little more—yes. And straight. Coming up is an acute left turn—make it sharp on the mark. Ready—mark!”
Niobe and Orb leaned left, and they made a sharp left turn.
“Now go straight—nudge right—yes—now an S-turn, right then left, not too sharp—more right—now edge left—more—that’s it—and right again. Now straight; you’re almost there.”
Thus did they navigate the field without setting off another mine. Niobe parked the motorcycle, waited a few minutes for her vision to clear, then rode back alone to fetch Luna. “You did a good job there,” she told the girl. “Your judgment has preserved our chance to win through.” The girl flushed prettily with pleasure.
The second trip across was less eventful; sight and experience made all the difference. They parked the motorcycle and walked down the passage to the next challenge.
This turned out to be a subterranean river, broad and deep, with a wire mesh fence bisecting it lengthwise, barring passage across it. But there was another explanatory plaque. “This is a section of the River Lethe,” Niobe read aloud. “One drop in the mouth will cause a person to forget for a moment; one swallow will cause forgetfulness for an hour. Water in eyes will cause the forgetting of the ability to see. Beware lethal monster who patrols at irregular intervals.”
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