by Julian May
Although Vispi Folk were notably hot-blooded, Magira was shivering violently from the intensity of her emotion, clasping her own body as if to fend off deadly chill. “Forgive me!” she wailed. She disappeared again briefly, as her kind were liable to do when gripped by strong emotion, and when she rematerialized she seemed more composed. “I beseech you most urgently to reconsider. Do not enter the viaduct that swallowed your sister the Queen.”
Haramis was sitting at a small table in her private sitting room, where she had been making a few last notes on her magical slate concerning a sea-search for ancient weapons to be conducted by the Mere Folk. It was nearly midnight, the time she had selected for her departure. The latest snowstorm to sweep the Ohogan Mountains had blown itself out, and the Three Moons shone brilliantly through the chamber window on a night of intense cold, silvering the leaves and flowers of the great Black Trillium plant in its pot.
“Magira, dear friend, my mind is made up,” the Archimage said with kindly firmness. “You must reassure the others and tell them that I do this only because I have no other choice. I am sorry that you are so distressed—”
Magira interrupted, speaking in a tremulous whisper. “White Lady, never before, during all the years I have served you, have I presumed to question your wisdom. But this journey you would make into the viaduct is different. You know that we Vispi are the most ancient of Folk, charged with special tasks by our Vanished creators. Over thousands of years, memories of our duties grew dimmer and dimmer, and much was forgotten or passed into legend. But our obligation concerning the viaducts has remained clear: we were commanded to shun them because they are mortally dangerous, and see that no other beings entered them inadvertently. If you go into one of those secret portals, we may never see you again! Only the Vanished Ones understood the way that the viaducts worked. Others who dared to enter never returned. It is said that the most awful thing about the viaducts is that they do not lead an intruder to clean death, but rather to a realm of unending horror where the soul abides alive, in an agony of fear forever, with no hope of escape.”
“I cannot simply remain here, waiting upon events,” Haramis said with determination. “Every day, I discover new mischief wrought by the minions of Orogastus. I have not yet told you of the latest enormity, which I confirmed only this morning. Seven other rulers besides my sister Anigel have mysteriously vanished: dear old Widd and Raviya of Engi, the Queen of Galanar, the King of Raktum, and the elected chief executives of Imlit and Okamis. All of them disappeared shortly before Queen Anigel was taken. No one in the affected nations would admit to me what had happened—doubtless for fear that the missing rulers will be slain. I only confirmed their absence through my talisman’s magic, after my requests to confer with them in person were oddly denied. I have since told the heads of state of Var, Zinora, and Tuzamen what has happened, and I have also cautioned King Antar. They will take stringent precautions against being kidnapped themselves.”
“Do you think that the captured human rulers were spirited away through viaducts, in the same manner as Queen Anigel?”
“Beyond doubt. And this makes it all the more urgent for me to locate the headquarters of the Star Guild myself, and as soon as possible. I can no longer wait while Kadiya takes a long sea journey to Sobrania. If I do not take action I can only yield the advantage to Orogastus. Do not fret about me, Magira. I shall go invisible into the viaduct that swallowed Queen Anigel, armed with my strongest magic.”
“But if aught goes awry—”
“I am confident that the Three-Winged Circle and the amulet of trillium-amber within it will keep me safe.” Haramis rose from the table, coming to Magira and laying her hand upon the chatelaine’s shoulder. “I have no other choice, dear friend. Kadiya was quite right when she pointed out to me that the viaduct through which Anigel was abducted is our only significant clue to the whereabouts of the villainous Star Men. It must certainly lead to a region not far from the Guild’s stronghold—if not within the very headquarters itself. I do not intend to attack the Star Men at this time, nor undertake any other rash encounters. I shall simply observe them. If all goes well, I’ll return before morning.”
The chatelaine bowed. “Very well, Lady. May the Lords of the Air defend you.” Magira left the room.
Haramis went into her bedchamber and donned a sturdy outfit she had had specially made by the Tower tailor, a hooded tunic and trousers of water-repellent white cloth. She also wore leather gloves and boots, and at her belt was a pouch with food and water and a small clasp-knife. Over this garb she fastened her Archimage’s cloak. After kneeling briefly in prayer, she lifted the Three-Winged Circle.
“Talisman, I command you to make me invisible to all viewers.” When this was accomplished she transported herself to that viaduct in the Mazy Mire through which her sister the Queen had been kidnapped.
As the usual crystalline vision of her destination attained solidity, Haramis found herself standing on a small patch of high ground in the midst of the flooded swamp. It was night and raining dismally, but her magic gave her clear sight of the locale. She had been here before, of course, seeking clues to Anigel’s abduction. The trampled mud round about the site of the viaduct had long since been smoothed by the unrelenting downpour. The only peculiar thing about the place was a nearly imperceptible straight line an ell or so in length that persistently indented the soggy earth. Her talisman would have called forth the viaduct had she made the request, but it was high time that she used nonmagical means for the summoning.
Haramis conjured in her mind a vision of the uncanny portal, at the same time that she softly said, “Viaduct system activate.”
And it was there, heralded by the usual bell-chime, a tall disk blacker than the shades of night, standing on edge within its notch in the ground and faintly haloed with pearly light. It had no thickness and both its front and back surfaces were identical. It mattered not which way the thing was entered by a would-be traveler.
Haramis remembered from her cursory examination of Iriane’s book that the viaducts had two principal modes of operation. One might simply step in and be taken automatically to a preordained destination, as she herself had once traveled from the Kimilon Plateau to Iriane’s home in the Auroral Sea. Or, one might enter and simultaneously give a rather complex mental command, asking to be transported to the place of one’s choice. Haramis did not intend to risk the latter option until she understood the viaducts much better.
The only sign that this wondrous device of the Vanished Ones was more than an impenetrable ebon cutout was a faint breath of moving air emanating from it. Earlier, when Haramis had experimentally activated this particular viaduct but had not dared to enter, that breeze from nowhere had carried a pleasant woodsy scent. Now, oddly enough, the smell was unmistakably that of baking bread!
She asked her talisman, “Where does this viaduct lead?”
The Three-Winged Circle replied, The question is impertinent.
She sighed. It was as she had expected. The viaduct would yield up its secret only in one way. She stepped inside.
Now she felt again the same horrid suffocation she had experienced while traveling to the Blue Lady’s northern realm, the same sense of hanging suspended in nothingness while her mind exploded to the accompaniment of a gigantic, throbbing musical note.
The trip to Iriane’s artificial iceberg had taken scarcely a moment. But this passage was more prolonged, bringing Haramis to the edge of panic as the explosion seemed to go on and on, separating the very fabric of her body into its component atoms, scattering them beyond any hope of retrieval, leaving her soul adrift in a hammering void.
Oh, dear God, she thought. Have you abandoned me after all? Am I trapped here in the dark forever? …
“Welcome.”
She heard a raspy voice, smelt the wonderful homey scent of fresh bread more strongly, felt sudden warmth and a firm surface beneath her feet, saw—
A very old man with a brownish complexion and silvery e
yes with great black pupils nodded at her. He was grinning in delight. Obviously, the talisman had not rendered her invisible to him. His white hair was curly, standing out from his pate like sparse zuch-wool. He wore a floor-length robe of dusty black with a hem border of tarnished diamond glitter, and over it an ordinary cook’s apron badly in need of laundering.
She gaped at him, astonished beyond speech. They stood in a kind of foyer, with the standing black disk of the viaduct in the center and four corridors extending away into dim distance like the spokes of a wheel. The old man beckoned for her to follow him a short distance down one of the hallways and turned into an open door. The chamber was brightly lit, cluttered, and bizarre—but nonetheless recognizable as some kind of kitchen. Along one gleaming greenish wall was a metal counter crowded with baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables, transparent crocks of honey, colorful jars of jam and conserves, and neat little vials of dried spices. Copper pots and pans hung from ceiling hooks, and on cupboard shelves stood smallish machines of unknown function and an astonishing variety of ceramic boxes and containers, all labeled in an unfamiliar alphabet.
In the middle of the room stood an oddly styled table with a stool beside it. It held a large glass bowl covered with a red-checked towel, a greased metal sheet having coarsely ground meal scattered on it, a floured board, a saucer of pale bubbly liquid with a brush in it, a lump of butter on a plate, and a large serrated knife. Against another wall were what appeared to be more storage cupboards, and also several singular doors with little windows in them, one of them obscurely illuminated within. Above it a glowing red gem blinked slowly.
“Just in time, too!” the old man giggled. “I know I should let it cool, but it tastes so much better fresh out of the oven.”
He picked up a pair of padded-cloth pot holders and opened the bejeweled wall door, whisking out a sheet with three long, narrow, golden-brown loaves upon it. He slammed the oven door (causing the red light to wink out) and transferred the bread to a wire rack. Then he took off his apron and began to wash his floury hands at a marvelous sink with no pump, which apparently produced both hot and cold water if one simply willed it.
“We haven’t met formally,” the elderly man continued, looking at her over his shoulder as he shook off excess water and fumbled with another checked towel. “I’m Denby Varcour, your celestial colleague.” He spun about, struck a pose, and pointed his right index finger at the smoking bread. “Can’t wait. Pachoof!” He giggled as one of the long loaves executed a kind of skip, rising minimally into the air and then dropping back onto the rack. “Yes! That’s cooled it just enough.”
Taking a handsome wooden tray from a sideboard, he began loading it up, opening one cupboard after another. He found two faceted crystal plates and matching mugs, and a pair of small silver spreading knives. He took a glass pitcher of white liquid from what was apparently a magical cold-vault located next to the sink, then grabbed the plate of butter from the table, the big saw-toothed knife, and the loaf of bread he had lately enchanted.
“Do you fancy jam or meat-paste?” he inquired.
She could only shake her head mutely.
“Quite right. Plain and simple’s the best, I say! Come along.”
He kicked at a swinging door, which opened wide into a large room of surpassing untidiness that seemed to be a study or library. The shelves contained not only books but also transparent holders full of the magical slates that she knew were the reference materials of the Vanished Ones. Peculiar metal contrivances that might have been scientific instruments stood here and there on stands. Marching ahead of her, Denby plopped the tray down onto a wooden table in front of an expanse of closed blue velvet draperies. Beside the drapes was a tall round door having a very elaborate bejeweled plaque instead of a latch or knob.
A conjuring flick of Denby’s finger sent books, papers, and mysterious small black gadgets cascading off the table onto the carpeted floor, giving room for them to eat. He drew out a leather chair and bade her to be seated, then plumped down into another chair opposite her.
“Forgot the napkins,” he observed, twinkling. “But never mind. One of the tenders will oblige.” He snapped his fingers. In a moment, an amazing little machine like a mechanical lingit with an open box for a body pushed through the kitchen door and crept up to the table. One of its many jointed limbs took two folded linen squares from its back compartment and laid them neatly beside each plate.
“Will there be anything else, master?” the thing inquired in a buzzy small voice.
“Perhaps a cup of tea?” Denby asked Haramis.
She shook her head, still too bemused to speak.
Denby told the machine, “Pick up the stuff on the floor and put it on the desk over there.” Then he folded his gnarled hands and bowed his head. “Thanks be to the Source of Eternal Light for this good food.” Seizing the loaf, he gleefully sawed it into slices with the bread-knife. It was still hot enough to steam slightly. He slathered butter on both their portions and filled the mugs from the pitcher. “It’s nice cold volumnial milk. You still drink it down there, don’t you?”
“Yes …” She picked up her piece of bread, stared at it for a moment, then lifted her eyes to her host. “You are he. The Archimage of the Firmament.”
His mouth stuffed full, the old man gave a blissful nod.
“Was it you, then, who abducted my sister the Queen and the other human rulers?”
Denby shook his head, still chewing. “Jus’ you. Necess’ry.” The old man downed a gulp of milk, then wiped his greasy fingers on his napkin. “Temp’rarily changed Oro’s programming of the viaduct to bring you for a visit. O’ course I’m able to countermand anybody else’s transportation directives.”
“Then … Anigel and the others are not here?”
“No. But you most indubitably are! And to stay—at least for a while.” He began to laugh uproariously, wheezing and rocking back and forth, flinging crumbs in all directions. The small domestic machine patiently began cleaning up the mess.
Haramis was striving to keep control of her emotions. “What do you mean—‘to stay’?”
“Oh, dear child! We’ll have such wonderful talks, you and I. You must tell me all about your life—and the lives of your sisters as well. I’ve been so disgusted with the world below, sunk in melancholic despair. What to do, what to do! I arranged for Orogastus to be born before Binah came up with the new scheme, and from the start I thought that hers was silly and futile. But sentimental Iriane loved it, and between the two of them they bullied me into giving it a try. I couldn’t believe three young girls would be able to set things right when we’d tried and failed, but you triplets did find the pieces of the Sceptre. It seemed that there might be something magical about you after all—something to do with the way you focused and influenced the threads of worldly destiny. Petals of the Living Trillium combined with the resurgence of the Star! Magical science versus scientific magic! I never did divine the straights of it myself, and now it doesn’t matter. You ultimately failed, just as I knew you would. But I’ll see that it all comes right in the end. Wait and see.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Haramis said in great bewilderment.
He gave a crafty wink. “It’s genuine magic in that trillium-amber of yours—quite beyond the magical science of the Star and the Archimagical College. Most intriguing—and dangerous as well! I was half-afraid the amber might prevent my bringing you here and winding it all up, but everything worked splendidly.”
She decided that he was certainly mad, just as Orogastus had said, but she gave calm reply. “I am sorry that I cannot accept your kind invitation to stay, Archimage of the Firmament. In plain fact, I intend to leave you at this very instant. Other important business demands my attention.” She grasped the Three-Winged Circle, visualized her Tower on Mount Brom, and awaited the crystalline vision that always preceded her magical transport.
Nothing happened.
The zany good humor left Denby�
�s face as swiftly as a footprint in sand is obliterated by an ocean wave, leaving his countenance grimly triumphant. He stood up, leaning his knuckles on the table, and his voice, formerly cracked and enfeebled, now had a metallic resonance. “The magic you learned from Iriane won’t work here, Haramis. It draws its potency from the land which is your personal archimagical domain. Neither will the talisman obey you, because its power derives from planetary well-springs, and you are beyond their sphere of influence as well. The only way out of here is through the viaducts that I control—or that way.” He chortled, nodding at the round door beside the drapes. It was made of a metallic black material, with a single enormous hinge. “But that door leads to a release that is eternal, and only I myself will ever pass through it.”
Haramis’s face was alight with anger. “Denby, I warn you—”
“Resign yourself, Archimage.” The condescending smile reappeared. “I intend that you shall stay with me until the time is appropriate for you to leave.”
“And I say you are wrong! For I can still call upon a third source of magical power that has been mine since my birth.” Haramis touched the silvery wings shielding her trillium-amber and they spread open, revealing a tiny bright light like a golden star. Denby gave a squawk of dismay as she got up and went to the round door. “You were quite right about the magic of my amulet,” Haramis continued. “It is independent of the talisman and capable of aiding me in many ways. I regret that I shall be unable to discuss them with you. Suffice to say that the amber will open every lock in this dwelling of yours—including this one.”