by Julian May
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PRAISE FOR THE SAGA OF THE TRILLIUM
Black Trillium
A Booklist Editors’ Choice
“A fine fantasy novel … the styles and subplots mesh effectively, and the world-building is superior.” —Chicago Sun-Times
“Three top fantasy stars combine in this tale.… An inventive quest fantasy with strong characters and a well-realized setting —quite worthy of the considerable talents involved.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A potent tale that is the result of a collaboration of important fantasy writers.… Each of the princesses’ characters and quests was created by one of the top-notch coauthors, who infuse them with distinctive voices and paths. The weaving together of these stories adds texture and interest to an already strong fairy-tale lot and firm world building.” —Booklist, starred review
“Remarkable … plays to the strengths of all three writers in a wide-ranging, solidly crafted narrative with elements of high adventure, vivid magic, and remote science fiction.Black Trillium is an entertaining, well-told tale.” —Dragon
“Formidable is the only word for the combo of authors on Black Trillium.… You’re very aware of more than one fertile imagination at work.” —Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine
“A marvelous, fast-paced fantasy.” —Booklist
“It is the stuff of which fairy tales were made in your youth —but this one is definitely for grownups.… Magical and sparkling and at the same time, hauntingly real.” —The Courier-Gazette (Rockland, Maine)
“Three of fantasy’s finest authors join forces to take us on a fabulous quest in an exciting new world.” —Rave Reviews
“When three such distinguished ladies collaborate, we ignore them at our peril.” —School Library Journal
Blood Trillium
“This sequel to the joint effort produced by May, Andre Norton and Marion Zimmer Bradley is a superior tale, giving life, character and emotion to the three Petals of the Living Trillium as they continue their adventures.” —Publishers Weekly
Golden Trillium
“The sort of well-told tale that Norton has been writing for nearly half a century … we can rejoice in having such a legacy.” —Chicago Sun-Times
“[Norton’s] depictions of aboriginal life, with its dedication to nature, and of the emotional growth of a strong yet uncertain and lonely woman are finely wrought.” —Publishers Weekly
“The grande dame of SF and fantasy returns to a favorite theme —the discovery of an ancient and highly advanced lost civilization —in this heroic adventure set in the shared world introduced in Black Trillium (with Marion Zimmer Bradley and Julian May). Norton’s latest effort bears witness to her mastery of no-frills storytelling. A prime candidate for fantasy collections.” —Library Journal
Lady of the Trillium
“An inventive quest with strong characters and a well-realized setting.” —Kirkus Reviews
“[Lady of the Trillium] focuses … on the more subtle war of the misunderstanding and intolerance found between old and young. Poignant in its depiction of old age, this is a strong addition to most libraries.” —Library Journal
“With her well-established talents for depicting female characters, political shenanigans, and potent magic, [Bradley and Waters] turn out a thoroughly satisfying yarn.” —Booklist
Sky Trillium
“[Sky Trillium] displays May’s usual brisk pacing, command of the language, and deftness at world building.” —Booklist
Sky Trillium
The Saga of the Trillium
Julian May
PROLOGUE
The old madman had fallen unconscious at last, prone on the dining room table amidst the remains of the meal. The prisoner let his glittering glass blade descend until its point touched the dark, wrinkled skin of the Archimage’s neck.
One thrust. A single movement of his arm and it would be ended.
Do it!
But the prisoner held back, cursing himself for a sentimental coward, his mind a storm of conflicting emotion. The cup of poisoned wine lay upset near Denby’s flaccid brown hand. Dregs puddled on the shining gondawood surface, slowly whitening the varnish beneath. The magnificent table, more than twelve thousand years old, was probably ruined; but its insane owner would survive. At the last, standing over the helpless form of the Archimage of the Firmament with the razor-sharp fruitknife in his hand, the prisoner found it impossible to kill his captor.
Why do I hesitate? he asked himself. Is it because of the old man’s crotchety good humor, or his awesome office, that he neglects so scandalously? Do I hold back because Denby Varcour spared my life, even though he sentenced me to share his grotesque exile? Or is magic at work here, protecting this ancient meddler even though he lies vulnerable as a sleeping child before me?
Never mind all that. Do it. Kill him! The poison has only rendered him senseless. Kill him now before it is too late!
But he could not. Not even the power of his Star sufficed to drive the blade home. Denby lay there snoring gently, a smile on his furrowed lips, quite safe, while his would-be murderer fumed and fretted. The reason for the failure was unfathomable but the impossibility remained.
Shaking his head in self-disgust, the prisoner replaced the glass knife on the platter of juicy ladu that was to have been their dessert. With a last uneasy glance at the unconscious madman, he hurried out of the room.
It took only a moment to snatch up the sack of warm clothing and stolen magical implements he had secreted in a cupboard in the salon anteroom. Then he was off, running down the dim, silent corridors toward the chamber of the dead woman, located nearly two leagues away in another quadrant of the Dark Man’s Moon.
The prisoner knew he had no time to waste. The sindona messengers and bearers were withdrawn into the Garden Moon as usual, but there was no telling when one or another of the terrible living statues might decide to cross over and seek out their lunatic master on some cryptic errand. Should a sindona find Denby drugged, it would know in an instant what had happened and call out the sentinels.
And if those beautiful demons caught up with the prisoner, he would die. The sentinels would discover the new empowerment of his Star, and not even Denby’s senile whimsy would suffice to spare his life.
The fleeing man paused for an instant. Clasping the heavy platinum medallion engraved with a many-pointed image that hung around his neck, he called upon its magic to survey his prison. The Star reported that the aged enchanter was still unconscious and no sindona were abroad. The only things that moved in the Dark Man’s Moon were the tenders, those odd mechanical contrivances that crept about on jointed legs like great metallic lingits, doing domestic chores.
One of these machines confronted the prisoner now, coming suddenly into view around the corridor’s sharp curve. It carried a basket of flameless lamp-globes and moved patiently along, “sniffing” with one of its armlike appendages, seeking burned-out ceiling lights that might require replacement.
“Out of my way, thing!” The prisoner barged past the bulky device, nearly upsetting it and causing its collection of glowing globes to spill onto the floor. His foot landed on one of the lights and he lost his balance and fell to his knees.
“I beg pardon, master,” the lamp-tender said humbly. “Are you injured? Shall I summon one of the consolers to treat you?”
“No! Don’t! I forbid it!” Sweat broke out on the prisoner’s brow. He struggled upright and managed to speak in more normal tones. “I am not hurt. I command you to go about your normal duties. Do not summon assistance. Do you understand?”
Four inhuman eyes studied him. Denby’s weird creations were the most solicitous of servants, quite capable of forcing him to accept the medical attention of a sindona consoler against his will if he actually needed it.
Dark Powers! he prayed silently. Don’t let it call a sindona. Don’t let all my careful planning come to naught and my life be forfeit because of a witless machine!
“It is true that you are unhurt,” the light-tender said at last. “I will resume my work. I regret any inconvenience I have caused.” It blinked its eyes in salute and began to pick up its scattered load.
The prisoner walked off in a semblance of nonchalance; but when the lamp-tender was out of sight he began to run again, feeling fear swell within him. What if the cursed machine called the sindona anyway? What if the sentinels were already in pursuit?
He was racing flat out now, his formal dining robes flapping and his boot-shod feet thudding on the resilient corridor floor. A lump of cramping dread knotted his belly and every breath was now like a sword cut. Dwelling in this damned place for two years had robbed him of his bodily strength and crippled his resolution. But he would mend if he could elude the sindona and finally take advantage of the dead woman’s second gift …
He was in the disused part of the Dark Man’s Moon now, a silent warren of empty galleries and parlors, uninhabited bedroom suites, and abandoned workshops and libraries. It was here that the rearguard of the Vanished Ones had lived twelve times ten hundreds ago while they strove hopelessly to stem the advance of the Conquering Ice.
Denby had willingly given him permission to explore the ghostly rooms, apparently unmindful of what might be found there. Early in his incarceration, the prisoner had come upon the chamber of the dead woman and received her first precious gift. With its help, he had collected his small trove of magical devices; but they were useless, of course, so long as he remained Denby’s captive. The Dark Man was invulnerable to ordinary magic.
A long time later, after he had discovered the truth about himself and about the world’s imbalance, the prisoner had found the dead woman’s second gift: the means to escape this strange prison and its demented jailer. Her third and last gift, without which the other two were useless, he had found just two days earlier. There was no magic in this gift at all, and for that reason Denby had succumbed. The old man had not died, as the prisoner had hoped, but if the profound swoon only lasted a short while longer—
Star Man, where are you going?
Merciful Dark Powers, the sentinels had found him! Their voices rang in his brain like great brazen bells.
What have you done to the Archimage of the Firmament? What stolen goods do you carry in that sack? Answer us, Star Man!
At any moment they might materialize in the corridor with him. They would point their fingers in judgment—and his life would end in a puff of smoke while his naked skull bounced hollow on the floor.
Star Man, this is your final warning. Stop and explain yourself!
But he only continued to flee. Suddenly they appeared out of thin air, four of them, less than ten ells behind him and striding purposefully in pursuit. The sindona that were called Sentinels of the Mortal Dictum resembled living statues of ivory, taller than a man and more beautiful than any human being. They wore only crossed belts of blue and green scales and iridescent crown-helms, and they carried golden death’s-heads that symbolized their lethal duty. The pace of the sentinels was ponderous and deliberate and he kept well ahead of them, but he was nearly spent. His heart seemed about to burst and his legs were faltering and would not bear him much farther.
Where was her chamber? He should have reached it long ago! But the eerie corridor seemed endless, and the sentinels were drawing closer moment by moment. His vision reddened, then began to dim.
I am finished, he said to himself, and pitched forward toward blackness, losing his grip upon the sack. As he fell he took hold of his medallion in a last gesture of futile appeal. The Star seemed to lend him fresh strength. Lying there, he was able to lift his head and open his eyes.
He saw the four pale sindona, golden skulls cradled beneath their left arms, marching toward him. And he also saw that a miracle had been vouchsafed. He lay before a door, massively fashioned of solid metal, marked with a huge, tarnished likeness of the same many-rayed silvery Star he wore around his neck. The portal had neither latch nor keyhole. It was only a few paces away.
Like a dying thing, he crawled with agonized slowness, then lifted his medallion on its chain and touched it to the door.
No! cried the sentinels. Their right arms rose in unison to point annihilation toward him.
The door flew open. There within was the dead woman, seeming to turn her head and smile at him, silently offering sanctuary.
Somehow he was drawn swiftly inside and the door clanged shut behind him. He was enveloped in night—a night spangled with unblinking stars. The room was so cold that the breath was torn from his heaving lungs in a frosty cloud and the sweat coursing down his face turned to crackling ice. An involuntary moan escaped his stiffening lips. He had forgotten that one visited the dead woman only on her own terms.
Near paralyzed with pain and the intense cold, he pulled a cloak from his sack, flung it about himself, and drew up the hood, muffling his face to the eyes. Then he fumbled to pull on fur-lined gloves. Staggering to his feet, he stood with his back pressed to the locked door, fighting to reclaim control of his mind and body.
Would the sindona be able to break in and capture him?
The dead woman smiled serenely and seemed to say, No. Not without the explicit command of the Dark Man himself, and he is still bereft of his senses.
She sat in a thronelike chair, not really looking at him at all. One entire wall of her chamber was a gigantic window, and her glazed eyes, wide open, seemed to stare with rapt fascination at the scene outside. A shining blue-and-white sphere hung in the midst of a million untwinkling stars. The Garden Moon and the Death Moon were out of sight, tracing their course in the heavens somewhere behind the abode of the Dark Man, so there was nothing to detract from the heart-wrenching beauty of the vision. Uncounted leagues distant, the World of the Three Moons hovered like a massive clouded aquamarine.
The imperiled world. The world that was his home, that he alone could save. The world that had certainly been her home as well, twelve thousand years agone.
She had died with her eyes fixed longingly upon that blue orb, with one hand clasping a Star hanging on jeweled links at her breast and the other holding a curiously wrought little glass phial with a few frozen droplets remaining in it. Her body was perfectly preserved in the deep cold, dressed in rich garments of mournful black. Her hair was dark, streaked with silver. She had been middle-aged but of surpassing beauty, a prisoner like himself. The archives of the Dark Man had told him some of her tragic story:
Her name was Nerenyi Daral, and she had been the founder of the mighty Star Guild. One who loved her beyond all reason and loyalty had “saved” her from the fate that had befallen most of the other members of her group, only to see her voluntarily relinquish life rather than evade the Conquering Ice in his despised company. The loss of Nerenyi had driven Denby Varcour, greatest hero of the Vanished Ones and Archimage of the Firmament, out of his mind.
The prisoner bowed deeply before her body, trying to control his shivering. He could not live long in this rigorous place. If the dead woman’s second gift proved inoperative after aeons of disuse, he would surely freeze to death before Denby awoke and ordered the sentinels to seize him.
“I could not kill him after all, Star Lady,” he confessed to her. “Perhaps his magic protected him. But I suspect it was my own soul that demurred, unable to take his life in such a craven manner as he lay smilingly unconscious, replete with good food and wine. Should another day come when he and I meet in honorable magical combat, man-to-man, I will not hesitate to destroy him. Will that suffice?”
The voice that might have been hers replied, It will. Ha
ve you found the basic instruments of enchantment—those that will enable you to resume your work?
“I have.” He lifted the sack. “My Star eventually led me to all of them, even though it took some time. I am ready now to return to the world, regain the three pieces of the Sceptre of Power, and perform the task you have commanded.”
The Three will do their best to prevent you.
“Lady, no human being will stop me—not even the one I love. I swear it on the Star.”
When he had first found Nerenyi Daral, some instinct bade him touch his own medallion to hers … and the ancient magic of her Guild had done its work, granting him the full power of the Star at last. It was the dead woman’s first gift.
The second gift was a viaduct, one of those wondrous passageways that the Dark Man and the sindona used in order to travel instantly from place to place about the hollow moons. But this particular viaduct, invisible now, as its kind always were until an adept commanded their opening, led from the Dark Man’s Moon back to the world below. Its existence had been revealed to the prisoner on one of his later visits.
Nerenyi Daral had warned him that the Archimage of the Firmament would know instantly if anyone attempted to use the viaduct. And then Denby would either lock it or bid it convey the prisoner to some ghastly new place of captivity. Only if the Dark Man were killed or disabled would the passage lead to freedom.
A tiny glass container in Nerenyi’s hand had been her third gift. Sheer happenstance had finally drawn the thing to his attention two days ago and caused him to ask what it contained. When he found out about the poison, he began at once to plan his escape.
“I am ready to go now,” he told her. “Star Lady, I beseech you to open the world-viaduct for me.”
Do you swear on the Star to re-create my Guild and carry out its great purpose, restoring the balance of the world?