by Julian May
“Talisman,” he intoned, “now render me invisible.” He waited for a few heartbeats, then opened his eyes. Slowly, he lifted his hand in front of his face.
He saw nothing but the room and its furniture.
There was a small mirror mounted on the wall near the washstand, and he rushed to it. No face returned his gaze into the glass! The talisman had obeyed him.
He sat down on a stool and pulled off his boots (which immediately became visible once they dropped from his hands), and ran on tiptoe to the door. There he paused as a thought struck him, inspired by the reappearing boots. Would the Burning Eye seem to vanish when he picked it up? If it did not, and if Aunt Kadiya woke and saw it wafting away from her, borne by a magical force, she might lash out with her dagger. Invisible or not, if that happened he might be wounded or even killed.
He experimented, lifting the silver pitcher from its basin on the washstand, and uttered a groan of disappointment. Horrors! The thing did remain quite visible, seeming to float in midair. But then he collected himself, once more closed his eyes, and imagined that the pitcher disappeared. Without speaking aloud this time, he formulated a thought-command:
Talisman, render the pitcher invisible.
He opened his eyes. His fingers still grasped a smooth metal handle and his arm muscles were aware of a weight being held. But he saw nothing. Carefully, he put the invisible pitcher back into its basin. He heard a faint clink, withdrew his hand momentarily, then poked the unseen vessel. It was there, all right.
He found himself smothering a delighted laugh. He was getting the hang of it! Not even speech was truly needed. The thought was what counted in wreaking magic.
“Is that true?” he asked the talisman.
And the voice within him said: Yes.
Serious again, he caused the pitcher to reappear. Then he slipped out into the corridor and headed for his Aunt Kadiya’s room.
She had kept it, as always, at her side in bed; but when she awoke the next morning the Three-Lobed Burning Eye was gone, leaving only its empty scabbard. Jagun swore to her that no one had entered, for he had slept just outside her door. The Citadel servants and guards had noticed nothing unusual. Nevertheless the Burning Eye had undeniably been stolen.
What was worse, Haramis’s Three-Winged Circle refused to show the whereabouts of the magical broken sword, nor would it say who was the thief.
“This can only mean,” the White Lady said to her two badly shaken sisters, “that Kadi’s talisman is now bonded to another and empowered. There is no use attempting a physical search of Ruwenda Citadel. It is too vast, with countless potential hiding places. Besides, the thief is no doubt long gone with his booty. A search would not only be futile, it would also trumpet the fact of the second talisman’s theft and dishearten the people. Only we Three and Jagun must know of this.”
“Now we are surely lost,” the Queen said, her voice heavy with despair. “All this time, one of my own courtiers has had both the star-box and my purloined coronet! And now he owns the Burning Eye as well. The wretch is probably already on his way to a rendezvous with Orogastus! The situation is hopeless.”
“Don’t talk like a fool, Ani,” snapped Kadiya. “We will carry on—as we did once before when the sorcerer himself owned two talismans. Now that was a time seeming to be truly without hope—and yet we prevailed. If the Triune wills, we shall do so this time also.”
On the following day the three sisters said their farewells and quit Ruwenda Citadel.
The Archimage Haramis used her magic to transport herself instantly to her Tower on Mount Brom. There she began preparing proposals for the defensive conference in Derorguila, as well as devising instructions for those Folk who were to be entrusted with the blockade of the viaducts. After that she intended to search her own archives and those of the Blue Lady, in hopes of discovering a way either to control the invisible portals or to destroy them. She was not optimistic of swift success.
Kadiya, Prince Tolivar, Ralabun, and six of the Queen’s valorous Oathed Companions set off on the first leg of their journey to far Sobrania. The Prince was allowed to bring along a locked iron box of modest size, which he said contained certain of his most valued books.
Lightweight boats drawn by rimoriks would carry them through Lake Wum. After bypassing Tass Falls they were to travel down the Great Mutar through the vast Tassaleyo Forest to the Wyvilo town of Let, where they would take passage on an aboriginal tradeboat bound for the kingdom of Var and the Southern Sea.
The caravan with Queen Anigel, King Antar, and all of their court began the long journey northward to Labornok, which was expected to take at least thirty days. The Wet Time was now well and truly begun, and unrelenting rain poured down upon the long train of coaches, carts, riders, and foot travelers like a cataract from heaven.
In spite of the inclement weather, the advance of the slowly moving royal entourage through the swamp was marked by many a furtive eye.
7
By the time the traveling court was ten days out of the Citadel, Anigel was bored to death riding in her lumbering great carriage with Immu and the four ladies-in-waiting. The new Queen’s Mireway, opened only the previous year, was living up to its reputation as a great marvel of the world. It was as sturdy as any dryland thoroughfare, even in the exceptionally heavy rains that plagued the trip this year, and Anigel saw no reason why she should not go riding up and down the procession visiting and sightseeing, as the King and the royal children and the male members of the nobility did.
The women were shocked at her daring and tried to dissuade her, but the Queen swept their objections aside. After all, it was her mireway. For nearly six years she had supervised its construction, eking out funds from a shaky budget, coping with rebellious Glismak road-gangs and other aboriginal problems, and bolstering the confidence of engineers who insisted that certain sections of the thoroughfare could never be built.
Anigel lowered the coach window and called to a page riding hard by. “Summon the Royal Fronial Master.” She smiled at the perturbed noble ladies around her. “I refuse to travel shut up in a stuffy coach like an invalid simply because I am with child. It will not harm my unborn babes if I take to the saddle in the honest Ruwendian rain.”
“But such things are not done by pregnant queens!” exclaimed Lady Belineel. She was of an ancient Labornoki family, and only too eager to voice disapproval of the more easygoing Ruwendian customs.
Surprisingly, the old Nyssomu nurse Immu piped up in support of Belineel. “Your mireway is not Derorguila High Street, my Queen. It traverses some of the most dangerous country in the Peninsula, particularly in this section, and there is a scent of Skritek spawn in the air. I beg you to stay in the carriage.”
“Nonsense,” said Anigel. “I smell only muck and wet leaves and the spoor of harmless tarenials—and someone’s oversweet perfume, which is giving me a headache.” She called out the carriage window to the middle-aged peer she had caused to be summoned. “Lord Karagil, pray bring me a mount at once, and have my Oathed Companions attend me. I will ride for the rest of the day.”
“This is very unwise,” Immu said grumpily. “One shouldn’t take chances when spawn are about.”
The Fronial Master was equally dismayed at Anigel’s decision. “The Oddling nurse is right about the Skritek, my Queen, for our scouts have come upon fresh sign. It is unusual for the horrid offspring of the Drowners to range this far east, but—”
“Obey me,” said the Queen, her voice low and pleasant but her intent unshaken. “If my Oathed Companions cannot protect me from Skritek spawn, then it is time they turned in their swords and took up fancy needlework. I shall first visit with my Royal Husband, who is in the advance party.”
“Stubborn stubborn stubborn!” said Immu to Anigel, using the overfamiliar manner of venerable retainers. “It is indecent for a gravid royal woman to go off galloping amongst a cavalcade of soldiers and teamsters—even if there were no danger from spawn.”
“N
evertheless,” Anigel said blithely, “I am going.”
Immu besought the noblewomen. “Will not one of you ride with the Queen?”
But the ladies only made excuses and continued to remonstrate. Finally, Immu said, in besetment, “Then I will go myself!”
Anigel looked upon the Nyssomu nurse with some doubt. “You may certainly ride pillion with me if you insist, dear friend. But I daresay it will be most uncomfortable for a small person such as yourself, jouncing along at my back.”
Lord Karagil suddenly brightened. “I have an idea that may serve all purposes,” he declared, and rode off. He returned anon with two grooms, one leading a white fronial caparisoned royally for the Queen and the other bringing the she-beast’s gentle, half-grown colt, fitted out with an improvised saddle and bridle for Immu.
Happily, Anigel put on boots and a cloak. Accompanied by twenty knights of her Oathed Companions, and with Immu following resignedly on the long-legged colt, the Queen rode forward along the line of march until she reached the vanguard. There she found King Antar and his commander-in-chief, General Gorkain, dismounted at one of the new bridges that spanned a swollen tributary of the River Virkar. They were conferring with two aboriginal scouts clad in the livery of the Two Thrones. Lord Marshal Lakanilo and numbers of other noble officers sat their steeds close by, waiting upon the royal pleasure. They wore only light helmets and cuirasses beneath their raincloaks, as did the Oathed Companions, the King, and the General. A troop of well equipped men-at-arms and a single knight in full battle armor had gone down to the riverbank, where they prepared to board a large raft manned by two human boatmen and a Nyssomu guide.
King Antar greeted his wife and the other comers courteously, then showed Anigel the map he and Gorkain and the scouts had been studying.
“One of those infernal viaducts Haramis warned us about lies some six leagues downstream from here,” Antar told her. “Soldiers under Sir Olevik’s command have volunteered to guard it while the main body of our train passes by. They will travel on that raft.”
“But what can our brave men do,” the Queen asked in a low voice, “if villains should pop through the magical doorway while they are on watch? Soldiers cannot fight magic, and surely there will be no time to barricade the viaduct effectively.”
“No, my Queen,” General Gorkain admitted. “In truth, all that Sir Olevik and his force can hope for is to divert any invaders for a brief period, selling their lives dearly while their Oddling comrade bespeaks us fair warning.”
“They are brave hearts,” Anigel murmured.
“There is small chance of an attack by Star Men so soon,” Antar reassured her. “Nor is Orogastus likely to assail a huge, well-armed column such as ours. We are merely taking due precaution.”
“Within two tennights,” said one of the little Nyssomu scouts, “our Folk dwelling in this part of the Mazy Mire will have secured that viaduct, as the White Lady and the Lady of the Eyes have commanded. We will heap a tall mound of stone and soil over the site and set a guard.”
“It will be very hard for Star Men to emerge unnoticed from a viaduct after this is done,” said the other scout. “They will have to resort to powerful magic to dig their way out. This we will surely detect, and then sound the alarm in the speech without words.”
Anigel looked again at the map. “It seems there are no more viaducts near to the road until we reach the mountains. We can be thankful for that.”
A ragged cheer now arose from the Oathed Companions as the raft with Sir Olevik and his men pushed off from the shore. “May the Flower bless you,” the Queen called, sketching the sign of the Trillium in the air beyond the bridge railing, “and bring you back safely to our company.”
Those on the raft responded with spirited cries of their own, brandishing their arms. Then the raft rounded a bend and was lost to sight behind a dense stand of trees.
The advance riders resumed their slow progress through the rain, with Anigel and Antar riding side by side amidst the troop of knights, and Immu trailing behind the Queen. Coming after them at a fair distance was a parade over two leagues in length: volumnial-drawn wagons loaded with baggage of the court, more carts carrying food and supplies, fine coaches and carriages bearing the nobility and civil servants, royal officers and knights on fronial-back, and nearly a thousand other retainers both mounted and afoot. Double files of soldiery plodded along on either side of the main column, and the sound of their singing came softly through the swamp to the ears of those riding ahead.
The Queen was well content now, making proud inspection of her mireway. What had been from time immemorial an indistinct and hazardous track only negotiable in the Dry Time (and then, only by those possessing local knowledge or the secret maps of the Master Traders) was now a handsome paved road. Its elevated bed, formed of alternate layers of crushed rock and massive logs from the Tassaleyo Forest, stood three ells or more above the swamp and was surfaced with cobblestones. Wooden bridges had replaced the old fords of streams and rivers, save for the crossing of the broad Virkar at the edge of the Dylex country, where there was a ferry. Hostels with guardposts, sited a day’s journey apart, provided secure places where smaller parties of travelers or merchant caravans might rest; but the huge royal train perforce camped on the road itself, with only the royalty and elderly or infirm nobles taking shelter beneath hostel roofs.
The middle section of the mireway that the entourage now traversed was more narrow than the rest since it had been so difficult to build. Twisting nearly a hundred leagues between Bonar Castle and the Dylex city of Virk, this part of the road crossed a wilderness devoid of human habitation. Soaring trees and dense tangles of thorn-fern, vines, and nearly impenetrable vegetation hemmed in the mireway and even overhung it in many stretches, so that it sometimes seemed to Queen Anigel that they rode through a green tunnel curtained by misty rain.
The advance party made a halt at midday, eating cold food and resting while a welcome sun broke briefly through the clouds, causing the roadway to steam. But by the time the riders remounted, storm clouds had returned, together with a rising wind. Nevertheless Anigel found herself dozing in the saddle as the patient fronials moved slowly onward, their antlered heads bobbing, the tendons in their legs clicking, and their splayed hooves clip-clopping on the mossy stones. Overhead, the leaden sky became more and more oppressive, although the heavy rain held off.
The Queen was jolted into wakefulness when occasional whiffs of stomach-turning stench began to contaminate the wind. No one was much surprised when General Gorkain came riding back through the ranks of knights and saluted the King and Queen before delivering grim news.
“A scout reports freshly scoured raffin bones on the mireway ahead, and the cobbles show sign of Skritek spawn. We will halt here in order to close up the gap between our advance group and the main body of the caravan. The Lord Marshal and the Oathed Companions will provide Your Majesties with close escort, and foot-soldiery will come forward to accompany us until the danger is past. I have also sent a messenger to summon Crown Prince Nikalon and Princess Janeel. It is no longer safe for them to range up and down the procession casually with their young friends.”
“Very well,” said Antar. “You may carry on.”
The General touched his helm-visor in salute and spun his fronial about. But before he could ride away there were shouts from the knights ahead. “Spawn! Spawn on the road!”
Gorkain swore and spurred his mount forward, drawing his two-handed sword. Marshal Lakanilo and a dozen Oathed Companions closed in around the King, the Queen, and Immu, lances couched, while others of the elite group followed the General.
An excruciating foul odor spread through the air. For a time everyone was quiet and the only sounds were distant hoofbeats, the creak of harness, and the hiss and patter of the rain.
Then Immu whispered, “See there!” She pointed to a dark slough at the right of the mireway, half-screened by thornless fodderfern twice the height of a man.
Rising from the scummy water were dozens of glistening white shapes, some nearly the size of a human body, others much smaller. They resembled odious fat worms or grubs, lacking obvious heads but having stubby limbs equipped with razorlike claws. Their foreparts lifted as they reached the narrow verge beside the roadbed, revealing wide-open mouths with green teeth that dripped venom. The blind monsters swayed from side to side questing for prey, which they tracked with their keen hearing.
For an instant the riders were frozen with horror. Then one young knight exclaimed, “Zoto’s Stones, what detestable things! Like giant corpse-maggots!”
At the sound of his voice the Skritek spawn began humping and wriggling up the embankment toward the road.
King Antar’s longsword sang as it left its scabbard. “Follow me, Oathed Companions!”
He sent his fronial skidding down the steep slope, the Lord Marshal and the knights following closely after, and with a single sweeping stroke he smote one of the leading spawn in two. It disintegrated, splashing vile jellylike ichor all over the King. The Companions spitted other bloodthirsty Skritek young on their lances or put them to the sword, crying out in anger and disgust as they were also drenched by evil-smelling fluids from the spawn bodies.
Lakanilo’s fronial fell to the muddy ground, squealing in agony, its foreleg held fast in poisoned jaws. But the Companions raced to the Lord Marshal’s rescue, hauling him to safety, slaying the tenaciously clinging spawn, and granting merciful death to the doomed antilopine steed.
It was not long before all of the larvae were either killed or fled, leaving Antar and the knights beslimed from helm to heel. Victorious cries from the road ahead signaled that the other pod of immature Skritek had also been routed by Gorkain and his men.
“Well done,” cried Queen Anigel warmly.
But the King looked down upon his filthied person with a grimace. “Only the Triune knows how we shall remove this mess from ourselves, unless we take a headlong leap into the swamp and exchange mud for spawn-slime.”