Under The Stairs

Book #1 in the Bandworld Series

John G. Stockmyer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 John G. Stockmyer

Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

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About this Smashwords Edition

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Acknowledgements

Cover Art: Peter Ziomek

Peter Ziomek is a graphic designer, comic book artist and instructor in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Peter received his B.S. in Graphic Design from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. He lived in Chicago for 14 years before moving to New Mexico in 1995. He is currently the Vice President and active creator with the New Mexico self publishers group 7000 B.C. He uses a combination of digital and traditional media to create works that range in style from cartoon to realistic. Influences include two-dimensional patterns, the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics, The Simpson's comics, Jeff Smith's Bone and brother Paul Ziomek. He is currently co-creating an all-ages comic book entitled "Fakin' the Funk" with Paul Ziomek. You can check out Peter's work at: www.overthetopcomics.com and www.7000bc.com .

Cover Design: Jeremy Taylor and John L. Stockmyer

Jeremy Taylor is the Assistant Director of Business Operations and Outreach at Adams State College in Alamosa, Colorado. He received his Bachelor's Degree in Business Administration (Marketing Major) from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico.

Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in ecommerce, audio-book production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media and innovative technology. Thank you for helping us shake up the publishing industry!

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Chapter 1

Cold! Even in her dreams the girl was cold. Even though she dreamed of her childhood in warm Malachite, of days before the black robed priests of Stil-de-grain had stolen her away. As she dreamed of a brightly colored flutterby, reaching out to touch it, she twisted on the stone shelf that was her bed, her chain snubbing tight, the iron manacle digging into her wrist so that she moaned aloud. Cold ... though she dreamed of running under a bright, green sky.

She heard her mother call. "Platinia."

She was awake ... listening with all her being, fearful that she had heard a footstep in the rough, flag-stoned hall beyond her cell. Could she also see motes of light edging the locked door at room end? Quicker than thought, she sat up to crouch back until the iron cuff cut into her slender wrist.

With all her strength, she steeled herself against the terror! Surely it was only that the night had past. That the priest was coming to display her in the sanctuary.

Footsteps. Slow. Solemn. Shuffling. She could hear them plainly now, no longer a hope that the light beneath the door was another dream. Desperately, she wished those sounds to be on other business. Surely they would pass her by ... this time.

They came nearer. She began to pant. Chills racked her as she rolled into a frightened ball.

The great ring of keys thudded against the outside of the ponderous door; a single key fumbled into the lock, scraped, turned with a heavy click. The rusty hinges groaned as torch light dazzled in to blind her.

Then, in the light, she saw a form. Not the narrow priest who came to take her to the sanctuary, but the vast, shadowed bulk of the head priest!

Now it was time to scream! And scream! And scream again!

Three, threatening shadows shuffled in. One was the fat priest, the leader mumbling a hoary prayer-chant through his loose, thick lips, all the time placing heel to toe, mincing closer, head bowed, hands clasped above his head, long fingernails entwined.

Two apprentice priests were close behind, hands within the flowing sleeves of thick, black robes.

With the part of her mind, the part still sane, the girl knew it did no good to scream. For she had screamed before and begged and prayed to die ... and would again. And yet she screamed out every gasp of breath.

Would the priest have needles, heat them before sticking them beneath her fingernails? Or keep her eyelids open with small sticks, her eyes drying, burning so that, if they let her, she would claw them out? Or would he drag out her tongue to stick needles through it until she fainted from the pain!?

His droning chant finished, the priest waved the apprentices forward, motioned them to seize the girl.

She fought! Bit! Scratched! But they quickly overpowered her, the burliest grabbing her wrists, twisted them together, pinned them in one hand. With his other hand he grabbed her hair, wrenched back her head. The second priest threw himself across her legs so she could not kick, then unlocked the manacle on her chain.

Pulling her up, stretching her between them by her arms, they dragged her, crying, twisting, begging, to the sacrificial table in the small room's center and scraped her up over its edge. Holding her on her back, they spread her arms wide and tight so they could clamp her hands to the iron cuffs fastened to the stone table top. One taking each ankle, they spread her ankles wide and clamped each ankle into the irons set at the table's edges. After that, one smoothed her tunic while the other choked her by the neck to keep her still so he could brush her hair from her sweat-sheened face. They always did this before torture.

The head priest, moving quickly for his age and bulk, had waved alight the angled torches thrust out around the room's slick walls.

After the lighting, seeing she had been trussed fast, knowing he was safe from her no matter what he did, the old priest waved the younger ones away, the young priests, bowing, turning, closing the door behind them.

She was alone with the tormentor!

Exhausted now, grappling fast to her remaining shred of thought, she knew what she must do. Freeze her heart. Control her mind. Probe for a weakness in this priest. ............. But she could find no mercy in him. His thoughts, his feelings were about his god. He was ... in prayer ... asking Fulgur to reveal the torture that would give that god the strength to fight off darkness. Though the priest's eyes were open, they were blank, his mind in prayer.

And so she lay, scream-drained. Her only hope that Fulgur would be satisfied, this time, with less than mindless anguish.

As the priest's silent prayer continued, careful to make no sound that would return his mind to earth, she raised her head, straining to see what devices he had brought. Not a flask of water, surely. She would have noticed that. This time, at least, he would not force fabric into her nose and mouth, soaking the close weaved cloth with water until, no matter how desperately she tried, she could not breathe. Only when he had suffocated her into unconsciousness would he allow her to gasp in air until she was awake -- then drown her with the water-cloth again. Again. Again. Strangling her. Choking her into oblivion!

Nor had he a box for ants. This time, he would not stick a hollow tube of wood into her mouth, pour honey in, shake ants through the tube to crawl past her tongue and down her throat to seek the honey. Thinking of this, of their sticking legs and biting jaws, she gagged; tried to retch, hoping to suck the vomit into her lungs so that she would drown. .......

Try as she might, she could not do it.

As quickly as it had begun, the prayer was over. She could feel the priest's thoughts returning to the room, sense his excitement, feel his pleasure at the thought of making her writhe in pain for him and for his god.

Looking up, she saw the crazed, erotic smile that creased his sagging cheeks as he fumbled within a fold of his robe ... to remove ... a small, green flask. A ewer she knew well! Only a drop from it upon her flesh was agony to the bone! The lightest brush of it on lips and tongue would bury her in pulsing waves of pain! Seeing the vial drove all other thought away but one. Where would he spread the sear-drops on her body? Where ... this time?

Frantically, she tried to think of some way to make him use too much so that she would die. No. No. Too clever, was this priest. He would not let her pass that easily into death. Not until his god's good time.

For an eternity she lay, stretched, helpless, waiting. For an eternity the priest knew the pleasure of anticipation, shifting in his mind the thrills he would feel at her suffering if he dropped the liquid here ... or there ... or there ...

Then, he had decided, was tearing at her tunic, jerking it up, exposing her thighs, stripping the thin cloth above her bare, angled hips. No! Not there! She could not stand it if he touched the liquid to her there!

Fiercely, she raised her head, strained it high, slammed it back upon the stone. Again! Again! Struggling to lift her head higher, ever higher, her fixed desire to beat her mind to senselessness.

But ... had there been a change? In the priest's emotions? She lay still again, opened her eyes to dizziness, trying to see through sweat tangled wisps of hair. In spite of the ringing, the throbbing in her head, did she see ...? Did she feel ... lust ... in the priest's thoughts? Yes. He, too, had paused, was staring at her body, naked below the waist. There had been a transformation. She sensed his confusion, felt he did not know which pleasure he desired the most.

Now was her time! She must penetrate his thoughts, separating out the lust, strengthening it while keeping her mind away from the pleasure he would feel at giving her pain. Quavering with the effort, she tried to concentrate.

Slowly, with her mind, she probed delicately at the jumbled emotions of the priest, strengthening his lust, willing his thoughts away from the sick need to rend her flesh, prodding him to imagine the pleasure he would receive from having her, increasing his craving to throb deep within her, showing him that knifing into her helpless body would give him pleasure as it caused her pain. Had he thought of spreading the liquid on her body first, then of rape? She trapped that feeling with her mind, tried to alter it. He must be made to see he could not ravage her after using the torture-drops, lest he get the searing liquid on himself. For the merest fraction of a moment she allowed herself to feast upon the glee she would feel as her excruciating pain was transferred to his sensitive parts. But she could not indulge herself this way. She must reserve her mind for his alone.

And ..... he was lowering the bottle, bending to put it on the floor.

Exhausted with the effort, she panted in some strength. The priest was tearing off his robe, drool slobbering to drip on rolls of aged fat below his wrinkled chest. His weight would crush her as his nether sword ripped into her bowels. Better than the searing liquid. Better than the torment he and his god had planned for her.

She closed her eyes, safe at last.

Was there a noise? The door opening? She must focus on the priest. Nothing was as important as to inflame his passion for her. There were sounds. Shut them out.

Except that the priest's mind had changed -- to fear -- to terror -- to suffering -- to ....... nothing. Unconsciousness, nothingness. The link between her mind and his had snapped.

She was confused, terrified again!

She lifted her head to see that the priest was gone. In his place, stood another ... man! ... A man she had not seen before. A man ... in .... She had never seen a priest so dressed. Thinking, did she remember men with the king, men with that dress? Many full-lights ago. The king's guard?

But ... where was the priest? Had he left the room? Was he beyond her reach? Was that what had broken the connection?

Struggling to lift her head once more, she saw the foreign man bend below her sight, rise up again, walk to the bottom of the table below her stretched and opened legs. He had ... the key ... was unlocking her ankle. One. Then the other.

With great effort she closed her legs, her thighs weak, shaking, the muscles strained, her calves covered with cold sweat.

The man was at the side now, the girl turning her head to watch as he unlocked her wrist. Wearily, eyes upside down, she rolled her head to follow him as he crossed behind her to unlock the other cuff. Not knowing what might provoke him, she eased her arms to her sides, lying still for fear of him, holding her mind within her body, not knowing what to do. He had not hurt her yet. But he was a man ... like the priests.

The man motioned her to rise, clasped her arm to help her sit, supported her as she dragged her numb legs over the table's side. Trying to stand on wooden feet, he gripped her under the armpit. "Follow me," said the strange man, his voice the growl of cold command, his rough tones echoing from the hard walls of the narrow, high ceilinged, flame lit room. Looking at his face, she could see that he was cruel, a hard-faced man with old, white scars on cheek and forehead. A dagger was in his belt.

Holding her, he pulled her across the room. There, still supporting her, he paused to wrest open the heavy door, the girl looking back to see the priest lying on the other side of the sacrificial table, blood oozing from the thin slit in the priest's fat throat, the last of it dripping softly into a thickening, red pool.

The girl spent, panting, she sagged against the man, the man shifting his arm to her waist to hold her up while he forced the door and guided her through the opened slab.

There was noise in the high hall. And other men dressed like this man, but more dully. Running past. Waving bloody swords. Yelling, but pausing to salute the man beside her. They were the man's soldiers. She could feel that in their many thoughts.

Down the hall she saw ... other priests ... lying on the floor. Bloody. Dead. Killed by the men. Even at faint-point, she felt joy at the destruction of the priests!

The man beside her was giving orders now, her mind not comprehending.

The girl awoke to find herself in the sanctuary, the man still keeping her upright, pressing her back against the gilded altar. Her head lolling back, she opened her eyes to see the many torches circled below the room's domed ceiling, the torches forever lighted to illuminate the bands of color on the dome -- violet at the center, circled by blue, then green, yellow, orange, with red bordering the outside -- to simulate the sky at full-light. Looking down, she saw that the golden chains were dangling, the chains that held her when she was taken there for viewing by shrine-supplicants. More awake, she realized that the man had not clamped the chains to her wrists, did not seem to know the purpose of the chains. Instead, he was waiting, waiting for his men to come into the room. ... And they did, in twos and threes, still waving swords, still yelling.

Alert again, the girl reached into the emotions of the men, finding barbaric rage, the killing frenzy still upon them. Concentrating, she strengthened their darkest thoughts, the men yelling anew. Until the man at her side, though he was shouting at them, trying for control, could not be heard.

The others, eyes wild, rushed out the back again, swords above their heads.

Alone, the man at her side cursed loudly, steadily.

The man's men straggled back at last, hanging their heads, tired, soaked with blood.

"Form up!" the man at her side commanded as they entered. "Form up!" And they did, making ragged rows. Many men. More men.

"Have you gone insane?" their Head snarled when the last man had completed the back row. "Have you forgotten the king's command? Do you wish your heads to hang before the city gates on gibbets?"

At that, the men straightened, were soldiers once again. "It is time that we left this place. Past time!" The man's voice worked on the girl's skull like a priest-drill grinding into the nerves of her back teeth. "Riss!" A man with a yellow band across his chest stepped forward, head bowed. Remembering, the man looked up to salute, then ducked his head once more. "Have you organized the party that will create the fraudulent trail to Realgar?"

"Yes, Head Soldier," said the man, saluting feebly.

"No one must see you make that false path. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Head." The man with the sash saluted, this time more smartly.

"Then do as you have been commanded!"

At that, the sash-man, turning on his heel, signaled to some others, several forming a unit. On command, they quick stepped after the man with the golden sash -- to trot out of the sanctuary. "You!" the Head soldier said to another. "You will disguise our true course. You can do that, can you not?"

"Yes, Head Soldier."

"You and you," the Head signaled, "take the girl. I will lead. No one must see us near this place. It is Yarro's command. Your heads on it if we are discovered!" They saluted, then stepped forward, one to each side of the girl, turned, each gripping her by an arm. "Follow me."

The Head stalking passed them to the sanctuary back, the soldiers (supporting the girl to either side) coming next, the rest of the men wheeling to follow, their feet marching.

Into the vast hall they went, the girl stumbling, glancing back to see she had tripped over a mangled arm. Shocked into wakefulness, she looked down the hall to see the remains of priests, their bodies sawed to bits, heads hacked free of necks and kicked against the walls. Priest-blood was smeared up the walls as high as men could jump. Hands, legs and hunks of red, body meat were gathered in strange and bloody piles. Though the soldiers had killed the priests, the girl knew this mutilation was her work.

This was how she wished to think of priests! As long as she should live!

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Chapter 2

John Lyon woke up feeling drugged. Where was he? Oh, yes. In his new home. Not new, of course. Old. The real estate lady had been right about that, at least. His exploration of what passed for a basement had confirmed it. Though he wasn't an American historian, he knew enough about early construction to guess that the house was right at a hundred, maybe older. The hand wrought nails said so. As did the pegged construction and tongue and groove carpentry. Sure, there were a lot of manufactured nails -- but they'd been used to add rooms to the central, limestone core.

John rolled over, tired as only the insomniac can be but, at the same time, wide awake.

Rain. A sound like fine sand sifting steadily upon the stretched head of a giant drum. In a normal person, a guarantee of sleep.

Lying in bed, he felt depression dull his senses, why, he didn't know. For he had made the right move. From Indiana State to Kansas City.

About buying this house, John wasn't so sure .......

It had been on a bright, mid-September afternoon, an hour after his last Western Civ. class, that Madge, the fat and forty-fivish real estate lady had picked him up at his apartment. (Large of voice and bubbling with personality on the phone, she'd found out all the salient facts: that John was new in town; that he had no friends here; that he knew nothing about the Northland area; and that he wanted a house that was small and inexpensive.

If there were any surprises in the flesh, it was that -- "Just call me Madge, honey," -- was not as lively as he thought she'd be. Sober from the beginning, she'd become morose as she "granny turned" her Cadillac on Troost, soon to cut right onto a slab of unfinished road between 78th and 79^th.

Bottoming the soft-sprung car off the end of the pavement, she began herding the white Caddy down a thicket-enclosed, one-lane (used to be gravel) road. Past a rusted NO EXIT -- PRIVATE ROAD sign strangled by scraggly bushes, the road so overgrown that foliage continually brushed the car, each scrape twitching Madge's ample, imitation cherry, cheeks. Bounding over cross-erosion-rills for a mile, Madge jerked the car to the right, braking to a dusty, swaying stop.

Their apparent destiny was a homely, two story house of weathered, irregularly cut limestone, the old building surrounded by a tangle of spiraea bushes, the house all alone in the center of an acre of scrub woods.

For her part, after wedging herself out of the car, Madge did her real estate best to gush over the house. Waddling ahead of him through tall, brown weeds, she'd natter on about how little upkeep there was to limestone.

On the porch, trying key after key in the lock on the weathered oak door, she praised the quality of solid doors over the shoddy construction of more modern, hollow ones.

A good effort, considering the fact that Madge didn't like the house. Not at all.

Finding the right key, she'd taken him on the standard tour complete with memorized script about how a "handy" man would love this "fixer upper," bravely stepping (on Miss Piggy feet) over the dried skins of antique mice.

The place was a hard sell, of course. Vacant for years. For decades.

The old structure had the standard stairway beyond the front door, a living room to the left, downstairs bedroom to the right (which could be John's study) a narrow kitchen at the back, dirt floor basement, and a connecting storm "cellar" into the hill behind the house. Tornadoes, you know. Good for an atomic bomb shelter, too.

Sure.

The down stairs viewed, they'd climbed the stairs (a few well placed wooden wedges would stop that creaking, she enthused) both of them careful to avoid the carcass of a sparrow at the top, the bird reduced to an open beak, hollow skull, and tattered wings.

The second story had two bedrooms, what used to be diamond patterned wallpaper shredding off walls in scraggly strips. Ahead was an old fashioned bathroom with chipped porcelain wash stand, the bowl braced in front on battered metal legs. Against the far wall was a claw footed tub that would have to be replaced. The stool was the small-circle-of-water-at-the-bottom kind.

No water on, of course, rust to dribble from the pipes for days assuming the water could be turned on at all. Of course, the pipes could be made of rust free lead ... and so, poison him over time.

Downstairs again, Madge repeated the only thing the house had going for it. "And, you'll have to agree, John, that the price is right."

Madge looked at her watch, what she saw panicking her. "But ... ah ... it's getting late ...."

John glanced at his watch. Four-ten.

"Late?"

"Well ... it gets dark fast this time of year," she'd said, nervously checking her watch, actually tapping it with one, long, press on, iridescent fingernail as if afraid the watch had stopped. "And ... well ... I have a client flying in from California. Have to meet him at the airport ...."

Though it was doubtful if Madge was telling the strict truth about a "California" client, he'd seen enough. "I'll take it."

The deal clinched, Madge... fled?? to her car. Strange behavior, John had thought at the time.

The contract signed at Madge's office, and the house was his.

Two months for carpet, pipes, and paint, (20 workmen feverishly pounding, painting, and installing for premium pay) ... and he'd been in his house for a week. ...... Only to discover he was as depressed here as he'd been in the apartment. Even more so now that the construction excitement had stopped. ..............

John must have dozed ... found himself awake once more. What was that sound? Rain. And ... voices? Not likely. Not out here. ............ It sounded like ... chanting ... No. ... Nothing. ... Just noises in an old house.

No matter how down he'd been feeling, all was well. If only John could find some way to convince himself of that.

There were the nosebleeds he'd been having, of course. But that was due to dry air -- the summer, one long drought -- the atmosphere mausoleum-arid inside the house, its wood parched by years of unoccupancy. Only had nosebleeds here. Never at school.

Already in debt, he might as well go on to install a humidifier on the new furnace. They didn't jail you for debt any more. Half the people in America had ancestors who'd been shipped over from debtor's prisons. .... Aprilaire ......

John Lyon woke up again, this time to the sound of his alarm.

Flogging himself with the work ethic he'd learned in college, John dragged himself out of bed; forced himself through his morning routine, ending with a light blue shirt, darker pants, and matching tie.

Downstairs, he gagged down half a bowl of Wheaties, fed Cream, got her fresh water, petted her, and sprinkled some fresh litter in her box. Then petted her again, wishing he could do nothing all day but stay home, hold Cream, and run his fingers through her long, thick fur until anesthetized against his life.

But he couldn't.

Leaving the house, spooning himself into his old Mazda, he roared off down the access road, winding up the RX 7's rotary through another October dawn.

Again, he played the game: how fast could he go and still careen to a stop before plunging out of the "forest" onto Troost.

On campus in 20 minutes, John keyed himself into the office complex, then into his two man cubbyhole (made even smaller by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two walls) a coffin sized space which he shared with his department head and friend, Paul Hamilton.

A great bear of a man was Dr. Paul, "reared up," a trophy sized 6 foot three. English historian. A balding, 45 year old bruin -- outgoing, friendly, favorite of students and colleagues. Married, of course, with the average 2.5 children, Paul's wife due again in several months.

It was Paul who'd made John's move to Kansas City less wrenching, Paul soon to come lumbering in.

And ... from the sound of the outer door flung open, from the thumping of footsteps on the thin carpet ... here he was!

"Good morning, John," growled the deep voice of Dr. Paul Hamilton, the big man squeezing through the office doorway, John swiveling to look up at him. You had to smile when Paul was in the room.

"How are you?"

"Great, great," said Dr. Paul, as he dropped into his groaning chair. Paul had on a colorful short-sleeved shirt as usual, no tie, tan slacks. Yawning, the department chairman put one, size 13 shoe on his desk, half pivoting to wink at John.

"But enough small talk." Paul grinned. "Ellen says I'm to drag you over to the place this Saturday night for supper." Ellen was Paul's artist wife.

"Sounds good." Even though Paul was doing his chairman's duties to cheer up the new man, it was another night that John wouldn't have to be alone.

"And now for the bad news. My wife has a cousin coming to town on Sunday. About your age -- a little younger, maybe. And Ellen wants to fix you two up for a date Sunday night."

"Sing for my supper?" The bitter truth was that John had no interest in women since he'd fumbled away his relationship with Janet. "I can't breathe muddy water," had been Janet's excuse for wanting out. Exactly the way John felt ever since.

Making John just another empty, aging youth with brown-blond hair and what people called "regular features" -- regular nose, regular ears, regular teeth. The only "irregular" thing about him was what Janet had once called "startlingly green eyes."

John was alone except for Cream, his cat incapable of love, of course, but would at least rub against him when he was about to feed her.

"The truth is," Paul was saying, wrinkle lines forming across his broad forehead, "that I don't know what this cousin looks like." The chairman smoothed back his thinning, all black hair. "Some of Ellen's relatives are passable. Others ..." He waved a meaty arm.

Putting his elbows on his desk, John rested his head in his hands. Stared out the window. "Listen, Paul," if Ellen wants me to take her cousin for a date, I'm willing. Provided Ellen doesn't care what her cousin thinks of me, that is."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've had no luck with women, lately."

"Nonsense, my boy," said the gentle giant, brushing the very thought away with another, thick fingered wave. "The truth is that women would love you ... if you'd only give them a chance. Take the Dean's new secretary ..." And Paul was off on a libidinous discussion of the lady's charms, his discourse inspired less by the lady's attributes than by Ellen's advanced pregnancy, John thought.

"What is the conversation of the morning, gentlemen?"

John continued to rest his head in his hands. No reason to turn around. It was Kitterman, the school's psychologist. Head cocked and thrust through the door, his look would be that of a vulture inspecting carrion.

Officed next to Hamilton and Lyon, Kittermen roomed with Claude Jiles, an American historian who was never around in the morning. Dr. Kitterman, on the other hand, was always there. Thin, precise, bloodless -- Kitterman could glitter intellectually (like the polished lenses of his steel rimmed glasses) but could not feel.

"Just discussing politics," Paul lied smoothly. Talking about love with Kitterman made as much sense as striking a match on an airless moon.

To help Paul fend off the whip-thin psychologist, John wheeled around, only to be stopped by a slash of Kitterman's hand.

"Much as I'd like to have a word with you gentlemen about the direction of this nation," said Kitterman in his precise way, "it must wait until another time." The psychologist made a tent of his emaciated fingers. "Today is examination day." Kitterman never used abbreviations like "exams" or any other kind of what he called "vulgarisms." Though Paul's casual ways annoyed Kitterman, the psychologist was always gracious to his Chairman -- like the coward Kitterman was. "And I must repair to my filing cabinet," Kitterman continued, "and extricate the deadly weapons. On guard, gentlemen." A dramatic bow, a pivot on one heel and the man ... disappeared. Only the smell of brimstone lingered in his backwash. Paul checked his watch, a square, man's watch that looked delicate on Paul's massive wrist.

"God, he's right, John. Time to get after them." He paused, thinking. "You're coming to dinner next Saturday, then?"

"Glad to."

"And the cousin ... thing?"

"That, too. I'll give her a shot."

"Giving her a shot's not a bad idea," the big man said thoughtfully. "In fact, if I were you, I'd give her a couple of shots both before and after dinner. Remember Ogden Nash's advice:

Candy

Is dandy

But liquor

Is quicker.

Paul turned, winking a brown and merry eye. "Walk with me to class?" They had adjoining classrooms on Monday morning.

"Sure."

And they were up and headed out, Paul plowing forward, John drafted in his wake. Through the work room, the outer office, and into the hall.

There, students and student sounds dominated, "eds" and "coeds" seated on maple benches along the walls -- students flipping through texts, talking, laughing, poking each other. A few had flopped down on the floor, backs to the wall, legs outstretched, other students stepping over and around them.

"Hi," Dr. Lyon," said a sweet young thing, 18 going on 14.

"Mary," John said as he recognized her, nodding, forcing a smile.

"Professor, when's the test?" asked a tawny coed, falling in step with Dr. Paul. "I thought it was last Friday when I was in the hospital, but Mary said it was next Friday when I've got to be out of town. What I really what to know is when could I take a make up?" And so it went, notebook carrying students scurrying before them as John and Paul swept down the corridor.

"Listen," said Paul as they pulled up beside the open doors of their classrooms, "How's your house coming. Sorry I couldn't help you move in, but I had to go out of town with Ellen. Her grandmother's at the nursing home, you know."

"That OK. No problem. I got in last week -- just the essentials. The rest can stay in storage until I get around to it. I just moved in the apartment stuff. It rattles around a little, but the place isn't as big as I thought it was at first."

"I was trying to tell Ellen where you said it was. But I wasn't able to. You said on Troost?"

"Actually, it's just off Troost. I guess it would be 78th Terrace -- if the street cut through. Down a private road."

"I thought I knew the Northland pretty well, but I don't remember anything like that," Paul said, glancing quickly at his watch, the hall almost empty, a girl dashing for a still open classroom door, two boys sauntering along, hoping to get shut out of class.

"It's through some bushes and trees. Just a dirt track, really, quite hidden. After that, a mile or so. All by itself at the end of the road."

"Huh. When you get settled, you've got to line me out so I can find it."

"I'll do that." John looked at his watch. 30 seconds.

"Must be great to be in your own place, at last."

"Except that it's not as soundproof as I thought. Didn't get much sleep last night with the rain and all." John could understand why Paul would think that having a home of your own was "great." Home used to have that connotation for John, too, back when home was a snug haven where a teen aged John Lyon could lick his wounds. That was before his parents died.

"Rain? Last night?" Paul looked puzzled. "It didn't rain last night. At least not at my place. And, if I have in mind the approximate location of your new house, we live in the same area."

"Just a little dark cloud right above me, probably," John said. Funny, but people used to think that the gods controlled the weather. Just last summer, some farmers had hired an old Indian to do a rain dance ......

But ... it was time. "See you, Paul. In about an hour."

"Just about." Paul grinned.

With that, the two of them swung into their rooms, jointly kicking the rubber stops out from under the leading edges of the doors.

"Good morning group," John said, as he walked over to sit on his desk. John placed his notes on the lectern and glanced up to scan 30 pairs of beered-out eyes.

John was distracted by a thought. It couldn't have rained last night, this morning's road powder dry.

John felt ... disoriented.

It was time to start the lecture, all those scummy, Monday morning eyes looking up at him. And yet ... John hesitated. It was just that he was certain he'd heard rain; that it had awakened him -- several times.

A dream? It had to be. He must have dreamed it ... heard that rain in his sleep. Funny. ... Funny.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

It would have been a torturous journey for a younger man, the pilgrimage from Hero castle, that great pile of stone clutching the crag with its granite claws, down and down by goat trail over fog-slick rocks. And not one slavey to bear his pack! For no one must know of his importance. No lone hunter, bow and quiver beside him in a tiny, mud daubed, mountain inn, or petty merchant mincing along a hog-packed street in a hill country village, or herdsman tending smelly sheep on the plains beyond. All must think him of the peasant class.

First, he had posed as a peddler of small wares, an ancient grey beard, bent beneath a fraying pack. Reaching the high plains, he traveled as a farmer, antique flail strapped to his back. Now, he was a grizzled sailor shouldering his oar along the inward edge of the lake of Quince.

For days, he'd been following the yellow lake's smooth shore, near enough to maintain direction, far enough from the water's lapping edge to avoid the gregarious fisher-folk who serviced their brightly painted boats on numerous, timbered jetties. As he skirted the hovels of the fishermen, he would nod to the old women whose knurled fingers mended gill nets as nimbly as a court musician strums his harp.

He smiled sardonically, his slit mouth splitting his hawkish face into dark plates of hardened flesh. No one would take this benighted stranger to be Melcor, Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain!

Heading the yellow waters of the lake, he veered left along its Beak-ward edge until, perilously close to the Realgar band, he angled away from the lake -- glad to leave behind the smoky smell of fish dry-racks.

Out of sight, he veered slant-wise on a cross-band course, staying the last night in a noisy inn occupied by grain haulers (having to put a pinch of spice powder in his nostrils in the yokel's unwashed presence.)

Off again at up-light, his was deep in what the natives called the Umber forest.

Approaching his destination, he slipped from shadow to shadow, keeping to the leeward side of oaks and elms. Close at last, he paused to listen. ... No sound but squirrels scolding from the upper limbs of solitary chestnuts.

Seeing, hearing nothing to alarm him, Melcor continued to work his way toward that great, unnatural scar hacked into the living forest, the mightiest of Fulgur's temples.

Above all, Melcor must leave no sign. Everyone must think the shrine to be violated by others, perhaps by bandits or by vengeful men from Malachite or, more likely, by Realgar raiders. Why Fulgur's priests, in the dead and distant past, had built their primary temple this close to the Realgar border, was a mystery. Arrogance, perhaps. False hopes raised by false beliefs in the power of their god.

The forest thinned!

Still within a protecting fringe of jumbled trees, he was too far away to see the temple, though he knew it well. Domed. Marbled. Polished. Shining creamy-white below a golden sky.

In spite of the warmth of full-light, Melcor shuddered in the musty shadows. Not from the wet that never left the woods. Not because he believed either in gods or in the priests of gods. But because the sacrilege he must commit would give pause to any man.

Around him, the forest smelled of loam and fungus. Above him, birds shrilled from the thinning tops of trees or flew in fluttering lines of red, blue, and green beneath the yellow sky of Stil-de-grain.

Belying the drowsy heat of middle day, Melcor shuddered once again. Were these tremors the result of the horror he must unleash upon the priests? Or did this inner quaking come from the knowledge that, once more, evil seeped across the land like liquid poison.

He had begun to suspect the return of iniquity many full-lights ago when he must intensify his daily chant to kept the Azare band in darkness. Why? Why, when, in Pfnaravin's day, so little was required to gain the same effect? Could it be that other Mages had reneged on their pledge to use their share of Mage-Magic to black out Azare?

For whatever reason, there could be no doubt that the Azare Mage-King, Auro -- curse his name -- was gaining strength. Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite must be returned! A feat of magic Melcor had attempted. Repeatedly. Come close, perhaps -- but failed.

The reason Pfnaravin had risked the dangerous journey to the other world was to gain knowledge. (Like the Hero at the world's dawning had gone to that other place, returning with vast learning.) Pfnaravin first causing a quaking of the mountain beneath Hero castle, he had traveled to that other land, no doubt planning to return in the same way, the dropping of his green Crystal preventing his return, Pfnaravin's slavey, to curry favor, taking the Gem to Yarro.)

A thought crossed Melcor's mind. After Melcor had captured the Etherial, using her force to build a shake-earth bridge between the worlds over which Pfnaravin would return, might not Melcor arrange a lethal accident for the great Pfnaravin? At night. Of course, at night.

With Pfnaravin eliminated, would not Melcor inherit the green Crystal?

Melcor smiled his coldest smile. With the power of two Crystals -- their force again doubled by the Etherial -- he would rule all bands!

Approaching the final fringe of trees bordering the tabernacle courtyard, Melcor stopped. Still well hidden, it was time to devise a strategy for making his way across the yard and into Fulgur's temple.

The design of the holy place was fresh in his mind, of course -- a thing in his favor. For he had been here recently, accompanying the king. Had been ordered to join the monarch's mission of supplication.

Melcor smiled grimly, bitterly. The king had ordered up his Mage to show kingly power as the priests had displayed the Etherial to project an answering force. It was as a member of the king's party that Melcor had seen the Etherial -- from the distance of the hall -- giving him the idea of using her to enhance his Crystal-Magic! (He would show both king and priests who was lord in Stil-de-grain!)

Yes. He knew the shrine. And still could not settle on the best way to proceed.

Had he come either earlier in the day or later, he would have had the protection of the up or down-light mist.

Could he wait until down-light when fog would curl like a cat around the temple's base? No. Delaying to creep in with the evening mist, escaping through the night-beclouded courtyard, would prevent him from backtracking to the inn before down-light. He would be trapped in the woods at night, his magic useless, even the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain helpless against the terrors of the dark. He shuddered anew at such a thought!

Back to ... the difficulty. His passage made more troublesome by not knowing the number of priests he could annihilate before his Crystal-force was spent.

Perhaps, as a preliminary to his attack, he should wither just the gate guards ....

His courage fired by the beginning of a plan, with exaggerated caution, Melcor stepped from behind the tree where he had hidden, to ease his way through the final coppice of trees.

No outlying guards to challenge him, Melcor continued to advance, keeping in deepest shadow to stop behind the last of the pines lining the edge of the open yard.

Willing the pupil of his eye to see around the tree, almost peering through the bark, Melcor rocked to the side and back with a single motion.

Strange -- that brief glance showing no sentries.

He looked again, cautiously, but longer.

No one. No one at all.

Turtle like, Melcor pulled his head into the tree's shadow ... to think ........

Was this not curious? Should there not be priest-guards -- at all times? The sanctorum had certainly not lacked for them when he had accompanied King Yarro here. Many guards -- in cloaks of black, faces hidden in loose cowls, weapons concealed by flowing sleeves. Watching. Their heads rotating. Grimly vigilant.

No .... guards? In his experienced bones, Melcor knew this lack of defenders to be outside the orthodox!

Alerted to possible danger, Melcor stroked the hidden crystal beneath his tunic, his lips mumbling the hoary Crystal-chant, the golden jewel responding, humming within his taloned hands, a living thing, thrumming with power, the magic making him sensitive to ... a vast imbalance in the tabernacle. Still ... he did not sense ... confusion .... Nor fear nor hate nor love nor envy. He felt .... nothing.

Could it be that the temple was ... deserted?

It was an agitating thought! If the sanctuary was abandoned, where could the priests have gone? More to the point, where could they have taken the Etherial?

Melcor could wait no longer! Whatever the situation, he must enter the courtyard. Now! If the priest-guards emerged to stop him, he would play the vagabond, lost, asking only for directions. Failing to convince them, wither the defenders where they stood!

Head bowed low, his greying hair encrusted with the disguise of dirt, bending his back as if scourged by the oppression of long life, Melcor stepped around the tree and onto the flat vastness of the temple courtyard.

Across the grass, onto the marble paving stones, he followed a wide groove worn into the rock by many feet, his peasant boots scraping like serpents wriggling through old leaves.

No guards ... as yet.

Feeling like a bark-bug risking impalement on the ivory beak of a pecking bird, flittering his black eyes from side to side, Melcor forced himself to walk dead slow toward the steps that slanted steeply to the yawning, shadowed maw of the many-storied place of worship.

Until ... he stopped before the stairs.

Looking up, he could no longer see the crowning dome, even the roof line hidden by the towering, frontal wall.

A step up ... head bowed low ... and still no shouts to halt. Another. And another. And another.

Eyes on his boots, up and up he climbed, his breathing labored, the air oppressive with its silences. Up and ... finally ... to the portal where he stopped to suck in air.

It was only then that Melcor raised his head to see the silvered, doubled doors flung wide, as if in invitation to the golden sky!

Standing still until his breathing slowed, his strength returned, Melcor took a timid step inside the hall.

His eyes adjusting to the interior shadows, he made out the nearest of the line of lighted torches, their flickering glow reflecting from marble walls and floors. Darkness was never permitted inside a Fulgur sanctuary, the night an offense to Fulgur, god of light. (Only in the quarters of the princess of the night was it eternally dark.)

Light against Dark.

Man opposing woman.

Death confronting life.

Pleasure balanced against pain.

Such were the simpleminded dichotomies that formed the spine of the religion of the deluded worshipers of Fulgur! And so the torches flamed.

Halted again, the Mage strained to hear in the enormous quiet of the long hall beyond, feeling the flowing coolness of the stone-chilled inner air.

It was only after anguished moments that Melcor's eyes had darkened enough for him to make out .... lumps ... here and there on the floor, scattered down the ceremonial hallway as far as his eyes would let him see. Looking closer at the nearest ... hunk ... bending down, he saw that whatever it was was thick and draped in a black cloth, near it, a ... hand, fingers curled into a too-white fist! Against the wall ... an arm. Down the opposite wall, a head, sitting on its severed neck, fixed eyes open ....

Then Melcor knew! These ... pieces ... were the priests.

Blood was splashed about; smeared high upon the walls ... painted there with fingers ... thinned, drying to black below the torch light!

Stunned, Melcor's mind refused to name what his eyes saw. It was as if ... someone ... had bathed in the blood of priests.

But ... who would do that? And why? Who hated priests enough to ....? No one. No one Melcor knew. Priests were not loved, but ....

One thing was clear. The clergy had not left their temple; had not abandoned their god. By the evidence of their remains, it was Fulgur who had deserted them ....

Melcor sniffed the air. Delicately.

This murder of clerics had been recent ... or there would have been more ... smell.

Suddenly, Melcor felt fear, his black eyes darting here and there! Were the destroyers of the priests still in the temple? Hiding, poised to strike? Was he, himself, in mortal danger!? ......... No. No one would ravage like this and stay.

Melcor exhaled sharply at that thought; inhaled slowly to take a calming breath. Armed as he was with deadly magic, he almost hoped a lingering assassin would attempt to take the life of the dangerous Mage of Stil-de-grain!

But ... who would slaughter priests in this fashion? Melcor's mind would not surround that question. He, himself, had been prepared to destroy priests, as many as he must. But to mutilate .....?

Fulgur's faithful also committed outrages, but generally only to Etherials who represented darkness, evil, death.

The Etherial! Had she been massacred with the rest!? At that thought, sweat streamed down Melcor's neck. He did not care for gods. He did not care for priests or for the parts of priests. But for the Etherial, he had been prepared to risk his life!

Needing to know the girl's fate, Melcor set out to walk the temple's silent corridors, searching for the creature of his heart's desire, his eyes flashing in the torch-light, his body alive to any motion in the lifeless tomb. Here ... there ... he bent to prod the blood soaked priest-pieces, looking for women's parts.

And they were there, scattered among the severed limbs and heads of priests -- old women's hands, serving woman feet, breasts torn off in unseemly ways.

He found small arms, legs, and heads of girls raised in the tabernacle, one to be selected as the new Etherial after the ritual-slaughter of the old.

What he did not discover were the dismembered parts of the Etherial. He found her room and torture table. The restraints. But not the girl. Not the young and pretty woman he had seen in golden chains.

Failing to find her, a suspicion grew. That she was the meaning of this slaughter. Someone, other than himself, had lusted for her power. ......... But who? ..........

The evil Mage? Fear racked Melcor at that thought, so that his thin limbs shook! The Etherial! To double the power of the evil Auro! If she were in the hands of the Dark one, they were doomed, all to be driven from their bands. To Cinnabar and beyond. To down-land and off the edges of the world!

Reason came back slowly, tired as he was. Not ....... the dark, Mage-King. Auro would waste no time in gutting priests. If the Dark Lord had stolen the Etherial, he would have no need of manufactured terror!

No. Someone else had wanted the Etherial ... enough to murder for her. As he, himself, had wanted to possess her. (Surely, this savage mangling ... this quartering of bodies had ... some other, lesser meaning.)

Finished with his grizzly search, Melcor strode over the broken forms as he retraced his steps to the ceremonial hall.

Marching along the gallery, the old man exited the mausoleum, pleased to see that the light of day still covered the sky dome.

He walked boldly now (and why not?) down the temple steps.

At the bottom, stalking across the flagstone court, he plunged into the forest, determined to discover, on the woods' soft floor, a meaning for the nameless terror that had come to steal and to butcher priests. He must know where "it" had taken the Etherial.

Entering the enfolding trees at some depth, circling right, Melcor soon found (sooner than he should?) what he was seeking: a path trod by many men, broken branches, bushes twisted to one side, weeds crushed by feet of iron...... leading ...... toward the Realgar border! A raiding party from Realgar?

There in the forest, distractedly brushing at hovering insects, Melcor forced his mind to examine his limited knowledge of Realgar's people. Discarding them, at last, as the perpetrators of this crime. It was not a likely thing for them to do, if for no other reason than, crossing into Stil-de-grain, they would lose their strength to band-sickness. The Realgar way was poison, not dismemberment.

Unsatisfied, Melcor set out once more, this time with exaggerated care, circling, head bowed low, eyes to the ground, looking for a disguised trail. And ... found it ... leading ... down-band ... toward ... the river Tartrazine! Across which, lay the port of Canarin. Most ships destination -- Xanthin island.

Yarro!

Certain, now, that the raiders slaughtered at the command of his own king, Melcor smiled. So -- Yarro, seeing the priest's prized Etherial, had also devised a way to steal her. And why? To enhance his pleasure, surely.

Anything besides?

No. Yarro would think only of his women. And of food. Steal the Etherial for his private purposes.

Hidden in the forest, standing beside the disguised trail, Melcor knew what he must do. First, make the long trip back to Hero Castle, once there, try again to retrieve Pfnaravin. (Powerful as Melcor was, a Mage should commit no treason lightly.) If, in spite of Melcor's best attempts, Pfnaravin could not be returned, Melcor would have no choice but to steal the stolen from his king!

That settled, the Mage set out, hurrying, needing to make the distant inn by down-light.

Lengthening his stride on the spongy, leaf-lined forest floor, Melcor kept watch for woodsman or lonely trappers, secrecy more vital, now, than ever. Too soon, some supplicant, some giver of important gifts would approach the shrine; marvel at the lack of sanctuary guards; climb the temple steps to find .......

And when the outrage was discovered, Melcor -- peddler, merchant, sailor, farmer, Mage of Stil-de-grain -- must be anywhere but here!

* * * * *

Chapter 4

The dinner two weeks ago at the Hamilton's had been enjoyable. (The fix-up date had not. But, then, John hadn't figured it would be.) And this evening's "return" meal had also been a success. As much as canned corn, pre-cooked turkey roll, and Mrs. Smith's pie could make it.

The fireplace logs beginning to catch, Paul and Ellen were settling themselves on the nubby cloth sofa against the living room wall.

John's immediate duties at gracious host at an end, he pulled the old, carved chair close to the coffee table where he'd put the wine bottle and the too-thick, supermarket glasses.

Ellen, in her semi-formal "bun-in-the-oven dress" (her description) looked elegant as usual, her short, blond hair shining in the firelight.

It was Paul who'd provided the evening's mystery. Looking his rumpled best in a brown corduroy jacket over a blue flowered shirt and purple spotted tie, Paul had been ... distant .... Could it be he had another of his sinus headaches? Fall "things" were blowing in the wind, the weather threatening to bluster into a cold, October night.

Taking a hesitant taste of the wine, John was ready to ask the foremost question on his (and he also thought on Ellen's) mind.

"So, Paul. What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Paul growled. "Why, nothing!" Paul ducked his head to take a long, slow sip of wine, his circled hand hiding much of his face.

"Something, I think."

"Yes, Paul," Ellen said softly, looking sideways at her husband, reaching over to take her husband's big hand in both of hers.

"I haven't been good company? That's what you're trying to say?" he asked, pretending injured feelings.

"It's not that," John countered. "It's that I'm worried about you when you get this way. Not feeling well? A headache?"

"Oh, no," Paul rumbled, brushing off that idea with an expansive wave. But something was the matter. And John was going to find out what.

"Out with it."

Paul smiled ... a little. "It's ... nothing. It's just that ... that ..." And that wasn't like the big man either, tripping over his tongue, having to search for words. Speaking came easily to Paul Hamilton, as it did to most professors. With the college crowd, "The tongue was mightier than the sword."

Paul pulled within himself. Tried again. "It's just that it's so stupid. That I feel so stupid."

"Better you than me," John said, grinning. They were going to get the story now. Given Paul's elaborate way of telling any tale, it might take a while, but they were going to hear it. At the same time, it was clear to John that nothing was really wrong.

Meanwhile, Paul was grinning sheepishly, Paul and Ellen's faces coming into sharper focus as the hearth logs began to catch, the nervous popping of the spent kindling about over, an occasional hot snap of burning hardwood sounding through the general quiet of the room. The tangy smell of oak smoke completed the casual atmosphere it had taken John so much trouble to create.

"Let me get at this by the long way," Paul began, head back, eyes closed, as if trying to recall a series of stubborn and specific facts.

"We've got nothing but time," said Ellen, sipping daintily, making her wine last ... one small glass all that was permitted her in her condition.

"It all started last Tuesday," said Paul, settling back, the sofa squealing its protest, Paul more relaxed now that he'd decided to tell all. "I was talking to Smith in the English department, met him in the hall of the administration building. You know Smith?" John nodded. Not that he knew him well. Could anyone know English instructors well? Mechanical, precise, ruthless about the rules of grammar -- at the same time, appreciative of delicate turns of phrase. No wonder so many English profs were schizoid! "Anyway, I ran into Smith. And you'd told me how to get here tonight. But I still wasn't sure I could find the place, particularly since it would be dark by the time we arrived." Paul gave John a sharp look, apparently afraid John would be offended that Paul had consulted someone else for directions. "So -- knowing that Smith had lived in the Northland all his life -- got his degrees at UMKC -- all that -- I told him where you said your house was located. And though Smith gave me that funny look of his, it seemed he knew the place."

Satisfied that John was OK with Paul's checking with Smith, Paul bent forward, reached down for the bottle, and poured himself another small glass. Downed it. Twirled the empty glass between the palms of both hands. "You'd mentioned the narrow opening in the bushes to find the road." John nodded, taking a sip of wine himself, setting the glass down carefully on the "Good Will" end table near his chair. His parents' furniture would certainly make a difference, he knew. Why he hadn't gotten it out of storage and moved in by this time, was anybody's guess. He hadn't been able to do much of anything lately.

"And Smith looked at me ... funny. Said, 'You're talking about the old Van Robin place north of Troost.' And then he gave me pretty much the same description of where the house was located that you did, even threw in some details about how the house looked -- which matched your description. And I said you'd bought it and had it fixed up etc. And that I was coming here for dinner.

"All that time, he just kept giving me that fish-eye stare of his, peered at me in that peculiar way, you know?"

"I don't know him well. Just met him once."

"Yeah. He's a nice guy. A little picky, but that's the English department for you." Paul put his glass down on the table and sagged back, the sofa squeaking every time he moved. "Anyway, he just kept looking at me," Paul continued, leaning forward again, seemingly unable to get comfortable, elbows braced on his knees. "When he'd finished, he clucked his tongue like an old maid school teacher who just caught you chewing gum. And when I asked him what that meant ..." Paul stopped suddenly, stared over at John, observing him closely, curiously, as if trying to see into John's mind. "You're not superstitious, are you, John?"

"Me? Certainly not ... knock on wood."

Ellen chuckled. Paul ... didn't -- which, John thought, was definitely unlike Paul. "What is it? Are you about to tell me this place is haunted?" Paul didn't chortle ... again. Instead, got a sheepish grin on his broad, peasant face. "I'll be damned if that wasn't just what Smith said."

Silence. A silence that deepened rapidly.

"Some kind of joke...?" John started, stopping abruptly at a serious shake of Paul's massive head. And how did you put the best face on what could only be called a damned strange revelation? "I ... rather like that. Gives the place a touch of class, don't you think?"

"Romantic," Ellen replied, not quite picking up Paul's serious mood, Ellen snuggling up against her husband's shoulder, clutching fondly to his arm with both hands, toeing off her low healed (pregnancy) shoes to draw her long, nyloned legs up under her on the couch.

"Right, right," Paul agreed, a little too readily.

"Well ... go on," John said. While it was strange to learn that someone as dedicated to reason as a college professor like Smith had been spreading ghost stories ... to say nothing of Paul being ... strange about it all ... it was romantic to be the owner of a "haunted" house. Gave the house ... character. A sense of history.

And all of a sudden, this new "fact" about the house explained some bits and pieces that hadn't "fit" before. It cleared up why the house had been abandoned for so long. Also made sense out of Madge wanting to get out of the house as the light began to fade. (The lady was not so superstitious she couldn't find it in her heart to sell the house to John, of course, but enough so to not want to linger here after dark.) Now that John thought about it, "Madge, honey" wasn't thrilled at being in the house any time of day.

John settled in his chair, elbow on its arm rest, chin nestled in his palm.

"There's not that much more to tell," Paul continued, his voice falling to the quiet purr of a jungle cat. "According to Smith, some old codger built this house so long ago that about all that's left of him is his name -- Van Robin. According to legend, this Van Robin, apparently a foreigner, just "appeared" one day. Maybe in the 20's -- Smith wasn't clear on that. Smith had read an article about this place in the "Star" Sunday supplement -- "Ghosts of Kansas City" -- one of those kind of things. And according to the article, Robin had just showed up, speaking gibberish. Learned some English. Built a small, stone house here -- which was way out in the country in those days."

"At least part of that story fits the house," John said slowly, straightening, tipping his head back to concentrate, still struggling to lock in all the pieces of what was turning out to be a "ghostly" puzzle. He looked over at Paul again. "The core of the house is just a small, square, limestone building, the other rooms and the second story added on later. But about being built in the 20s? I think the house's core is older than that. John thought for a moment. "But how does all this make the house haunted?"

"I wasn't quite clear on that, either. Or rather, Smith didn't know. There seems also to have been talk about cats in the house."

"Cats?" Ellen was listening, at the same time managing to look contentedly sleepy, her smoky blue eyes flashing from time to time, picking up occasional gleams of fire light.

"Something about cats disappearing. No one near here able to keep a cat for long. That was after the house became deserted, I guess.

"Smith said that, according to the article, people swear their cats run away, get into this house, then ... disappear."

"Odd. ... Odd." John had never heard a ghost story quite like that. You always had chains rattling, ghosts appearing as floaty, ectoplasmic forms, headless specters, anguished screams in the night, blood spots reappearing on a carpet, places that were unnaturally cold .... But disappearing cats? That was a new one.

Suddenly, John thought of Cream. Though she wasn't the kind of cat who'd lower herself by begging at the table, she'd been very much in evidence when the Hamiltons had arrived. Curious, like all cats. Curious, but nowhere in sight now, this talk of disappearing cats making John a little nervous about her whereabouts. She was safe, though. That he knew. For the hard fact of the matter was that the only cats that "disappeared" were "outdoor" cats -- disappeared into the jaws of dogs, disappeared under the wheels of cars -- which was the reason John never, for any reason, let - Cream - out. She was an "inside" cat, destined to live a long and pampered life.

"Cats that vanished," Paul said again, shaking his head, "... and something about noises in the house."

Ah, thought John, ghostly noises. No self respecting haunted house would be without them.

"From what Smith said, no one lives in the house for long."

"He got that right, at least. No one's been here for a long time before I bought it. You won't believe, Paul, how dry this house is. Everything about the house is parched. That's from being unoccupied for so long, would be my guess. When people are around, they water plants, run water in the sink, wash clothes, take hot baths or showers -- there's always water evaporating from the stool, for God's sake. But no water's been used in this place for so long the house is tinder dry. Dryer than that, if possible. While it'd be a great place for your sinuses, it's giving me nose bleeds. I've got to add some moisture to the air, somehow." John paused to take another sip of wine before returning the glass to the stand. Amazingly, he felt good. Like the old days when he and his parents used to sit around the tiny living room in their tract house, reading, talking -- his father doing other people's income tax.

"Nothing about nose bleeds?"

"No. Just cats ... and strange sounds."

"You don't let your cat out, do you?" Ellen asked, sleepily. They'd talked about that before. "You're smart not to let your kitty outside. Somebody might steal her, she's so gorgeous."

Finished with the tale, Paul had sunk even farther into the protesting sofa.

That was the story, then -- all there was to the "legend of the old Van Robin place," as John was already beginning to think of the house. Romantic.

Now that John's thought processes had time to crank forward another notch, what was interesting about the tale was Paul's reaction to it. First, the big man had tried to hide what he knew about the house being haunted. Then, as he told the story ... there was just something about him ....

"And what do you think about this ghost, business, Paul?"

"Huh? What?"

"Let me put it as simply as I can," John said, watching Paul's face carefully. "Do you believe in ... ghosts?"

"Of course not. Of course not," Paul blustered, waving that idea away with both, meaty hands. An over quick response, was John's judgment, a too emphatic denial.

"Really?"

"Well ... not in ghosts, actually."

"And what does that mean?" asked Ellen, suddenly waking up, interested, her aristocratic head turned toward Paul, blue eyes open wide.

"It means what it says it means," Paul muttered.

"And what does that mean?" John asked with a chuckle.

"Well ... English historians like me ...." His thought trailed off.

"Go on."

"It's just that in England ...," Paul was speaking slowly, thoughtfully, measuring every word, "... there are so many stories about ghosts ... so many tales told by respectable eyewitnesses ... that I think the strict truth is that I'm ... agnostic about ghosts." Paul flashed a silly little grin, waved one hand, shrugged. "So there. You may laugh now."

All of a sudden, John didn't feel like laughing.

Neither did Ellen. And for good reason. No matter how bizarre of appearance on first acquaintance, Paul was nothing if not solid -- physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

"Agnostic. That means, maybe yes, maybe no?"

"I don't think that ghosts are the souls of the dead wandering the earth, dragging chains -- Marley's ghost kind of thing," Paul protested quickly, his big voice rising to fill the room, thick arms gesturing, "but people as widely diverse and respected as ... Oh, I can't remember... John Wesley, for one ... reported having heard and even seen ghosts. It's silly, but there are so many English homes and castles said to be haunted that ... in England, they take that kind of phenomena for granted." Paul rolled his eyes; glanced up at the ceiling for inspiration. "I don't believe in all that standard ghost business. But I think it's possible there is ... something ... unexplained ... that would account for many of the ... contacts."

"Like UFO phenomena possibly being associated with the electric effects of plate tectonics? Whatever that means. I read something like that in "Newsweek."

"Yeah. Something that's real but so unusual we haven't figured it out yet."

"If that's the case, and if this house is one of those places where that sort of 'natural phenomena' takes place,"-- the more John thought about it, the more he became interested in the possibility of this being true -- "then this is our chance to do some investigating."

"Not me," growled the Papa bear.

"Where's your scientific curiosity?" teased John. "If there is ... something ... and it's associated with this very house, then we have a chance ..." But Paul continued to shake his head a definite no.

"Not for me. Too much to do as it is. And anyway, there seems to be universal agreement that supernatural stuff is dangerous."

"But this is fun, Paul," Ellen put in. "It wouldn't hurt to ...." Paul's serious look stopped her in mid-sentence.

"I'm probably nuts," Paul admitted, continuing to weigh his words, "but when I think of what scientists are doing today, making things in laboratories that may have, God knows, what effect on us ... when I think about radium, discovered not so long ago, and what it did to the people who 'played' with it, Madam Curie, for one ... I guess I'm just not that curious."

As Paul gave his reasons for being "not that curious," his voice had gotten louder like it sometimes did when he was making a serious point. "Did you know that the inventors of the A-bomb were taking bets to see just how much of America ... of the world ... the first test might blow up? Hell, they didn't know!" Working himself up to full cry, Paul was thundering, his voice echoing in the sparsely furnished, fire lit room. "But they tried it anyway!"

Realizing he'd been shouting, Paul smiled apologetically, waving off his attack. Settled back. Took his wife's hand, her hand and wrist disappearing within his gentle grasp. "I guess it's as Bacon said, a man with a wife and children gives hostages to fortune. When you're as happy as I am, son, you don't mess around." His voice had fallen to its low rumble once again.

"You really don't think, Paul ..." said Ellen, softly.

"Oh no. It's nothing, hun." Paul turned to beam down on her, his voice as artificially cheerful as his smile. "Nothing for anyone to worry about. Don't get spooked about ghosts, either of you. Too many terrible ... what I mean is, too many real things in the world to worry about. Ghosts? Nothin' to it. Just Halloween talk. Why, hell," he said through a great big grin, turning to John, "you got a terrific place here. Got a fire, a little wine. Good friends. Mainly, I just wanted to tell a ghost story, you see. It's like camp outs in the boy scouts. Someone always wants to hear a ghost story. It's close to Halloween, isn't it? Nothing to it."

All of which meant there was something about the house that Paul didn't like, something that made Paul uneasy.

From John's point of view, if anything at all was scary about this haunted house business, it was that it bothered Paul, Paul the most rational man John knew.

John tapped his lower lip with his fingertips, thinking. It was also a fact, of course, that even the most modern people had their little superstitions: wore "lucky" tennis socks, consulted horoscopes.

Small talk followed: the demise of the "Chiefs" lamented, hope for the "Blades" expressed, speculation about what it would take for the "Royals" to make next year's playoffs, interesting students analyzed. All in all, a successful evening.

Until later as John was preparing for bed.

It was always like that after a visit with the Hamilton's. Seeing Ellen and Paul together made John feel ... incomplete.

John had always been something of a loner. And it never used to bother him. Even the sports he'd liked as a child had been solitary ones. Archery, swimming, sailing the little boat in the fishing lake outside of town. The only shattering experiences of his life had been, first his mother's serious illness, then his parents' accidental death. For some reason, his parent's car had been left running in the garage, carbon monoxide seeping through the garage ceiling, his parents suffocated as they slept in their bedroom above. Six months ago.

At the time, John took his parents' death as well as possible. Everyone died. He was dry eyed at the funeral.

Now, he felt like an orphan, an adult orphan to be sure, but an orphan none the less. The grief that he couldn't feel at the time of his parents' death had settled in. He felt ... lost. Alone. No friends but Paul. And the cold truth was that he'd only known Paul for a couple of months!

Would it have made a difference if his parents had lived long enough to see John get his degree ...?

Whatever the reason for his continued depression, the famous bottom line was that John had worked like a zealot for a Ph.D. -- an accomplishment not a single soul in the overpopulated world gave a damn about. A degree even he didn't give a damn about, for God's sake! A Ph.D. which qualified him to sleep alone in a haunted house.

John finally got to sleep -- was exhausted and depressed the next morning. Had difficulty sleeping the next night, was worn out by morning .....

It was late on a Wednesday afternoon, John trying to read a batch of student papers at his desk in his downstairs study, that he heard the sound of rain again.

Glad to have any excuse to stop grading, John paused to listen. ... Rain. Just beginning. Rain? The sky had been a November-iron-blue when he'd driven home. There'd been a lot of wind, though, enough to rock the stable Mazda. Probably blew up something. Better get out there and roll up the car window.

Leaving the den, walking quickly to the hall, John opened the front door to be sucked outside by a big gust, the wind cold enough to make him regret he hadn't stopped to put on a jacket. Ignoring the wind's bite, John tacked to the car and bent down to trip the handle, careful not to let the wind take the wide door. It was only then that he noticed sunlight reflecting from the car's yellow paint. He looked up. Not a cloud in the dusty, leaf infested sky.

But ... what about the rain he'd heard? It was then that he thought about that night a month ago when he'd been awakened by rain -- only to find it hadn't even showered.

Inside again, shivering, John paused in the front hall to .... listen. ..... And there it was again. Rain. A quiet, gentle rain. More of a springtime rain -- if that made any sense (and none of this made any sense.) Completely unlike the reality of a November day in Kansas City.

Back at his desk, he was still catching an occasional whisper of light rain -- from a cloudless sky.

John supposed he could be hearing something like the house's electricity, electricity coming in strange forms. Ball lightning, St. Elmo's fire, static electricity, and the most rare of phenomena, the famous "bolt from the blue." He thought of Ben Franklin and his lightning rod -- the first practical invention to result from pure science.

Toying absentmindedly with his red pen, it seemed to be reasonable that the rain noise had an "electric" explanation. Electricity did make sounds. He remembered hearing the hum of transformers when walking past their small, barbed wire enclosures.

Then, something else "clicked in." Didn't it make sense that an "unexplainable" noise like this was responsible for the house's reputation for being haunted? Of course! That fit! Throughout history, people had considered unusual phenomena to be the work of angels, devils, gods, poltergeists ... and in the 20th century, of UFOs.

John would have to talk with Paul about it. Perhaps discuss this "ghost" business with Fredericks in physics.

Except that the following day, last night's party as his motivation, John had replaced his temporary interest in electric-rain with the resolve to call the storage folks; three days later, spent a good part of the afternoon holding the door for the real men of the world: big, sweaty, good natured movers from "Easy Transport and Storage," until the flotsam and jetsam of his parents' lives was stacked around him. Time to plan. First, to place what furniture he would need in the living room. After that, provide the closets in the upstairs bedrooms with their share. (But not the low ceilinged basement beneath the house. Had a dirt floor ... might soak up rain, get everything wet.)

Leaving the only unused storage area he knew about, the empty location under the enclosed stairs.

He hadn't noticed that space before he bought the house; hadn't seen it for quite some time after moving in. But had finally spotted the triangular door at the side of the lower stairs, the door's top edge sloping down with the stairs, the lower edge flush with the hall floor. At the back where the stairs rose into the wall, were small hinges, painted over to make them invisible. A simple, paint-clogged latch fastened the door where the door sloped to a point at the front.

Of course. A door there made a lot of sense. Without a way of getting under the enclosed stairs, that area would be wasted space.

For now, that was where he could store large cardboard boxes, the ones containing table lamps.

John bent to open the triangular door, squeaking it out, the area beyond as black as the infamous hole of Calcutta.

Since he couldn't see anything in there, John went to the kitchen junk drawer to bring back the flashlight. Bending down, switched on the light, the batteries working (by some miracle.)

Even in the long sweep of the light, however, he could see little of what might be in there, the walls covered with flat black paint or, perhaps, with a century of soot.

No matter. All he had to do was drag the boxes over and slide them in.

Still squatted before the stair space, John noticed that Cream had crept up (on what Carl Sandburg might have called little fog feet), her long, white fur puffed about her, a ball of fluff punctuated by big, orange eyes, Cream crouched in her "attack" mode, looking expectantly into the triangular shaped hole, her nose sniffing the air.

Careful not to spook her, John put his right hand down to pet her, her fur crackling in the house's arid air. He had to get a humidifier installed. When you couldn't even pet your cat without being shocked, it was too damned dry!

Petting Cream for a moment, settling her down, John swept her up and carried her across the hall where he scooted her into his study.

Backing quickly, John closed the door before Cream could bolt through the crack like she sometimes did. He certainly didn't want her getting back in that area where she'd be difficult to "extract."

Fifteen minutes of sliding boxes, the stair-storage taking more junk than he'd anticipated, and he was finished.

It was then that John realized he was brushing at the back of his right hand. Because ... that hand ... tingled. Probably had spider webs on it. Just the back of his right hand. Not the left hand.

Looking down, he could see nothing on his hand. But still felt ... something. Like a breeze blowing on his hand, that hand warmer that the other one.

Twisting his wrist, John rubbed the top of his hand on his pants.

The sensation didn't go away.

He shook his hand.

Nothing ... but the feeling of ... spider webs ... warmth ....

John paused to consider the sensation. Then had a thought. Of course! That was the hand he'd used to pet Cream, the persistent tingling caused by the static electric buildup he'd gotten from petting the cat.

Finished with the boxes, John closed the door under the stairs. Snapped its double sided catch. (Never get locked in there with a way to open the door from the inside.)

After that, a quick rearrangement of the furniture, chairs straightened, the good sofa shoved against a side wall, and he had done the deed, allowing him to sit in the oak chair. Drained.

Strangely ... John sensed ... something he'd never felt before ... a perception of being spied on! Cautiously, he moved his head to the side, continued turning it, shifting his body in the chair so he could look behind him. And, of course, saw the fireplace wall.

Stupid!

Feeling a little frightened and a lot foolish, John gave himself a stern lecture about getting as spooky as old ladies who lived alone. First, hearing noises in the house, now feeling someone was peeking in at him. Through a solid, windowless wall, no less. Next, he'd be looking under the bed for monsters. In the closet for demons ....

Still ... as John stroked the back of his right hand -- that hand still not feeling right -- in spite of his best intentions, in spite of all reason, just to be sure, John looked behind him ... one more time.

* * * * *

Chapter 5

Golden was going through his stretching exercises in the decrepit anteroom off the king's banquet hall, finishing with a series of great, bounding leaps -- all the while paying careful attention to his body, alert for any sign of strain. Though he had a compact physique (like most Malachites) years of training had made his muscles long and flexible. This time he must be a finely tuned instrument, his performance as good as his name, the name he had chosen for himself. (How fortunate he was to have persuaded Tugur, the palace proctor, that a performer of Golden's talents must be in the palace for two weeks in preparation for this moment.)

Through the thick, blue velvet curtains at one end of the room he could hear an occasional note of music from the instrumentalists who played on harp, double flute, and tabor in the great room beyond, their melody entwined with the background hum of table talk. Around the entertainer were the instrument cases of the court musicians, his own harp placed upright in a moldering chair. Like the solo artist he was, Golden would be his own accompanist.

Warmed up, a light sweat coating his body, certain at last that his new jester's costume would permit strenuous movement, Golden walked to the curtains, pulling them apart enough to see without being seen.

The king was seated at the center of a raised table to the right of the large, rectangular room. Flanking him to either side were his advisors, dressed gaudily, medals on their chests, each man draped with a colored sash denoting governmental responsibilities. Some had gold and silver braid across the shoulders of their padded jerkins.

The king, dressed the most splendidly of all, was crowned with a filigree gold band, wide enough to hide his balding head, tufts of greying hair sticking out to either side. The other guests included bejeweled dignitaries, most of them important merchants of Xanthin (dressed less ostentatiously than the nobles, but in the best of cloth) and ladies in long, brightly colored, lace trimmed gowns -- all seated on both sides of parallel rows of wooden trestle boards, these lower tables at right angles to the king's table.

Armed guards in dress uniform stood stiffly around the walls. High above the guard's heads, near the lofty ceiling, were torches in their angled holders, the torches set as closely together as possible around the room's perimeter, the banquet hall brightly lighted by their dancing fire. The musicians were playing across the way, seated in a special enclosure against the wall.

When Golden had first been taken to this airless waiting room, he had done what he was doing now, peeked through these same curtains, curious to see where he might stage his presentation. Had been relieved to discover a perfect space between the king's table and the other trestle boards. When the time came, he would face the king; deliver every line to the room's most important personage (though in a voice that filled the hall.)

When he had first looked, the banquet was just beginning, the tables newly covered with crisp, white material (now stained with food) the cloth patterned with alternating squares of shiny-silver and flat-white. Long and fringed around the bottom, the tablecloth was made to be draped over the guests' legs, the fabric generous enough to catch any morsels that might fall into the diner's lap. Even at a glance and from a distance, Golden could tell that these drip-cloths were woven from the silk of Cinnabar! At that time, appetizers were being served: plates of nuts, honeyed fruits, small pastries, bits of salted fish to raise a thirst.

The third course was now in progress, livered servants busily carrying empty platters to the kitchen, others replacing them with fresh plates. Slaveys then brought bowls, some filled with gravy, others with steaming vegetables. Chickens and pheasants, baked whole, were arranged on oblong, silver trays. Smaller plates sported dainties: boiled, unborn rabbits alternated with stuffed door mice.

Five pigs, a cow and two sheep (the carcasses roasted entire except for the tails) had been carried in, hot juices trickling from them, two small kitchen dogs licking up the dripping trails of savory grease. The well cooked animal bodies were skewered lengthwise, each with two iron spits stuck completely through, men before and behind each animal (four men for the cow) holding the spits-ends where they emerged from the front and back of the carcasses. Paraded first to the head table (all food initially offered to the king) the roasted bodies were being taken between the other tables, guests turning to hack off handfuls of hot meat as the succulent flesh passed by, the diners juggling the scorching meat to their trenchers.

In spite of his nervousness, Golden's mouth watered as people fell to eating with a will, guests slicing up the tender meat with their belt knives, conveying bite sized pieces to their mouths on knife-point or with the thumb and forefinger of their free hand, delicately. (Everyone was on his good behavior, only the best of manners to be observed when dining with the king.)

Prowling the table's perimeters were several mastiffs, guests throwing meaty bones to them, the dogs' snarling to be heard above the music and the buzz of talk.

From his vantage point, Golden could also see what looked like baskets of fried frogs, the browned frogs sitting upright, as if about to jump into a pond.

All this bounty was washed down with tankards of warm beer, emptied steins passed down from guest to guest, finally to a servant at the table's end who plunged the porcelain schooners directly into half-casks of beer placed on small stands, the foaming mugs passed back again. People of more elegant tastes drank from ceramic glasses into which servants poured cooled wine from cloth-wrapped bottles.

Perhaps 70 people dined in all, just the right sized house for Golden's charm. Too few listeners and the audience lacked response, each spectator self-conscious at standing out among his scattered fellows. Too many -- as when he sang out of doors for the coppers of village rustics -- and there was no chance for intimacy with the listeners. (Though un-jaded country folk were always the most appreciative.)

For this affair, Golden knew he would receive considerably more than coppers. Silvers for certain and, if he pleased the king as he hoped, golds -- though he cared not what fee he got for this performance.

Presently, dessert would be served: hot, berry pies, wine-honey tarts, and milk cakes. Again, at the thought of this sweetness, Golden felt the saliva run beneath his tongue. He was hungry -- always hungry, the rich, roast smells wafting toward him torturing his appetite.

Golden had been told that when the guests could stuff themselves no longer, a blast from the herald's tromba would announce him.

He would enter, then, and must be good. ... No! Excellent! For it was solely in the hope of performing before the king that he had worked so hard to build his fame in the countryside and in lesser towns. For years. Starting as a ragged child, dancing and begging for coppers along the streets of every town in every band from Malachite to Cinnabar, this night had been his goal, his opportunity to please the king so that the king would hire Golden as court performer. Engaged to entertain for how long? Long enough to discover where this thieving Yarro was concealing the green crystal of Pfnaravin! Long enough to steal the crystal back! (Stealing? It should be called rescuing to take something from a thief!)

Squinting through the curtains, Golden's only disappointment was in seeing no place to stretch his rope, rope walking certain to impress. Though It would not be appropriate to demonstrate his skill at throwing knives, of course, this art appreciated more by people of the lower classes than by people rich enough to imagine themselves as an assassin's target!

As for Golden's stomach, he was used to being hungry. (First as a child, then as a member of a profession that never allowed its followers to eat their fill.) He would make his meal from banquet leavings.

For now, Golden was content to let these others gorge themselves. Let them drink deep, as well, a quantity of wine putting people in the proper, mellow mood for entertainment. Some juggling to amaze them. Tricks with coins. A humorous story from his many travels. Tumbling. And finally, songs -- sad songs to make them weep; merry songs, simple enough so all could join in on the chorus. Then would come patriotic songs to flatter the authority of the king and fire the blood. And finally, love songs, soft and sweet, to send the audience, amorously, to bed. Golden knew how to please. An orphaned bastard learned that art if he would live!

Soon, he would have a name. For though the world might think him low born, as were all minstrels, he knew better. Knew it because of ... memories ... memories his dearest possessions. Of his childhood, spinning back to him in dreams. Telling him he was of a very different breed from Golden, court magician. Court buffoon.

Telling him .....

It was the possession of the crystal that would make these dreams into reality, finding the crystal dependent on being hired to serve the king. No wonder he felt edgy!

Golden's stomach knotting at the thought of how much relied on this presentation, he took deep breaths to loosen his belly and to still the rapid beating of his heart.

How would the green Crystal of Pfnaravin help him? He wasn't sure. He only knew that, clever as he was, if he had it within his possession, he could find a way to use its power to destroy his uncle who sat on the throne that was rightfully Golden's! Lithoid, usurper king of Malachite! Lithoid, who had traitorously betrayed his brother -- Golden's father -- Lithoid who had lured the good king of Malachite to his death at the beginning of the Great-Mage War! It was Lithoid, in league with the Black Mage, who had betrayed his brother and become king. Everyone knew it, though none, fearing for their lives, were brave enough to speak of this in Malachite. (It must also be said that the world contained other young men of Golden's age who, in their cups, claimed to be the lost heir of Malachite.)

But ... only Golden ... had the dreams. Dreams of being roused in the middle of the night, to be dragged away by tall men in rich dress. Of being hunted.

He was sure he remembered a grim, old man saying they must escape by land; that all outbound ships were being searched; that the king's troops would be looking for a boy at sea, all boy children found on ships to be drowned. He was sure he had heard someone say that -- a voice -- in his head, coming back to him at night.

As from a height, Golden again saw the land of invisible giants. Most vividly, remembered grown men shaking, creeping forward over rocky ground, the first man in line struck down by an unseen boulder thrown by a colossus, the man reduced, in an instant, to a thin, red paste! Golden remembered the next leader circling that blood soaked spot, the file of men twisting behind him like a serpent, the boy, held tightly by the hand, dragged along at the line's end. Until another elder was struck down ahead. And another. Then another, each man's doom coming quickly, silently, the line shortening, only a few going before the boy, now.

Until one man remained, the eldest, clutching the child's hand in old man's fingers, until the child's flesh was bruised.

How this last man had survived the giants' boulders, Golden didn't know. Only that the elder had lived to take the boy out of the invisible monsters' land, onto the safe planes of Stil-de-grain.

That little boy was Golden as a child.

For he was of the blood. He was Cleadon, son of King Cleadon, Golden smuggled out of his own country by his murdered father's men. He could remember, as yesterday, the old survivor schooling Golden never to utter Golden's birth name to anyone!

Golden also recalled the old man's death soon after, the coughing elder pressing silver coins into Golden's hand with a final, feeble warning about the name, Cleadon. Never to say it! On pain of death!

But what could a young boy do by himself, alone in all the world? After the coins had been spent on food and lodging, hunger had driven him to begging, to stealing. To slavery -- Golden picked up beside the road by traveling robbers, masking themselves as wonder workers.

As a boy, short but strong, the villains had trained Golden to climb the outer walls of houses and sneak in upper windows, creeping downstairs to unbar the door so that the robbers could enter. He had been taught to be an entertainer, to perform for hamlet festivals while the slavers worked the crowd, cutting way the bumpkin's purses. Until Golden, true to his honorable heritage, had grown big enough to break free from the pack. Until he had become fast enough to distance himself from the thieves' dogged pursuit.

Now, with a growing reputation as a performer of many skills, Golden had been summoned to entertain the King of Stil-de-grain. And to the king's profound surprise, to steal the Crystal! Soon, Golden would lead the dignified existence of his lineage.

Would they never finish eating!

Leaving the curtains, certain to be summoned by tromba, Golden paced the cluttered room, adjusting his new, black and white, patched costume, the tiny bells sewed to his shoes jingling rhythmically when he danced.

He had only one other costume with him, the red and black, the rest of his pack jammed with all that he might need, first to gain the crystal, then to escape with it. The long, thin thread of Cinnabar silk attached to a three pronged grapple. Short pitons of iron, flattened at one end. A gum-padded hammer for driving the thinned ends (with little noise) between the cracks of building stones, the rods making hand-holds by which Golden could climb the sheerest wall. A stouter rope with bigger, iron grapples tied to either end -- for spanning walls. (It was not for nothing that Golden had perfected rope-walking!) He'd put in a length of heavy line, looped on either end. Slender tools for picking locks. A drill: bits for wood, bits for metal. And for listening through walls, a flaring tube of finest silver. (The cylinder could also be used for hearing the click of falling tumblers in the locking mechanism of a safe.) He had his knives, of course, knives that could be thrown as easily at men as at ringed targets! A more practical skinning knife. Black tunic and cloak. Make-up. Enough dried food to run on, fast and far.

With two weeks to prepare, he had concealed the escape boat at the cliff's bottom edge. And located the perfect place to hide in the palace should everything go wrong, an old man's robe waiting for him there.

His muscles cooling, Golden bent to touch the ground between his toes, catching the reflection of his dark face in the shiny silver plates that formed his shoe-tops, seeing his boyish image topped by curly black hair. He stood up, stretching one leg to the side, lifting his leg, grasping his foot with one hand, pulling his foot up until the leg was straight, his foot higher than his head.

And if he failed? If he were caught? He would be executed, undoubtedly in public and by torture, as an example to others of the fate of thieves. When dead at last, his mangled body would be quartered with an ax, each fourth hung from an iron hook outside a wall-gate of Xanthin city.

No matter. Knowing his ancestry had made his life a torture. With death, at least that kind of pain would end.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

The next day, and the next and the next, John Lyon's hand still bothered him. The occasional tingling; the right hand warmer than the left.

In addition, the uneasy feeling that he was being watched continued, John still catching himself whirling about in an attempt to see who it was.

The odd feeling in his hand persisting, John made an appointment to see a doctor Paul recommended, John's visit with the doctor going like John thought it would. Questions about John's symptoms, vague talk about pinched nerves, ending with a proscription for numbing cream -- that failed to "numb."

(John's own diagnosis was that he could stand "off-again-on-again tingling," as long as it didn't get worse.)

At home the following afternoon, John tried to concentrate on improvements needed in the house as a way of getting his mind off himself.

Catching Cream, he sat in the oak chair beside the fireplace, his mind jumping about the room.

Studying the results of his decorating skills, John became aware that Cream was making her ratchety mew, meaning he'd stopped petting her, a lapse he remedied, the cat stretching, yawning, settling back contentedly in his lap.

Looking at the room again, John decided one corner needed brightening.

The solution? Put a lamp on the unused plant stand on that side of the room.

No problem. If he had anything, it was extra table lamps from his parents' living room. If he could only remember where he'd stored them. .... Ah! ......

Putting down a protesting Cream, John walked into the hall; bending down, unlatched the under-the-stairs door, swinging it into the hall, most of the boxes in there containing lamps, he thought. Since he didn't care what kind of lamp he got, all he had to do was drag out the first box he could locate.

Getting down on his knees, reaching in, John was wrestling with the nearest carton when .....

What he'd heard was Cream's "attack" mew, the cat galloping past him into that fascinating stair-space.

Damn!

Pulling out the box, sliding it to the side over the worn, wooden floor, John stuck his head into the cavity, the other boxes keeping him from entering very far.

"Cream? Here, kitty, kitty," he called, like a fool, cats never coming when you called. She was in there and would stroll out in her own sweet time.

On second thought, John decided not to give up that easily. Particularly since the longer the cat stayed back there, the dirtier she'd be when she did come out.

Though putting little faith in extracting Cream no matter what he did, John went to the kitchen to get the flashlight, wanting to at least locate the cat back under there. Who knew? Maybe the light beam would flush her out. There was no predicting cats.

But he had no luck with the light, either. All he could see were boxes and more boxes.

Switching off the flashlight, putting it, "muzzle " down, on the flat top of the bannister's end post, John left the door open. Cream would come out ... eventually.

John only began to worry about that damn cat when he hadn't seen her by early evening, thinking she might have slipped past him to hide somewhere else.

Concerned enough to want to track her down, John searched the rest of the house. Methodically. Thoroughly. Checking Cream's hiding places. Until he was certain she was nowhere to be found.

It was then that he had a frightening thought! What if Cream had slipped through to the outside? She was an indoor cat. Couldn't cope with the out-of-doors.

Consumed by that dark thought, John got down on all fours to crawl under the stairs -- only to be stopped, again, by the boxes.

Frustrated, he began sliding out box after box until he'd vacated the space, John picking up the flashlight and shining its beam under the stairs. Seeing nothing.

Kneeling to crawl part way inside, however, still playing the light around, he thought he heard the raspy, little mew that only Cream could make.

Was she trapped in there? Caught somehow? A possibility that made John's blood run cold, John crawling all the way in.

Completely inside that cramped cavity, off his knees and sitting down, he still couldn't see her.

Careful not to bang his head on the slanted ceiling, John covered every inch of the hole, playing the light over the walls and ceiling ... seeing ... a hollow, triangular shaped area under the stairs. No pipe that Cream could have gotten stuck in. No ledge the cat could have jumped up on. Nothing to trap a cat back in there. And yet ... no Cream.

Defeated, John backed out. Though he couldn't see how Cream could still be under the stairs, John decided to stack the boxes in the hall and to keep the door open. He could always put the containers back when he'd found his cat, or ..... He didn't want to finish that thought.

Days went by, the weather getting colder, John growing more despondent.

In the afternoons after teaching, he found himself searching for Cream in the scrub woods around his house. No luck. He made posters with a description of the cat, promising a reward, and tacked them to sign posts out on Troost. With no results.

He couldn't believe how much he missed that silly cat. True, he'd had her for years -- at least his parents had, the cat another possession John had inherited. It even occurred to him that his obsessive attachment to Cream could be because she was the only living link with the world he'd known before the tragedy of his parents' death.

Whatever the reason, as the days went by and no Cream, John didn't seem to "heal."

He went through the motions. He taught. He talked to Paul.

In a last ditch effort to "get his mind off that dammed cat," John called Sears, using what was left of his Sears card to have them install a humidifier on the new furnace. Goodbye dry. Farewell nose bleeds.

And still no Cream. Just ... another cat that had disappeared in the old Van Robin place.

On the other mystery front, John received a "revelation" one morning about his on-again, off-again tingling-hand sensation: that what he'd been feeling on the back of his hand was very much like a warm, gentle rain. Where that understanding got him, he didn't know.

Things ground on until the middle of November, John sitting in his den on a late Thursday afternoon. (He'd recently moved his desk so he could sit with his back to yet another solid wall, hoping that changing location would help him best the sensation that someone was looking over his shoulder. It didn't.)

Trying to read ... John's hand began to "shower." Coincidentally, he heard that soft, rain noise in the house. And ... something more: a low pitched, wavering tone.

John closed his eyes, concentrating.

Mumbling? Chanting?

Thinking about that thrumming sound, he remembered hearing it before, in the night -- just after he'd moved in.

What was that wailing sound? The wind? Blowing through a crack in the house? It had been windy all day. A cold blast. The wind doing its best to blow up an early winter storm.

The rain he was hearing was the shower sound, of course, a noise he'd gotten so used to it hardly registered anymore. But maybe he could track that ... muttering ... stick something in the hole the wind used to make it, in that way help weatherproof the house against the coming winter.

Determined to trail that ... noise ... John got up and went into the hall, there to thread his way around the stacked boxes that he still hadn't had the heart to put back under the stairs.

To find that the muttering was louder there than in the den.

John turned his head to the left ... then to the right, trying to locate the sound, the mumbling seeming to come through the under-the-stairs door he'd left open. Both the low warbling noise and the sound of rain.

John had told himself that the noise was connected with electricity so many times he'd come to believe it. Except ... there were no electrical connections beneath the stairs. He'd been under there; had looked the area over carefully.

John shivered, each hair on his neck vibrating! It was one thing to hear rain noises in the house, to speculate about their origin ... quite another to find that the sounds had an impossible source!

As John's "scientific" explanation for the rain sound crumbled, he was cast back to unexplained noises. Ghost noises. Coming from a place where there was ... nothing. Coming from that wedge shaped ... empty ... storage space!

Paul was right. There was something frightening about this! Something dangerous about playing around with nature's secrets, a cold sweat beading John's forehead, his breathing shallow, John afraid to move for fear of attracting the attention of ... what?

Calling himself a coward to jump-start a little courage, he stepped to the side of the stairs as quietly as he could and squatted down before the black cavity. To find the rain noise even more pronounced in front of the hole. Drip, drip, drip. The sort of light rain he was feeling at that very moment ... on his hand.

Was there a connection between the sound and the strange way his hand had been feeling!?

Before John had time to think about that, he heard it! Cream's mew; that ragged, halting mew. Coming from the hollow beneath the stairs!

Standing quickly, leaning to the side, John grabbed the flashlight from the flat top of the end post. Squatting, swinging the door wide, John leveled the flashlight at the space and switched on the beam. ... Nothing ... Just an empty cavity ... from which he heard ... rain.

It was then, while listening intently, that the rain sound ... died away. And one more thing. When the rain stopped, so did the feeling of raindrops splashing on the back of his right hand!

Shaken, the next thing John remembered was sitting at his desk, trying to fit these ... insane ... parts into a whole. ... Ghosts! ... Weather?

Closing his eyes, John tried to project himself into the situations in which he'd heard that mysterious rain. The first time in bed.

No question any longer about the origin of the sound -- it came from under the stairs; was loud enough to wake a man sleeping fitfully. He'd heard the dripping noise for the second time while grading papers. Had heard it so many times since, he'd banished that noise to the outer edges of his consciousness.

Then, there was Cream's disappearance. He'd gone to get a lamp from under the stairs only to have her charge past him into the hole. Vanished in there. Except ... for her mew.

Disappeared ... where? Somewhere ... else.

What was the direction of that line of thought? Somewhere else? What did that mean? Some science fiction kind of thing; some other reality?

Stymied for the moment, thinking about Cream again, John was reminded that he'd been petting her before he "lost her" under the stairs. He'd also been petting her earlier that fall, just before he'd moved the lamp boxes under the stairs, his hand "tingling" after that. He recalled that, at the time, he'd attributed the strange sensation on his hand to static build up as a result of messing with Cream. Nothing like a cat's fur to attract static, the house so dry ...

And, there he was, full circle. Back to electricity; back to an electrical explanation for this odd phenomena. Electricity! Was that the common factor?

Electricity fit Cream -- if you thought of electricity in its static electric form. Given the arid atmosphere of the house, Cream was a static fur-ball all the time!

It as then that John got an exciting idea! Did static electricity, somehow, "thin" the "wall" between this world and another? ........

A crazy thought ... but one he could test!

Fur! What he needed was fur. Fur? Inside his winter gloves upstairs!

A dash up and down the stairs, John breathing rapidly as much from excitement as from that burst of speed, and he was squatted before ... the space.

Taking a deep breath, John reversed the glove and rubbed the rabbit fur on the back of his left hand -- vigorously -- thinking that, if rubbing Cream with his right hand had built up enough of a charge for his hand to "slip" through some invisible "wall" into another reality, by charging up his left hand, he ought to be able to poke it through, as well. One hand in some other world, two hands in another world -- what difference did it make?

Quickly, before John could "think" himself out of it, still rubbing his left hand with the rabbit fur, he thrust his hand inside the stair-space, forcing himself to keep it there for a moment, before jerking it out again. ... Nothing. .... No sensation. Nothing like the warm feeling on the back of his other hand.

His left hand remained ... a hand.

He tried the fur again. Felt normal. He tried again. Failure.

Was there ... another way to build a static charge?

The only thing John knew about static electricity was that if you shuffled over a carpet in the winter time, you'd get "electrified" enough to shock someone. Kids all did that. Zappp??! A little spark, a little pain for the both of you. But fun ... for a kid. Always in the winter. It never worked in the summer because ... the air wasn't dry enough in the summer .......

And that was it! He was certain of it! No nose bleeds. Not since he'd had the humidifier installed. No nose bleeds because ... the air in the house was no longer ... dry.

John's theory that static electricity made a "pathway" into some other reality had not been tested -- yet.

Back at his desk, tired but excited, John thought this whole situation through, stroking his lower lip with one fingertip as he sometimes did.

This was not the kind of idea he could tell anyone. Paul, maybe. But certainly no one else. In fact, maintaining he'd heard "ghosts" could get John in trouble. Before this "rain business," if someone told John about hearing "ghost noises," John would have thought, "bats in his belfry." It followed that, if John wouldn't have sat still for unexplained sounds, other people couldn't be expected to be receptive to the possibility of another ... what? A parallel universe? Another reality? Accessible to highly charged up ... cats?

No. He could tell no one.

Tired though John was, he had one more thought; about a way to test his theory. "All I need is more static electricity to counteract the moisture of the humidifier," John said aloud. "And I know where to find out how to get that power!" John laughed hysterically, the tension spilling out at last. "And there's no way you're going to stop me!"

John realized he'd been talking out loud. Or was it more accurate to say he'd been addressing that ... thing ... who'd been spying on him?

My God, John thought, taking care not even to move his lips as he formed the words in his mind. Could it be true after all? Something he'd considered, but not seriously? That ... gradually, he'd been slipping into the world of the insane? A place of impossible sounds. Of paranoia?

By tomorrow, he should know.

* * * * *

Chapter 7

Again to war -- the bravest and the best.

Again to war -- in metal armor dressed.

Again to war -- upon his lips, a jest.

Again to war -- a spear, his heart to nest?

Again to war -- my trembling lips he pressed.

Again to war -- his fate, by death to test.

Again to war -- lay out -- lay out his burial vest.

Wearing a glorious, blue silk vest lavishly embroidered with twin hunting hawks, King Yarro sat on the dais. Torchlight flashed from thumb sized sapphires thick set in the gold chain around his corded neck. Torchlight also reflected from the facets of his flat, blue eyes.

Standing at attention around the buttressed walls were soldier-guards.

This was the central room of the Palace, the hall built to withstand siege. In addition, the Palace was flanked by triple walls of close fit stone, the walls' saw-toothed parapets guarded by the night watch. The stronghold was further shielded by the insularity of the island on which it stood, the island outriggered by the strongest navy in the world.

Thinking these thoughts, the king felt safe.

Magnifying his authority (sitting to either side along the ruling table) were his Heads. To his right, Etexin, Head of the army, Niem, Head of Guards, then the Heads of revenue, agriculture, and commerce -- to his left, Vancu, Head of the navy, then Heads of cities and industry. And finally Bachur, the palace plenipotentiary.

Before and below the king were the most highly regarded of the lower class, sated with food and drink.

Yarro belched contentedly, taking a final sip of chilled wine from his tall, hawk shaped chalice, swishing the vintage through his teeth to clear his palate before turning his head to spit the mouthful on the floor.

It had been the king's pleasure to see these others gorge themselves at his expense, to see their spellbound faces caught up by the singer's clever words. Tomorrow, these "representatives" of his people would be permitted to submit petitions of grievance to their king -- all of which he would ignore. After which, humbled by the king's magnanimity in inviting them to his own banquet hall, overwhelmed by his magnificence, they would gratefully pay the higher taxes he would levy. All in all, a good night's work.

Even the minstrel had matched his reputation. What was that joke about the Malachite and Cinnabarian? Quite amusing. And, as magician, the bold fellow had performed most cleverly. Now strumming his hand held harp, the entertainer was singing of the tragedies of Stil-de-grain and of her inevitable triumph.

Often, the thud of the warring drum,

Pounded the rhythm for marching men,

Hollowly echoed across some plain,

Arms! To arms, for Stil-de-grain!

Leaning to his left, the king rasped a question to the navy Head. "What is that fellow's name, again?" An elegant flick of the king's finger indicated the jester.

"I believe it is Golden, your majesty," the old man whispered through his beard.

"Yes." By this time, all the Heads had turned toward the king; all listening to Yarro's every word. "I want that fellow rewarded," the king whispered to the Head of revenue, the Head nodding eagerly, the movement rippling down his shirt to undulate the golden sash across his chest. "Not too much, though," the king cautioned with a knowing smirk. "It is good to keep a peasant hungry."

"You can trust me, your majesty," murmured the finance Head behind his fat, cupped hand. "Twenty silvers?" The Head had the look of a man desperate to please. The king nodded, the finance man's face erupting in a smile.

All was well.

The only cloud on Yarro's day had been the unexpected and unwelcome visit by his Mage. A nervous happening!

Though, ultimately, the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain was King Yarro's creature, no Mage was to be trusted. No matter how polite -- and the Mage had been elaborately polite. Itself, cause for suspicion!

Other agents of the king were more reliable, if only because Yarro could, at his pleasure, have them thrown into the dungeon, have their noses slit or ears cut off, or have them branded through the cheeks with red hot irons. Blinded. Burned. The breasts of their women ripped off with iron clawed pincers! But Mages had enough magic to be troublesome.

Which was why, with smiling teeth, King Yarro had feigned pleasure at the surprise visit of Melcor, Crystal-Mage.

And what had the Mage wanted? That was the most disturbing thing of all. Yarro did not know. Oh, to be sure, the old man had prattled on about white animals invading neighboring Malachite, slaughtering it's civilians. Nonsense. Stories to frighten children. And if true, so much the better! Death to all Malachites!

No. King Yarro was not deceived. Melcor had not descended on the palace for any benefit that might accrue to the king. .... Leaving the unanswered question, why did he come?

And then when the Mage had turned down an invitation to attend the banquet ... in itself an insult!... what was Yarro to think? Since when did any Mage fail to grasp, with both hands, more than the king's largess? And that fabrication about Melcor wanting to be alone to fast for the kingdom's well being ...? Thinking back, Yarro could still hear the bleat of the old man's, unctuous voice!

Lies! All lies!

Too bad Yarro could not have Melcor's tongue twisted with pliers until the truth was tortured from him!

Yarro had been relieved when he had gotten the report that the Mage and the Mage's slavey had left the palace.

King Yarro forced his mind to the present, thinking that a man of royalty could only despise those fat merchants before him; their gaudy women, flounced beside them, no better. Not one of those pasty faces was fit to share the king's bed tonight!

No matter. Yarro would pick one of the lovely dancers who had woven their bodies into such titillating contours. One or more would be suitable. With the Etherial's help ... quite suitable!

As had become his habit, the king slid a hand within his brocaded tunic and through the slit in the red-royal shirt to touch the hidden Crystal on its thin, iron chain. .... No quickening force. No surge of power. The Crystal still inert, the king's temper soured, his thick lips sagging at the corners. Would Pfnaravin never die!? Yarro calmed himself with the certainty that the Mage of Malachite (who's apprentice had stupidly brought Pfnaravin's crystal to Yarro, the boy not having the wit to put the Crystal on) would succumb ... in time. And then, Pfnaravin's magic would transfer to the king! At this happy thought, the king gave a gap toothed smile, his mood lightening at the imagined power he would soon possess. His own, green Crystal to command! Giving him new leverage over Melcor.

Yarro frowned again. Had Melcor come because the Mage had discovered that business with the priests? Surely not. Still, Mages were a tricky breed, this Melcor no exception. Did the Sorcerer hope to catch the king in an admission of the act? If so, Melcor had gone away discomforted.

The king's teeth smiled again.

Sudden applause brought Yarro's thoughts back to the room. The minstrel had finished a song. Had begun another.

In youth, I dreamed a maiden bold,

With eyes of blue and hair of gold,

but then, awake, like dreams all fade,

Her vision dimmed within your shade.

Fell earthward, like an arrowed lark,

Before your warm, cool, warm, moist dark.

A love song. Good. This would soon be over.

Had the Mage been seeking the Etherial? Not possible ... except ... that Mages seemed to know what others only guessed. On the remote possibility that Melcor might sense the Etherial, Yarro had hidden her.

From the very first, of course, Yarro had disguised the Etherial as his personal slavey, a deception made difficult by the girl's youth and beauty. How could the priests have tortured her without damaging that silken skin? In the fine art of flesh rending, Kings had much to learn from priests.

The Etherial made him feel ... acutely! Yarro had never known such lust as when lying with her! When he was loving his other women, for that matter, with the Etherial looking on. Stubborn, though. Would not admit that she had the power until he'd dislocated both her shoulders on the rack. Willful. In the end, however, even with his cruder methods, he had convinced her to be reasonable. (Nor was the sexual pleasure he'd gotten from stretching her on the rack, to be discounted. Truly, inflicting pain on women was its own reward.)

After Yarro had persuaded the Etherial to use her power in his behalf, she even made his food taste better. Colors were richer when she was by his side. Music, sweeter. So radiant was her power that Yarro had been afraid the Mage, coming close, would intuit it, Yarro sending the Etherial to join the scullery staff. That far away, even Pfnaravin himself could not have detected her!

After Melcor's departure, Yarro had not summoned the girl again, however. Because ... Yarro still felt uneasy about the motives of the Mage. Since the Etherial was apt to strengthen every passion, you did not want her near you if you were in a temper. In the same manner, if he was sad, she could make his sadness turn to grief. Depressed, and he would spiral to despair. Angry and, in her presence, he became enraged!

She was still in the cook room.

Rousing himself to find the singer still enthralling the others, the king's thoughts, like shreds of restless mist, returned to snake about the Mage. Did Melcor know of the priests? Impossible! There was no way that meddling fool could have learned about Temple Fulgur, located as the temple was, in little traveled country close to the Realgar border.

The shocking news that Realgar raiders had slaughtered Fulgur's priests had not yet been reported to the king.

When the dreadful truth was revealed, of course, King Yarro, in righteous wrath, would attack Realgar! How dare those triple-god believers kill the sacred priests of Stil-de-grain!? Realgar, of course, would battle back. Strike and counter strike, each side claiming to be defending itself from the other's aggression. Atrocities would mount. Hostages taken ... abused ... hacked to bits; all in the name of forcing peace upon a recalcitrant foe. Native brigands, posing as enemy soldiers, would loot and pillage their own people.

More to the point, King Yarro, in his palace, on his island -- would be safe. Safe and cheered at every widening of the war. (As Yarro imagined the future, though, he concluded it was not too soon to hire more tasters to test the king's food for poison.

And after the final, grudging peace? In defeat, Yarro would share his people's grief -- for which he would gain their praise. Taxes would go up to repair the damages of the war. In victory, Yarro would share his peoples' exaltation. Taxes would go up to build enough force to keep the enemy down forever. Win or lose, wars always served the needs of kings.

I have an arrow in my heart,

A lovely wound that will not heal.

Cool, cool, the fever of love's dart,

Slake, slake, the passion that I feel.

The king could not keep his mind on the singing. Too much was at stake! He'd taken elaborate care to see that no one knew his part in the Fulgur affair. First, because the guards he'd sent on that mission did not learn their purpose until opening sealed orders as they neared the temple. Yarro was further buffered because, after the attack, the guards' mute cook had poisoned the lot of them. Still following orders, the tongueless man had stripped off every guard's uniform, bringing the uniforms, with the Etherial, to the king. (No one could link naked, putrefying corpses to the King of Stil-de-grain!) And finally, the illiterate dupe had been paid off with the promised office of Head of kennels, the man sent to feed the dogs -- dogs raised on human flesh so that he would seem their natural food. The king couldn't help but chuckle at having played that final joke.

No, King Yarro had planned well! No one could trace the massacre of the priests to him!

A frown clouded the king's heavy face -- but quickly cleared. The Etherial knew, of course. But he had taken care of that. (He had even imitated the priest's example by making certain no scars resulted from her "instruction.") After finishing with her, she could not fail to remember ... to forget.

The king had another pleasant thought. Since he was now in a jovial mood, there was no longer any reason to keep the Etherial from his presence. In fact, were she near him, the happiness he now felt would be amplified! After the love songs of the minstrel ended this affair ... Yarro would take the Etherial to bed. Take several of the dancing girls as well -- the small one with red hair, the silver maned one, and perhaps another. This would be a night of pleasure like no other! For a moment, to strengthen his anticipation, King Yarro listened to the lyrics of the song.

My love, like torches in the night,

My love, like water in the waste,

My love, the sight, the touch, the taste

Of you, fires every dark alight.

The king raised his hand and beckoned over his shoulder with a flash of jeweled rings, a uniformed slavey instantly at the king's side, bending low to hear Yarro's whisper.

The king's instructions received, the steward glided off to disappear through the portal leading to the cook room.

When up-light comes, I think of you,

When full-light nears, you are the day,

When singing songs, you are my lay,

My light, my dark, forever new.

For future worry, there was Yarro's son: that sniveling boy. For a moment, Yarro had doubts about killing the boy's mother. Still, it had been interesting to have the queen's arms and legs hacked off, then sewed on the reverse sides of her body. What a humorous look that had given her in her coffin.

As soon as a new queen could be found and made pregnant, the boy could be done away with ....

It was then that the servant, half-running, came back to the king. Bent to whisper in his sovereign's ear.

"What!?" roared the king, his eyes gone apoplectic.

At Yarro's shout, the minstrel's song was cut, the king's cry stunning all the guests to silence. "Gone!?" So maddened was King Yarro that he seemed incapable of uttering two words at once, his lips sputtering, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth, collecting on his chin to string down his vest.

* * * * *

Still sprawled in his banquet chair, the king came to himself under the ministrations of Madiar. "You must calm yourself, your majesty," said the royal physician, applying a wet cloth to the king's forehead. "A fit of such passion will, someday, be your death."

"Or yours," gasped Yarro, the king still struggling to gain his breath.

Recovered, brushing Madiar back, King Yarro lurched to his feet to shout commands. "Seal the palace! Search every room!"

Yarro turned to Niem who sat as though stupefied with dread. "Search for my slavey! On your head if she escapes!"

The spell broken with that order, the Head jumped to his feet, gold braid flying, his legs catching in the tablecloth, the empty dishes on the table clattering to the floor.

A single, frightened look at the raging king, and the Head of guards was running along the table, shouting orders of his own.

"First guard, rouse the watch! Secure every door to the palace! Second and third to follow me! The rest block the exits! No one leaves this room!"

And the Head was through the exit at the back, guards thumping after him, smartly, shouldering their spears, the remaining troops leaping to the doorways, lowering their lances at the shocked guests, daring anyone to pass.

So began a long, late night, all guests held in the banquet hall at spear point, the palace guards ransacking every recess for Yarro's missing slavey.

With no success. All they learned was that the girl had been absent from the kitchen for some time. A man had come for her, the Head cook remembered; insisted he have this girl to carry off his pack. An old man, was her thought.

Even on the rack, she could remember nothing else before she died.

Almost up-light, the banquet room still the center of command, the king recalled his tired soldiers, the men dragging in to form along the back.

At last the king stood, his glittering eyes on each guest's face ... in ... turn. Given his choice, Yarro would have relieved the night's tension by impaling them all, so that his highways would be bordered with their twitching bodies! .... Not practical. He could not risk the revolt this act might cause. Not with a Realgar war looming on the orange horizon. Still, someone must pay, if only to restore the honor of the king! If he could not find the guilty, punishing an innocent would have to do.

Not one of his leading merchants. Nor was it politic to persecute his fawning Heads ....

If not these, then who! Someone ... clever. Someone who might, under a ruse, have gained entrance to the palace to ....

Thinking these thoughts, the king's eye fell upon the minstrel, the man seated to one side, the singer's harp leaning against the wall.

A likely choice.

"Arrest him!" the king commanded, pointing an accusing finger at the entertainer.

And in a frantic moment, a swarm of burly guards had knocked the Jester from his chair and pinned him to the floor.

The king not bothering to waste his breath, the slightest movement of his finger was enough to have the struggling songster jerked to his feet and dragged away.

After this, sitting grandly, Yarro was well pleased with himself for his decisiveness. So -- judging by the relieved whisperings of his guests -- were those on whom the king's trap had not been sprung. Only a moment passed before shouts rang out in praise of Yarro! Wild applause!

The king could do nothing but smile graciously and order up more wine.

Still, as he sat back, seemingly no longer with a care, Yarro pondered the problem of how to track down his escaped Etherial. Escaped by posing as an old man's slavey.

Escaped! ... More likely, stolen! ......

Of course!

That was the answer ... to so many questions ...

It had been the Mage.

Could the king send a messenger bird; have Melcor stopped before he arrived at Hero castle? .... No. .... It would take too long. The Mage would reach the castle. Nothing could be done at all until up-light ......

This was a tricky business.

A situation in which the king must be alone to think.

"Clear the hall," said Yarro, soberly, the army Head seconding the king's command, the guards hurrying the weary guests from the room, the king's officials also slipping quietly away.

Still sitting in his chair on the platform, alone (except for the perimeter guards) among the ruins of the banquet, the king scowled. All he could do was send the army to assault Hero castle. Pit them against the Mage's magic.

To be sure, soldiers would die in the assault, scorched to death by withering blasts of Crystal-Magic. Small loss, though. That was the purpose of soldiers. To spend their lives in the king's service.

Eventually, Melcor's Crystal-power drained, the king would overwhelm the castle. Seize the Etherial.

And could Yarro also eliminate the Mage? An open question to be answered later.

King Yarro's mind was, once more, at its deadly best. Let Melcor think the king did not know who had taken the Etherial. Let nothing happen for several full-lights. Then, the Mage lulled into inattention ... a skillful thrust!

An excellent plan. A plan which, if carried forward with the proper care, could net the king the Etherial and much more. The Etherial for certain, and possibly another prize of inestimable worth. A dead Mage and a second Crystal!

Then ... let them all beware!

* * * * *

As it had for many up-lights, the ghost hand floated above the damp floor of the tower room, Melcor's magic holding the hand in the same position as it had appeared to him: palm down, the hand near the room's left edge and three-quarters of a body length above the floor.

Across the circular room, a steeply angled shaft of light fell on the face of the Etherial. Looking up, up, Melcor saw that the light source was the golden sky of Stil-de-grain showing through the hole made by a roofing stone plunging to the floor during the last shaking of the earth. Unhappily, not enough heat came through the hole to dry the moisture of the nightly rains. Melcor wrinkled his nose at the room's musty smell; regretted the time he had to spend in this malodorous room.

Like the hand before him, Melcor had bound the girl with magic chains, small as she was, having to use but a fraction of the Crystal's force to hold her. Still, any expenditure of effort leeched power from the Mage Gem.

For his part, Melcor stood before the hand, his hawk face as emotionless as the girl's, the Mage giving no sign of the elation surging through his wizened body.

Stood ... and waited ...

He had put on a formal robe for the occasion. Had garbed the Etherial in a short, black tunic, the sky-shaft glowing from her face and arms, so that she appeared to be a bodyless puppet suspended in mid-air by strings.

Melcor had not been present when Pfnaravin entered the other world. (He knew when the Malachite had crossed into that other place, however, Melcor near enough to Hero Mountain to feel the temblor caused by Pfnaravin's passage.) While Melcor was in attendance at yet another of the king's weddings -- the great Mage and the Mage's apprentice had come to Hero castle, the castle thought to be built on the spot where the Hero had entered the other world. Old, wise, Pfnaravin had surmised that it was by a shaking of the earth that the Hero had been transported. Seeking to prevent the return of evil, Pfnaravin had come to Hero castle to cause such a shaking so that he, too, could travel to the other world.

Knocked to the ground by the resultant earth shake, Melcor had hurried to the castle, hearing what had happened from his castle servant, Chryses, that though Chryses had urged Pfnaravin to wait, saying that Melcor would soon return, no ordinary man could stop a Mage. (And Melcor had not punished Chryses for Pfnaravin's rash attempt.) Too impatient to wait for Melcor, Pfnaravin had entered the tower room and caused the earth to quake by a concentration of Crystal-power. (Melcor did blame Chryses for allowing the hasty departure of Pfnaravin's apprentice, however, Melcor disciplining the palace functionary by blinding him.)

All in the long ago. All to be set right ... soon.

As the time approached, Melcor was engaged in balancing the Crystal's powers. First, and always, using enough force to keep the band of Azare in darkness.

In addition, he must maintain the wards. Since even stupid Yarro would eventually realize that it was Melcor who had abducted the Etherial, Melcor had erected magical "webs" around the castle. (It was something of a mystery, in fact, why the king had not already assaulted the citadel.) What Yarro could not do was come by stealth. No one moved against Hero castle without tripping the wards, any disruption sending vibrations through Melcor's gold Crystal. Long before any soldier approached the walls, Melcor would be warned.

Snaring the ghost hand absorbed more power. It was a marvel that Melcor had been in the tower at the very instant of its appearance, Melcor there to seek the book, when, turning, he saw the hand thrust into the room. Cut off jaggedly at the wrist. Floating shoulder high above the floor.

Pfnaravin's hand, the great Mage attempting to return to his own world!

It was in that instant of understanding that Melcor had put Mage-restraints on Pfnaravin's hand so that, at least, it stayed where it belonged.

Immobilizing the hand for such a length of time had been another erosion of Melcor's Crystal's power.

Still, the hand was a further proof that the great Pfnaravin was alive, alive and endeavoring to return. It was just that, entering the other world without his green Crystal, Pfnaravin could not generate sufficient magic to propel his whole body through.

Since the appearance of the hand, Melcor had braved the moldy smell of the tower again and again in failed attempts to find a way to return Pfnaravin. At the same time, by focusing on the hand, Melcor had found a way to use Crystal-power to reach Pfnaravin's mind. Through Pfnaravin's eyes, Melcor had glimpsed dim images of that other place: Pfnaravin sitting in a ... something ... that hurtled down smooth, rock roads, other ... somethings ... that could be metal carts ... racing past ... constructions ... taller than mountains, built of ... glass? Unthatched houses, side by side, lines of them that went on forever and forever. A world of wonder! (Pfnaravin had been right to believe that the other world had much to teach. A thing the Hero had also said upon his return in the long ago.)

Frustrated at not having the power to bring Pfnaravin back, it was then that Melcor had witnessed the Etherial. (And to think how angry Melcor had been to have his labors interrupted by the king's summons!)

Melcor had first seen the Etherial at the far end of the temple's sanctuary, the girl fastened to the alter-front with golden chains!

Now, that source of legendary power was Melcor's to command!

His magic strengthened by the Etherial, Melcor would soon have enough force to bring Pfnaravin back. (Let Yarro fall upon the castle, then! Against two Mages, a king's power paled to insignificance!)

The Etherial! Melcor laughed the brittle chuckle of the wise. What a fool Yarro was to try to hide her. True, if Melcor had not known of her existence in the Palace .... But he had known, and so had searched. Back bent, hobbling with his old man's steps, he'd been invisible to guards, soldiers on the alert for more vigorous foes. Melcor had shuffled through the Palace's lavish rooms until, in the kitchen, he had sensed the power of that lowly drudge.

The rest was easy. First, Melcor had compelled the frazzled kitchen Head to give him the girl to use as a servant. After that, had left the Palace with the king's most prized possession! (What tableau would seem more innocent, after all, than an old man followed by a loaded, trailing slavey!?)

Out of sight of the stronghold, Melcor had moved with the speed of youth: hastily descending the sloping streets of Xanthin to the harbor; taking a fast ship to Canarin; marching the Etherial to Hero castle.

There at last, another difficulty had emerged. Melcor had been vexed by how to secure the Etherial's cooperation (the girl continuing to insist she was but a kitchen drudge.) Naturally enough, from the first, Melcor had used magic restraints on the girl's body -- as he was doing now. He could not have her wandering off while he was distracted by his important preparations. The problem was that, at the instant of the transfer of Pfnaravin, Melcor must relinquish all control of the girl in order to focus his complete attention on the relocation. That being the case, Melcor's problem was to find some means to persuade the girl that she wished what Melcor wished.

In the end, he had discovered a way to convince her. A technique violating neither the girl's mind nor her body. He was inspired to put her in a waking dream in which, end to end, she was compelled to relive the most hideous memories of her past. (Judging from her screams of anguish and the violent writhing of her body, grisly memories indeed.)

Until she begged to use her power as he commanded, knowing that, if she did not, he would drown her in those waking dreams ... forever.

To impress her even more, Melcor had forced her to watch through Pfnaravin's eyes, the girl quaking in terror at the marvels of the other world. In this and other ways, Melcor had made the girl as afraid of Pfnaravin as she was of him, her fear of offending the slightest wish of such dreadful Mages a guarantee of the girl's assistance.

With Pfnaravin's return, King Yarro would be compelled to return Pfnaravin's Crystal. And thenceforth, what magical power! First, to be used in the final eliminating of the evil Mage-King. Then, at a moment's weakness, to effect the destruction of the "great" Pfnaravin himself. After which, Melcor, twin Crystal-Mage, would rule the world.

But ... enough forethought.

Looking skyward through the roof hole, Melcor saw that the light was at its peak. It was time!

Stroking the Crystal with his claw-like fingers, mumbling the guttural chant beneath his breath, Melcor withdrew the ward-power surrounding the castle, the wards crumbling. With no army at the gates, ward-warnings were no longer needed. Next, Melcor broke the mental chain that bound the girl, the Etherial slumping to the floor. As an afterthought, he attached a light, physical control to her so he could still direct her movements. "Here, girl," he said, motioning the frightened girl to rise and join him before the floating hand, the girl doing so hesitantly, panic in her eyes. (She could do no less, of course, since he still held her under restraint.) "Do as you are told or ..." He did not have to complete the thought, the girl nodding quickly, her eyes gone wide with fear. "Stand here . ... No -- here beside me." The girl kept cringing away from him. "You understand what you must do?" Head down, she nodded, her short, black hair falling forward to hide her terror stricken eyes. "At the shaking of the earth, I will signal you to strengthen the Mage-Magic. Do it slowly until Pfnaravin has returned. Too little power and Pfnaravin will not emerge. Too much, and we endanger the room itself." To make the latter case, Melcor first motioned to the hole in the roof where the slab had fallen through at Pfnaravin's shaking of the mountain, then pointed down to direct the girl's attention to the fearful gouge in the stone floor the falling block had made.

Certain that the girl understood, Melcor grasped the Crystal once again. Stretching it before him on its chain, pointing it at the hand, he began to stroke the Crystal as he had done so many times in his failed attempts to transport the great Mage. Taking up the low, droning Crystal-chant, Melcor felt the Crystal warm beneath his fingers, the disk glowing as he built its power. Wishing to command all the Crystal's force, he took back the magic necessary to keep the band dark above Azare. (No harm would come if Azare's sky should lighten for a time.)

Slowly, as the Crystal hummed with talismanic power, Melcor began directing the force down, down, sinking it through the floor, driving it into the ground, searching with his mind for the foundation boulders on which the castle stood. Though he had done this before, the Etherial would now magnify his force to drive the magic deeper. Shake the bedrock of the mountain! If he could reach into the mountain's bowels -- penetrate the earth as had Pfnaravin with Pfnaravin's greater Crystal-power ....

Yes! Melcor could hear the rumblings of the earth, feel the lower strata tremble.

It was time!

Withdrawing his control of the girl, he signaled her to add her doubling power.

Yes!

He could feel the Crystal strengthen!

There! That crackling, that ... feeling ... of spiders ... crawling on his skin. The force was building, building -- great plates of stone grinding deep within the earth. Beside him, the energy was also on the girl. At his vision's edge, he saw her black hair start to rise, to crackle with cold, white sparks. His hair was levitating, too. Spiraling up, alive with power!

With all his mind, Melcor focused on the ghost hand, ready to transfer the girl's force into the hand, to drag the rest of Pfnaravin through. .....

There was a high pitched shriek. The Crystal! It's hum become a shrill!

Too much! Too much force, the castle rolling like a drunken man!

The girl!

Melcor's concentration broken, he turned to see the girl's hair standing stiff, her eyes wild ... Melcor feeling his Crystal power shift, not to the hand, but ... to the girl ......!

* * * * *

Chapter 8

No matter how stupid, this "experiment" had given John the kind of energy he hadn't had in months. Just a few minutes more to work up his courage and John was going to try it!

He'd eaten first, then dithered around until it was dark outside on this windy Friday night. Now standing warm and sheltered before the open door of the stair cavity, he was as ready as he would ever be.

Almost.

John had already plugged in the orange extension cord, trailing it from the far wall socket in the living room into the hall. All he had to do now was plug in the cord, bathe in the mechanism's electrons for a few moments, then jerk the extension cord out of the socket across the room. No sense in leaving the machine plugged in. It might overheat and burn down the house.

His flashlight was on the post.

That afternoon, John had lugged the instrument into the hall, the machine measuring two feet in diameter at the base and standing three feet high, the apparatus sleek, hi-tech -- its rounded, black metal base supporting an inset column of chromed metal that rose to support a brushed-silver, volleyball sized globe. Inside the column was a vertical pulley system -- grooved wheels, V-belt. A metal fringe was attached both to the column wall and to one side of the power cord, the other pole of the "incoming" AC, grounded somewhere inside. An electric motor in the base drove the belt around the pulleys, the belt endlessly brushing the feathered metal to pick up charged particles, depositing them on metal "picks-ups" attached to the inside of the insulated, aluminum ball on top.

A Van de Graaff generator, Fredericks had called it. The latest in static electric proliferation.

You needed static electricity and plenty of it? You consulted old Jason Fredericks in the physics department. Bald, grooved in his job like the generator belt in its pulleys, Fredericks knew his stuff.

But why would anyone but a physics teacher need that kind of power, Jason had asked, John telling the white lie that he wished to experience, for himself, a little of Ben Franklin's research. (This was no time for candor -- particularly when the strict truth might lead to speculation about haunted houses.) Satisfied with John's explanation, Fredericks had unlocked a big cabinet near the floor at the back of his lab and taken out the Van de Graaf.

Hoisting it to a scarred, granite counter, he'd discussed its operation, then plugged it in so John could see what it would do. And what it did was to make John's hair stand on end -- just like petting Cream made her fur fluff out. You put your hand on top of the ball, and static electricity "stuck" to your whole body, John's synthetic slacks clamping tight against his legs. Static cling -- with a vengeance -- the effect lasting until the charge had drained away into the atmosphere.

Fredericks had even shown John an old, beat-up, non-electric model -- one with a hand crank. Same principle: static generated by two plastic disks rotating in opposite directions, the static transferred to metal strips, then stored in a condenser. (A condenser, as it turned out, was what used to be called a Leyden Jar back in Franklin's day, John having some idea about Leyden jars and how they worked.)

Mr. Physics had been kind enough to let John borrow the modern generator for the weekend, John hauling it across campus to the faculty parking lot, negotiating it into the "back seat" of the Mazda, even driving home at a sensible speed to get the generator there in one piece.

Looking at the alien piece of gear on the hall floor, John had the usual last minute doubts about acting on what was no better than the hunch that both Cream and his hand had "gone through" the stair-space because they'd been "charged" with static electricity, cat and hand trapped in a "foreign" location with a different climate, a place that produced the sounds of rain and -- chanting??

The question of the moment was: could John find the courage to use the machine on himself in an attempt to go "through"?

Yes.

For John had become fixated on the notion that once "electrified," he could duck under the stairs into a "hole" in time, grab Cream, and get back out.

John hadn't told anyone he was going to make this attempt, of course. He hadn't even told Paul, Paul's energy put into worrying about Ellen lately. (Something about spotting.) And who else could John tell? You didn't walk up to a stranger and say you were planning to"electrify" yourself in order to vault into another reality. Not if you wished to avoid having yourself "vaulted" into another reality -- like a padded cell.

John also had to admit that, in the back of his own mind he had doubts about his "noises" and his "rain." He had to consider that what he'd been hearing -- feeling -- could be a hallucination.

It was then, John standing beside the stairs, storage door open in front of him, lamp boxes stacked out of the way, that he began to hear the muttering sound again ... the noise increasing slowly until it was louder than before. It wasn't wind; it wasn't squirrels in the attic; it wasn't birds on the roof. Either John was hearing some kind of voice coming from under there ... or he was crazy.

No more delay! This was the perfect time to make the attempted passage!

There! John was again having that sensation of being watched!

Crazy! Maybe he was crazy, after all. Still ... John was determined to make the effort, if only to try to rescue Cream. A quick ...!

There was a grinding noise beneath the stairs, a sound John had never heard. A heavy rumbling. A deep grating, followed by the stairway shuddering, as if a heavy man was tromping down the steps!

After that -- almost as startling as the noise ... silence. Broken by a soft sound ... under the stairs ... a kind of scraping ....

Still looking at the stair cavity, John saw an apparition emerging from the blackness beneath the stairs. Something moving ... slowly! A form like a large dog, bent over, crawling ...!

John almost cried out! Hearing noises, feeling rain, was one thing. But now to see ...!

Though wanting to bolt, John held his ground to see that the ... thing ... emanating from the aperture was ... a person. ... A small girl?

John couldn't seem to think, his mind numb.

The young person all the way out now but still on all fours, she raised her head to see John towering over her.

Shock!

Disbelief!

In an instant, John saw the girl's face drain to a sickly white, her eyes wide and fixed on him.

The girl was dressed ... in what had to be a Halloween costume, a kind of shift. Pixie leather shoes. A ... beautiful child. Thirteen, maybe. Tall for her age?

John found his tongue at last. "Hello," he said, trying to sound cheerful, at the same time speaking quietly.

The child, still on all fours, continued to stare up at him.

John now had the impression that the girl was moving so lethargically because she ... couldn't go any faster ....

Where had she come from? Not through a hole under there. He'd searched every inch of that space.

Time to play questions and answers. "What were you doing back under the stairs?" John asked gently, attempting to be non-threatening.

No answer. Only the stationary, stunned, look of those liquid eyes. "I won't hurt you. Don't worry." No response.

The direct approach not working, how about nonchalance? "I don't really care. It's just that I lost my cat back under there and I thought you might have seen her." Cats were good. Girls liked cats. "A white Persian. Named Cream. And I thought if you'd found a way in from the outside, that Cream might have gotten out the same way; that you had seen her. I'd give you a reward if you found her."

"White ... cat?" The child said this in spite of herself, as if forgetting an order to keep silent.

"You've seen her?"

Balancing precariously on her knees and on one hand, the girl pointed back under the stairs, at the same time nodding solemnly, her eyes never leaving John's face.

Then, heavily, fell back to her four point stance.

She's terrified of me, John realized. Petrified.

"Don't worry. I'm happy that you saw my cat. I only want to get her back."

Nothing from the girl but that unnerved look, the child's mouth drawn down at the corners as if the girl was about to cry.

"My name's John. What's yours?" The last thing John wanted was for her to be afraid of him.

Ah ...." It was as if she ... couldn't recall ... for whatever that was worth. "Ah ...." Then, like remembering something long forgotten, "Platinia."

"Is that your given name or your last name?"

For the first time, there was an expression on her face other than fright. Bewilderment. Not much of an improvement.

"Platinia."

"OK."

"Great one," the girl said, pleading, tears filling her eyes. "Take Platinia back." He could see a thin sheen of perspiration forming on her upper lip.

"Back?"

She pointed under the stairs. "Melcor ... has made ... mistake. He was to bring you ... to him." She was speaking slowly, the words sticking in her throat, coming out in pants. "There was shaking ... and I was ... here. I not stay here!" That, on a rising note of panic.

The earth shaking? He'd felt that, too. Saw the stairs quiver. Was his house on some kind of minor fault? Had there been a tremor, the girl feeling it in her hiding place under the stairs? Was that what had frightened her?

"It's all right, now," John said, trying to sooth her, wanting to help but not knowing what to say or do.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, John standing, the girl before him on her hands and knees, both of them in the hall, in front of the space under the stairs.

"Tell me about this ... Melcor," John asked at last, searching for a topic that would settle the child down, get the girl to talk. "Is he your father? A playmate, maybe?"

"Melcor is a powerful Mage ... great one. Not so powerful as you." At this, the girl bowed her head before him, her silky black hair swinging to either side of her face, hiding all expression.

Falling forward so that her weight was shifted to her elbows, the girl clasped her hands and touched her forehead to the floor, looking for the world like a pagan praying to a savage god. "Great Pfnaravin, I beg your help!"

And what did John say to that? What do you say to a child who's scared to death of you, thinks you're somebody else, and is pleading for you to do something incomprehensible. "Ah ... won't you stand up, please?" the girl trying to do that, instantly, as marines respond to a barked command ... but failed. Sank back to her knees, then sat back to cover her face with her hands like she was about to be beaten for disobedience. Though John couldn't tell because the girl was sitting with her legs under her, was it possible that she was crippled?

Wanting to do something to make the child feel more comfortable, John sat down carefully, the girl in front of him, the static electric generator behind him.

Seeing him come down toward her, the girl shied back, leaning as far away from him as possible.

"My name's John Lyon. Please. Just call me John."

"Yes. Yahn. I will remember. I will never forget. Yahn." Again, the terror in her dark eyes, sweat beading her forehead.

"John."

"Yahn," she said. "Yahn ... Yahn ...." The child had obviously taken the repetition of his name as a command to practice it, the girl trying to please him by burning his name into her mind.

"And your name is ...." In the strain of the moment, John had forgotten.

"Platinia." She was so servile. So panic stricken.

John realized that what he was feeling was a kind of overwhelming sorrow for her, his emotions about her seeming to be exaggerated. He had to do something for her. He had to!

Now that John was closer to her, he saw she was not dressed for this kind of weather, Not at all, the girl wearing a thin tunic, her arms and legs bare. She looked like she'd just gotten off a plane from the sunny south, coming straight from a Halloween party in Florida. But ... she hadn't stepped off a plane. She'd just ... appeared ... in that space beneath the stairs.

And before that?

What about her parents? Didn't they care where their daughter was at night? Curiouser and Curiouser.

"Please ... Yahn ...."

"J .. ohn," he said, regretting the correction instantly. John didn't mean to make her even more nervous.

"J .. ohn."

"That's right. Good. John." Perhaps praise was the way to settle her down. Tell her how pretty she ....

"Please ... John!" Again the child clasped her hands over her head; bowed before him. "Please. Take Platinia back!"

"Back ...? Where?" She looked up at him, amazed.

"To Stil-de-grain." Her eyes implored him to do as she asked, whatever that was. Stil-de-grain? Had he heard of that? A suburban sub-division, no doubt. Except that he'd never heard of Stil-de-grain. He was new in the neighborhood, of course ... new to Kansas City .... "Melcor could not talk to you. He would have begged you ... if he could."

"To Stil-de-grain?" She nodded vigorously, sweat trails streaking her face.

There had been a change in the child, from the girl looking like she might start screaming and never stop, to looking ... sick.

A hint of caution came into her eyes. "You ... have the power? I can ... help." She was imploring him to say yes. But yes to what?

It was then that John remembered the generator and the plans he had for it.

What if she had come from there to ...?

"Tell me, Platinia," John asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Is Stil-de-grain a place ... a place ... like this?" The girl nodded, her eyes looking at him as if she were the adult, he the child.

"And the way to go to ... Stil-de-grain ... is back there, where you came out?"

"That is the way that Melcor knows." Her voice was thinner by the moment, already reduced to a hoarse whisper.

As slowly as he could, John stood, then stepped to the side to get the flashlight from the end post.

Noticing the Van de Graaff, the girl stared at it fearfully. Not a totally abnormal reaction since the generator resembled a creature from outer space.

Flashlight in hand, John stepped back and squatted down again, deliberately putting himself between the girl and that otherworldly looking piece of equipment. In place again, he switched on the light, the girl surprising him by crying out and drawing away from the beam, at the same time waving one hand at the light, as if batting at flying insects.

While it was a reasonable response for the girl to be afraid of the generator (not everyone had one of those lying around the house,) it was not plausible that she be afraid of a flashlight.

And yet she was!

Never seen a flashlight??

"Don't be afraid, Platinia," John said, softly, trying to keep rising excitement from his voice. "This is a flashlight. It won't hurt you."

"Magic," the child said reverentially.

"It just shows a light. That's all." Reassured, the girl now seemed enraptured by the light, her dark eyes first on the flashlight, then following the ray it made.

Turning slowly, John threw the shaft of light past the girl and into the space under the stairs, the beam drawing sharp, white lines in the dark.

Nothing to be seen, John switched off the light.

His legs cramping by this time, John sat back, wanting to be more on the child's level anyway, wishing to seem smaller so his size didn't scare her. He put the flashlight on the floor -- as far from the girl as he could.

"Tell me again about how you got here. It might help to get you back."

The child swallowed, glanced up at the ceiling, then down. She was breathing hard; through her mouth. She really didn't look well at all. "I ... am Melcor's slavey. I help with the ... magic." The girl paused, the pause lengthening into a silence.

"Go on. That's good."

"Melcor ... the magic ... dies. He must bring Pfnaravin back. The great Mage."

"Tell me about the ... Mage." Mage was a fancy name for wizard, John thought.

"It was in the tower. Melcor must use Crystal-Magic to bring Pfnaravin back. When the ghost hand came ...." Even to speak of this -- whatever it was -- made the girl nervous. That much was clear.

"Go on."

"The hand of Pfnaravin. In the air."

"And what did this ... hand ... do?"

"It was ... still. It had no life. Melcor held it there." The child hung her head, breathing deeply, panting.

"Let me understand you. You were with Melcor?"

"I am Melcor's slavey. Yes."

"And you were in a ... tower?" The girl nodded. "Looking for ...?

"Pfnaravin. You ...." She dropped her head as if trying to concentrate, then looked up at him again, her eyes sparkling with an unnatural light."

"Go on," he prompted. "You saw a hand?"

"Yes. The hand." The remembrance of this seemed to bring her around.

"Just a hand? Not attached to anything?"

"Fastened in the air." She made a motion with her own hand, sticking it out in front of her, palm down, as if suspended on a string, keeping it there a moment before letting her arm flop into her lap of its own weight.

"How?"

"Magic."

"I see ... magic." The child nodded solemnly, her dark eyes pleading with him to understand. "Go on."

"Melcor put a spell on the hand ... and he could see."

"See?"

"See ... what you see, great Pfnaravin. .... John," the girl corrected, cowering back as if he might strike her for not remembering to say John.

The hand! Of course! The hand that had "come through" was ... his hand. Somehow, when his hand had gone into the other "reality," his hand had "stayed" there. Stayed in a place with a different climate -- warmer than Kansas City in the fall. Summer time. A summer with warm air. Rain. In ... what had the girl called it? In ... Stil-de-grain. And when his hand had first "gone through," this Melcor Mage person had "gotten a fix" on him. No doubt why John had the feeling of being ... watched. As if someone were behind him sometimes, watching his every move. Though it was crazy, this fantasy made a kind of sense. John was breathing as hard, now, as the girl.

"And what did Melcor see?"

"Melcor ... used Crystal-Magic ... saw from your eyes. He saw what you see." The girl's eyes were filled with awe as she looked across at him. "I watched. I learned to say some words."

"But how did you get here?"

"A mistake. It was time. A shake of earth. Time for Pfnaravin to come through."

"But there was a mistake? Something went wrong?"

"Yes. I came to you, great Mage." She bowed her head.

A shake of earth? An earthquake in that other place, in ... Stil-de-grain. And with earthquakes, you got ... piezoelectricity! Could it be that an earthquake had charged up the girl, the polarization making a bridge for her to come across? "You can make the magic?" the girl pleaded. "I can help." Though she was still looking at him, her eyes seemed increasingly unfocused.

John felt a sharp stab of guilt! Here he was, wasting time by considering all the possibilities while the girl was ... sick. Not just frightened, sick ... and ... getting worse. He saw that now. Would have seen it sooner except for the emotion of the moment.

"I think I do have the 'magic,'" John said, pointing behind him at the Van de Graaff generator. "I was just about ready to use it when you came through the other way."

Making an effort to understand, the girl smiled for the first time; a thin, sad smile.

"Soon," she whispered. "I ... am dying."

That, John believed! He only hoped he could take her home. To make the attempt, he'd have to charge up both of them; go through the "hole"; explain to this Melcor that he'd been messing with the wrong man; get Cream and get back before the static electricity on his body had drained away. Cream had gotten through one way, the girl the other -- both unharmed. Surely he could go and return if he moved quickly.

In and out. Simple. Neat. Anyway, he had to get the girl back to her Melcor. That was the least he could do. And he had to get Cream. He had to.

Just one more question. "This Melcor. Would he try to keep me in ... Stil-de-grain ... against my will?"

"He could never do that, Great Mage!" Even as faint as her voice had become, the girl said it with conviction. And that was all John needed to hear.

His mind made up, John stood up suddenly, frightening the girl anew. Here he was, about to attempt something unprecedented in science, and he couldn't even remember not to frighten a timid girl. Gulliver stands and the Lilliputians tremble! Stupid. "Don't worry. It's just time to go back, is all," John said feebly. "Here, take my hand." Timidly, the girl struggled to reach up to him; put her small hand in his large one.

Careful not to hurt her, John pulled her up gently, the child leaning on him heavily, her small arm about his waist. Carefully, John brushed the sweat from the girl's forehead; was shocked to see how weak she looked. "I'm going to turn on this machine. It makes its own ... magic." If magic was what she understood, then magic it was. "It's not dangerous. This makes little ... sparks on your body. Your hair stands out." She nodded solemnly. That, she understood. John was on the right track. "Then, I turn it off and we crawl right back and out the other side. We go back the way you came here. All right?" She nodded, her eyes grave.

Their "traveling plans" made, supporting the child by putting an arm around her, John stretched down and snatched up both the machine's plug and the extension cord's socket, fumbling them together so that the pulley motor hummed into life, the belt beginning to turn, faster, faster.

Straightening, John knew that inside the machine, electrons were being deposited on the aluminum ball at the top, the vertical belt humming past the metal "fringe" within.

Being as gentle as he could be (and get the job done) John took the girl's small hand and forced it down on the metal ball, the girl struggling feebly, John placing his other hand on the ball.

Yes.

Even in the moist air he'd added to the house with the humidifier, John felt the static, his hair starting to stand out, the girl's hair rising about her head as well.

Fully charged, John bent down and jerked the extension cord, the cord's plug pulling out of the wall socket across the way.

Turning, rushing now, John dragged the girl to the space, pushed her down and in, John getting on all fours behind her to scrabble in after her.

Unceremoniously, John shoved the child into the hole; scrabbled in after her.

In and, impossibly, further in, until, precipitously, John and the child plunged over an edge. Were tumbling into blackness. Into ... nothingness ....

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Shock! As if waking from a dream, John felt confused. Had much time passed? He didn't know. He only knew that he was alive, breathing. And remembering. He'd crawled under the stairs, fallen into blackness, and here he was, standing up, in a dimly lighted room. A room made of stone, narrow but tall -- a circular room by the look of it. Beneath his feet was a rough stone floor, damp, the smell of the place, musty. He spun about to see the girl, Platinia, just behind him, standing quietly as if awaiting orders. Though she still wore that strangely fearful look, she no longer looked ill.

To his left, a heap of broken building blocks littered the floor, under them, some kind of cloth -- though the room was so dark that nothing came into focus readily. Did he feel dizzy? Not really. Stunned, certainly. But not dizzy. Checking his other senses, John believed he was seeing as well as the light in the room allowed. He could smell -- hardly an unmixed blessing in that damp place. Touch, taste? No reason to think those senses had been altered by his passage ... to where? From under the stairs in his home in Kansas City to ... Stil-de-grain? For unless he was having a vivid dream, he'd landed in that other "reality." Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas any more.

Except for not knowing where he was, John felt ... wonderful! Healthy! Powerful! That if he were to jump, his might bump his head on the ceiling.

Reflexively, John looked up to see that the ceiling stretched for more than a single floor and that it had a ragged hole in it, a patch of somber, yellow sky showing through. Directly beneath that hole lay the shattered blocks. And that made sense. (In the unreality of the situation, he needed something that made sense.) The ceiling stones had fallen in, crashing to the floor, Platinia saying there had been an earthquake, there in ... Stil-de-grain. After a moment of sluggish thought, John corrected himself. Here in Stil-de-grain. If this whole experience didn't turn out to be a dream.

Thinking more clearly, Platinia still standing stoically behind him, John remembered something else. The Mage. Where was this Melcor the girl had talked about? Even more importantly, where was Cream, John looking about the room for the cat, trying to stare into shadows, bending down to look under the slab table to his right? No Cream. Just like that damned cat to be somewhere else when he needed her, he thought. And he couldn't wait for her, not and get back to his part of the universe before the static charge had left his body. He stood up again, peering about the room.

To the left, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, a second glance produced another "fit," one that made him shudder. For what he'd thought was cloth under the pile of ceiling rubble, was a form. A person robed in white. White cloth ... with red stains ...

Reason said this was Melcor. The ... Wizard.

John glanced back at Platinia; motioned to his left, her eyes following his point but remaining expressionless.

Finding he could walk, John made himself approach the body and bend over it. Could the man still be alive? Thinking this was a possibility, John began to wrestle the thick, rock hunks off the fallen man, heaving the broken slabs to one side, the crash of stone on the unyielding floor thundering about the rounded room. If anything, John was amazed at how light the blocks felt -- for their size -- the rocks looking more like limestone than frothy volcanic rock. It was just that the way he was able to tumble them about made them seem -- unreal -- somehow. Movie set rocks, made of foam? Was someone playing an elaborate joke on him? ..... Impossible. No one could devise such a perfect illusion.

Removing the last substantial chunk, John looked over at Platinia, the girl still in the same spot. Saw wonder on her face. Not, John felt, because she'd just noticed the man on the floor, but because John was able to hoist such heavy slabs off the man's body. Curious. Could it be that the victim was not the Mage? John looked over at her again, trying to see her face through the gloom. "Is this Melcor?" Even asked gently, John's voice made a quick, sharp echo around the walls.

The girl nodded.

Squatting down to look at the body, it didn't take a medical degree to tell that no one survived a pulverized chest -- bone fragments sticking through -- blood everywhere.

No help possible for the hawk nosed man with the grey-white face.

Glancing over at the girl, John shook his head. ... No reaction. Why? ... Because she was dazed? (John thought he might be, too.)

Forcing himself to look down again, just to be sure, John noticed a pendent beside the dead man's body. Whatever the man's fierce look, when Platinia was fully conscious of her friend's death, it might be important to her to have this keep-sake.

Thinking that, John reached over and picked up the ornament by its chain, the "jewel" a flat, two inch in diameter, amber colored disk of what looked like glass, the man apparently wearing it when the roof collapsed on him, the blow knocking off the necklace.

Standing, chain in hand, John walked back to Platinia, John still feeling unnaturally light on his feet. "I'm sorry, Platinia," he said, hoping the girl didn't break down. "But Melcor's dead. There was nothing I could do. It looks like the roof fell in on him during the earthquake." The girl nodded, accepting the fact of the man's death with as little emotion as John, himself, felt. They were both stunned, a cushioned state that nature's kinder side supplied to accident victims. "Here," John said, stretching out the pendent to her. "Something of his."

At that, the girl's reaction changed dramatically! Calm about the death, she shied away from the necklace as if it might burn her.

Odd.

But, then, neither of them was reacting normally.

Looking at the girl, John realized Platinia had lost her static charge, her hair no longer standing out. Knew that he was no longer electrified, the field of current drained away in the damp climate of the circular room. And that meant that John was trapped in this other place!

John's mind began to whirl with the activity of an animal newly caged. He was ensnared in this other "reality" until he could generate enough static to get home!

And in spite of that realization ... he still felt ... little.

Shock. Enjoy it while you can!

To get the pendent out of the way, John put the Mage's chain around John's own neck.

"Melcor is dead," said the girl suddenly, her voice magnified by the room's hard walls. "I am your slavey, now." And what did John say to that? Give her a civics lesson on Lincoln freeing the slaves? Slavey might mean something else to her, of course ...

For now, finding himself as helpless on her home ground as she'd been on his, John had the feeling he would need all the help this solemn girl could provide.

"What do you suggest I do now?"

"Summon Chryses."

"And who is ... he?"

"Chryses is the castle Head." Melcor's butler?

"How do I go about getting him?" The girl looked startled. What he'd thought was a simple question was as much nonsense to her as her "babble" in his hallway had been to him. "Will you get him for me?"

To that, the girl bowed quickly, turned and glided from the chamber, going through a darkened archway behind him.

"Dying" in Kansas city, the girl had been miraculously healed by coming home to ... Stil-de-grain ... a place that had cured her of whatever had been wrong, a fact John added to a growing list of impressions that made no sense.

With the girl's departure, John was alone. If you could call being the sole, living person in a room, alone.

Alone to do what? Something. But what? To ... look around the room.

A fairly small room, round, seeming smaller than it was because its ceiling was so high. A room constructed of limestone blocks set on top one another without much, if any, mortar. Both walls and floor were dark with age, the floor almost ... "muddy" ... its thick dust coating moistened by rain falling through the hole in the roof, was John's bet. A ruined room. By the look of it, little used.

An arched passageway leading to a tunnel was the room's only exit, a cramped corridor that twisted out of sight. Nothing else in the room. Except the stone table to the right, narrow slabs along both sides for benches.

John now focused his attention on what he'd barely noticed before: tapered, giant-sized notches, spaced at regular intervals around the room's walls. For some reason, cross-like slits had been chiseled at the back side of these wedges, these slits cut completely through to the outside. Crosses? Cut clear through? Something about that rang an historic bell.

Then he knew. The purpose of these man-sized wall-wedges leading to slits .... was for archer defense of a castle. Archers would stand in the wedges to fire arrows through the slits, the V-cut space providing the archer with shoulder room, the cross shaped cuts giving him a range of vertical and horizontal fire. The narrowness of the slits, in turn, minimized the risk of an attacker's arrow coming through to strike the archer. Very medieval. Very.

Taking inner stock, John discovered he was no longer as numb as before, his system back to normal. Though he'd realized it earlier, it was beginning to sink in that he was entombed in this other place; unable to get home. So much for his get in -- get out theory. He was stuck here -- at least for a time. (Just where he was and in what kind of trouble, he didn't know.)

About the only thing John had accomplished was to get little Platinia home. At least, he'd done that.

Remembering the other reason he'd put his neck in this "other worldly" noose, John began sliding across the floor, quietly, feeling his way as if the floor might give way beneath him, his course taking him around the room's perimeter. "Cream?" John called softly, the room echoing eam. "Here kitty."

Calling Cream wouldn't do any good. He knew that. Still, it gave him something to do. Something other than think about that long, white lump on a length of bloody floor.

Hearing the soft slide of footsteps at last, John turned to see the girl rounding the abrupt turn to slip back into the room, the girl followed by an old man, tall, straight, clean-shaven except for a short, snow white mustache. Bushy, white eyebrows topped the old gentleman's faded eyes. Fuzzy white hair thinned out of the top of his pinkish head. He was wearing a black, formal coat over a loose garment that draped just below the knee, a slash of yellow scarf diagonaled across his chest.

Meanwhile, retreating to the far wall, Platina was standing there rigidly.

Inside the room, the old man paused as if to get his bearings, then came to attention.

Next, not even looking in John's direction, the man bowed stiffly, one hand across his waist, formally, the other hand making an elaborate flourish above the man's head. He could have been a courtier at Versailles, John found himself thinking, the old gentleman as out of place in this setting as a tuxedoed banker at a weenie roast.

"Chryses," Platinia said from across the room, her voice a low echo in the hushed room. "This is ..."

"Pfnaravin," the old gentleman said, bowing his most formal bow. "We have awaited your return ..."

"My name is John Lyon." Though John had a hint why people here might mistake him for Pfnaravin, it was a bad idea to have them think it.

"Of course, great Mage." The man made his hand flourish once more. "If you prefer."

"I don't prefer," John said. "That's my name."

"As you say, most powerful one," replied the chamberlain, complicated hand and finger movements punctuating every statement. Clearly, John had done nothing to convince the old man that John was not the great Pfnaravin.

Seeing this, John had second thoughts about disillusioning these people. If for no other reason than that the name Pfnaravin got respect!

"I'm afraid there's been an accident," John said, rallying, motioning toward the man on the floor. Surely, John thought, no one would blame John for Melcor's death.

"I fear ... I do not understand ... for which I most humbly apologize," said the chamberlain or butler or whatever he was. Again, John pointed to the body of Melcor. And again, the old gentleman refused to see, looking off into space as he had done since he entered the room.

"And your name is ... Chryses?"

"The very same, sir."

"Well, Chryses ... if you will look over there," again John pointed, "you will see for yourself. I'm afraid the roof has collapsed and, unless I miss my guess, has fallen in on someone called Melcor."

"We await your orders, most revered Wizard," was the only response John got. With the mandatory flourish, of course.

And what was John to make of the butler's indifference to Melcor's "passing?" Probably, that the girl had already told Chryses; that the news of the Mage's death came as no surprise.

That the butler still thought John to be a Wizard of some kind, was clear, a respectable thing to be, it seemed. On the other hand, if Wizards had some function, if some kind of "magic" was expected of them, what would happen when John couldn't deliver ...?

For now, the best course was neither to admit to being someone special nor to deny it -- until John could learn more about just what kind of mess he'd gotten himself into. The old man was waiting for direction? John would give it.

"Tell me, what is the custom under the circumstances? A man is dead over there on the floor. Just what does one do with a dead man on the floor?"

The old man cleared his throat, his pale eyes looking straight ahead; as far as John could tell, at a blank wall.

"Shall I direct the castle slaveys to attend to it?"

John was intensely aware that both Platinia and the chamberlain were expecting something from him, judging him.

"Though this is an uncommon event, we should follow the proper course."

Fortunately, that politician's response seemed to satisfy them ... both nodding.

"Of course, sir," said the old man. "That would be the case. This is an unusual circumstance. A most unusual circumstance. And I believe that it will soon be down-light."

The old gentleman waved an elegant hand above his head, presumably at the sun's rays that were still penetrating the shattered room, but at an increasing angle. "Do you, great Lord, wish to take up residence in the chambers of Melcor?" the butler asked.

Good -- this was the first indication John had that there were no immediate plans to kill him!

With hope that he had a future, what was John's best course of action? Could he learn something from Melcor's rooms? Perhaps. But ... he just couldn't move into the quarters of the man on the floor, the man with the crushed chest, the man with ribs sticking up like twisted teeth, face ashen, life blood ..... Not yet. Probably, never.

"No. I think not," John said, hurriedly. "Is there somewhere else for me to ..."

"Most assuredly. I shall conduct you there, personally."

"Good. And I'd like to go now."

"If you will follow me, sir?" the butler said, pivoting on his heel, pausing as if to align himself with the arched doorway, clearly expecting John to accompany him. As an after thought, the old fellow turned back. "And the woman? You will wish to chain her?"

Chain her? "Certainly not."

"Not?"

That was ... interesting. Not wanting Platinia restrained had surprised the old man.

What kind of place was this, anyway!? And did this mean that Melcor had held Platinia by force -- had actually had her chained? If so, why? A rush of other thoughts came to John. Did this explain why Platinia didn't seem to care that Melcor was dead? Was Melcor's cruelty the reason no one cared about him, that explaining why the butler showed as little emotion at Melcor's death as the girl? Or did all of this translate into something else entirely, something too foreign for John to understand? Just another indication of how careful John must be until he knew more about the customs of this other "reality." Trying to see the brighter side, whatever John's long run prospects, his desires seemed to have priority at the moment.

"No. She will go with me."

"Yes, sir," the butler said. Anything the great Mage wants seemed to be the one, fixed rule here.

And with that, the old fellow turned to lead the way into the tunnel, John following the butler, Platinia trailing, John discovering that the corridor was only the first of several narrow, sweaty passages, some dimly lighted by high windows or by torches. Halls led through anterooms then down spiral stairs cut in living rock, Chryses leading, now and then trailing his fingers along the moldering walls, John still feeling almost "magically" energetic.

Until finally, they stopped at the end of a narrow hall, Chryses opening a solid, wooden door so they could enter a room on the right.

Beyond the door was a chamber with a canopied bed, the elaborate affair placed on a raised platform in the room's center. An open window past the bed provided the room's light.

It was then that it occurred to John that, if he was going to try to "fit in" here, the more he looked like the "natives," the better. "Is it possible for me to have a change of clothing?"

"Of course, great Lord."

With that, Chryses moved to one side and knelt beside a coffin-like chest, opening the lid, feeling inside, taking out what looked like one of the draped costumes (this one in white) like the butler himself was wearing beneath his formal surcoat.

"And shoes."

"Yes, Lord," Chryses fumbling about in the chest again, taking out a pair of the same soft leather shoes that both Platinia and the butler were wearing. Shutting the chest lid, Chryses went to the bed and stepped up on the platform to place the robe and shoes on the bed. It was then that John noticed that Platinia had followed them into the room.

"Pardon, me, great Lord," said Chryses, bowing his bow (which he did with such frequency it was beginning to seem normal.) "But it will soon be time for dinner."

"Good." Praise seemed to please the old man.

John turned to the girl. "Will you wait for me in the dining room, Platinia?" She bowed, turned and left the room without a word. "I would like for you ... Chryses ... to wait for me outside the door; to lead me to dinner."

Another formal bow and the old man spun about with military precision to exit the room, closing the door behind him.

The next few minutes passed quickly, John stripping off his clothing, putting on what was more of a knee length robe than a tunic, white for the most part, with gold piping. A combination of hooks and a tie fastened the garment about his waist.

The shoes were surprisingly soft and so snug there was no danger of them coming off unexpectedly; were as comfortable as well worn bedroom slippers.

Finished dressing, John crossed the room and opened the hall door, finding Chryses there as expected.

And they were off, the butler in the lead, round and round and down and down, right, then left, John seeming to be floating, as airy on his feet as a dancer. Was he light headed? That seemed to be a reasonable explanation for his strange, weightless feeling. He'd been through a lot. There was no telling how much the jump from earth to ... here ... had affected him.

At the end of their trek, John was led into a large, rectangular room, sizable umber tapestries covering the walls, clerestory windows spaced around the lofty ceiling. John saw a square stone hearth at this end of the room, what looked like volcanic stones at the hearth's core, a framework of iron rods built over the stones, pots suspended from the framework. Cooking pots were hooked on tripods to be warmed over the fire -- except there were no logs under the kettles -- and no fire. Still, there was hot food somewhere, nourishing smells wafting through the room.

At the other end of the chamber was a trestle table, white cloth covering it, a single plate at the table's far end, a knife and spoon beside it, two, silvery glasses by the plate. And there, standing to one side, nearly hidden behind a jutting buttress, was shy little Platinia.

With the accustomed flourish, the butler led John directly to the table, bowed and motioned for John to go along the table and sit at its head. "And where is the plate for Platinia?" John asked.

"The ... what, great Lord?" The man was clearly shocked. John had obviously blundered in some way.

Once started, though, a bluff must be played out. "From now on, Platinia is to eat at the table." Just then, John had another thought. What he needed most was information about this "reality," something he wasn't likely to get from the girl. So, go for broke! "And you are to dine with me, as well."

"But ... Lord ...!"

"Though uncommon, this is my wish."

"Yes, great Mage," said Chryses, clearly confused, but taking unpleasant orders like the trained functionary he was.

At the room's fringe, John now became aware of other people, carrying ... trays. Serving women, by the look of them. Old and young. Dressed rather like Platinia, in simple tunics, but in brown instead of black. All as silent as shadows.

The butler waved his hand to gain the attention of the servants, the women stopping whatever they were doing to listen.

"Two more plates at the table," he ordered in his high, old man's voice. And was obeyed. Quickly -- efficiently -- an old woman disappearing to return with the required plates and table ware.

Her task finished, the servant stood against the wall with the others, the butler speaking again: "Melcor is dead. This is the Mage ...."

"John-Lyon."

"Now master of Hero castle. His orders are to be obeyed." For all their silent ways, there was an excited whispering at that -- until the butler put up his hand for quiet. Again, Chryses was instantly obeyed. If the staff are that fearful of offending the butler, John thought, Melcor must have inspired terror. ... Had the old man said castle? Yes. And that "fit," too.

"Shall we sit?" John asked, his turn to wave Platinia to a place near the far end of the table, the butler to take his position along the table's other side.

After they were seated, the serving women -- were they all known as "slaveys"? -- approached with what looked like plates of cooked vegetables. From iron-looking roast pans set on trivets over the hearth, other women transferred meat to trays. A strong looking old lady, using a cloth to protect her hand from the hot, wire handle, brought over a large, black kettle containing what seemed to be meat stew. Smelled like it, too.

Since the slaveys were busy serving, it was time for an important question. "Tell me, Chryses, I'm looking for a cat. A cat named Cream. A white Persian, to be exact. Have you seen such an animal about the castle?"

"There are cats, sir. Many cats."

"But I'm interested in only one, a particular cat. White, fluffy, long fur. Large, orange eyes."

"I ... do not know, lord."

"You haven't seen a cat like that?"

"Ah ... no. I have felt cats along the floor, but ..."

"You'd know her if you saw her. There can't be any other cat here just like her."

"I am certain of that, Lord. But ... I cannot see ..."

"What?"

"I am blind." So, that was it!

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. You move about like you're anything but blind." For the first time, John was close enough to Chryses to examine the old man's eyes, John shocked to see the pupils covered with white tissue ... No. ... The man's eyes looked more like the pupils had been dug out, gray-white scar tissue covering the indentations.

"I know the castle, Lord. I have been here ... forever." The old man shrugged.

"And may I ask how you lost your sight?" John wanted to know but also wished to stall until the others began to eat so he could observe the table manners here.

"Melcor, Lord. I failed my master for which he withered my eyes."

"He ... what?!"

"It was entirely my fault, Lord. I never failed him again." The man was actually defending that brutal act! "And he allowed me to stay. My sight is not necessary here." John was about to protest -- but thought better of it. He was the stranger here. When in Rome ....

"And the serving women work for Melcor?"

"We all belonged to Melcor. We belong to you, now."

"Sort of go with the castle?"

"Lord?"

"Never mind. Shall ... we eat?"

They ate, John hanging back until he saw there were no special taboos about eating.

Though things seemed to be going well, John was uncomfortable, in part, because he had a constant urge to pull down his tunic so that the garment covered his knees. When you're used to wearing pants, a tunic just wouldn't "cover it."

After ladling food on their individual plates, the serving women left the pots and trays on the table, John and company expected to serve seconds to themselves.

And so the three of them ... ate. The food was ... food ... meat, vegetables, gravy.

Surprisingly, John found that he was hungry, eating more than he thought he could (the condemned man ate a hearty meal?) What he needed to do, though, was start some conversation: to find out about the castle, Melcor, the girl, the butler, the servants -- everything about the world he'd entered so suddenly. "Tell me about the castle, Chryses," John asked as soon as he'd taken the edge off his hunger, not only Platinia but also Chryses responding best to direct commands.

"It was built in the long ago, Lord, after the Hero had departed this world, it is said, on this very mountain."

"The Hero? Did he have a name?" That got a strange look from Chryses.

"But, great Pfnaravin, surely you remember ..."

Apparently, Platinia had told the butler that Pfnaravin had arrived.

"I am not Pfnaravin." John had decided -- again -- that he couldn't let them believe that myth. No matter what advantages accrued to the name, he would have to live with being himself.

"But ...?"

"Call me by my name, John Lyon."

"Yes, master. Yes, John-Lyon," said Chryses, the butler as eager to please as the girl. And no wonder. Giving offense in this world could cost you your eyes!

"I would also appreciate it if you would just answer my questions; no matter how strange they might seem to you. Know that I have my reasons for asking them."

"Yes, John-Lyon."

"Good. Now -- does the hero have a name?"

"No, John-Lyon. He is just ... the Hero."

"Could he have had a name at one time?"

"That is possible. But it was in the long ago ..."

"I see. And he disappeared?"

"Yes. In the ..."

"I know. In the long ago." Chryses nodded his head, seriously, John busying himself with cutting another bite of meat, feeling he would get more from Chryses by not looking at him directly. A silly thought since the old man was blind.

"The castle was built later. It is named Hero Castle, after the ..."

"Hero." This was going to take some time, apparently. "And how did the Hero get to be a Hero?"

"What ...?"

"What did the Hero do to make him so great?"

"Ah ... He went to another world and came back, bringing the ideas that have ordered the world forever more." Said with awe. Reverence.

"Ideas like ..."

"How to mine metal. How to build in stone. All the ideas of the world."

John thought that over, taking another bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully. Did this mean that the construction of this castle came from one of the Hero's "original" ideas. If so, John had a good idea when the Hero had been traveling.

"And how did the Hero leave? Though John tried to ask this casually, he was more than interested in the answer.

"In a shaking of the earth, it is said." Though that answer made sense, it was a disappointment.

As they'd been talking, John was aware that the light was failing, the servants moving about the room's walls to light torches thrust out of holders around the chamber. And that was ... peculiar. The way the servants seemed to be lighting the torches. John had expected to see them carrying a candle from torch to torch, igniting each torch, in turn, like a candle lighter lights a tier of candles at a wedding. Or if they didn't have candles in this primitive civilization, that a servant would carry a torch about the room, using it to fire the other torches. But they were doing something else. In fact, just how the servants were igniting the torches was something of a mystery. It seemed that they were simply looking at the torches, the torches lighting on their own.

Once more, John was confronted with how much he needed to learn about this culture. Perhaps, even now, he was dreaming and would wake up. ... But he didn't think so. Everything was too real. He'd never dreamed anything in this kind of detail.

At any rate (dream or reality) as the outside light failed, the torch light took over, the room cozy in the dancing, golden flames of the wall torches. But ... back to the conversation.

"And this castle is in Stil-de-grain?" Again, a puzzled look from the Butler. John should know that, too. "Let me say again that I will be asking strange questions. I may do that for my own reasons, may I not?" What seemed to work best with these people was an imperious manner. Go with what worked.

"Of course, Lord."

"Then tell me about Stil-de-grain."

"Tell you ... what ... Lord?" The old man was frustrated -- which he had a right to be. If Stil-de-grain was some kind of country as John thought, John's invitation to discuss it was rather like asking someone to tell you everything there is to know about the United States -- in five minutes.

"How is it governed?"

"Why, by the king." The butler cleared his throat as people do when totally surprised, the servant pulling on his short mustache.

"What is the name of the king?"

"Ah," the old man said, seeming to brighten. "That would be the same king who ruled when you ...." He stopped, fear showing on his face.

"Let us say that I am both John Lyon and a traveler who has been away from home so long that I have forgotten much. Let us say that I no longer trust my memory to be accurate; that so many things have happened to me I will need your cooperation in remembering the slightest details of my former life."

"Lord ... I do not know what to say. Some great tragedy has befallen you ... I ....." Nervously, the old fellow run both hands over his frizzy hair.

"I'll come to myself in time. But for now ..."

"Yes. Of course. I see that, sir. Ask me anything. I will help!" Desperate to give satisfaction.

"Stil-de-grain is a country, then?"

"It is a Band, mighty Lord, one of the inner Bands of the world, located in the ideal center of the ...."

"And a Band is a country?" John didn't like to interrupt, but time for table talk was growing short. Platinia had stopped eating, was looking along the table at him, as amazed by his questions as Chryses.

"That would be another name for a Band, sir."

"And Stil-de-grain has a king, whose name is ...?"

"King Yarro. A most mighty king. He has reigned these many thousand full-lights."

"A full light could be called a day?"

"That would be another name, sir."

"Please, if you would, give me a brief history of Stil-de-grain."

"A history ...?"

"Just the basics. Start from the beginning. When was the nation founded?"

"I believe it was by the Founders."

"The Founders?"

"Those who made our world."

"Would another name for the founders be gods?"

"I do not think so, lord. Of course, I am a man without the education of a Mage." Again, pulling at the mustache, a gesture John could now read as representing thought. "There are the Founders and there are gods."

"Tell me about the Founders, then."

"They came from the sky, in great birds -- iron hawks. So say all legends. They made our world, a mighty circle, which in turn, they carved into the bands."

"Would these bands, these countries, be like a ribbon, long and narrow?"

"They are that, Lord, but circular. The band of Stil-de-grain, as the other bands, have their circumference around the world."

"Circular? There are bands within other bands?" The old man nodded solemnly. Now John was getting somewhere! What the man was describing was an "archery target" world. John wondered if, like men of the middle ages, the people here believed their world was flat. "And you said that Stil-de-grain is one of the inner bands?"

"Quite so, my lord. Most blessed of the bands. For the climate of Stil-de-grain is excellent for the production of crops. Stil-de-grain, led by its mighty king, Yarro, aided by its great Mage, Melcor, is a rich band. The richest of the bands of all the world." Suddenly the old man looked confused. "But Melcor is dead. The slaveys have confirmed it. I did not think that could happen. And I must ask, will you, Lord, be our new Mage? Melcor's Crystal was not found." Crystal? What could he be talking about? Ah.

"You mean this?" John was about to reach inside his tunic and pull out the circle of yellow glass on its chain, remembering just in time, that Chryses was blind. It was easy to forget that; the old man as much at home in the castle as if he was sighted. "What I mean is, the disk of clear, yellow stone on the chain, the one that Melcor wore?" John would have said glass, but he wasn't sure this culture had glass. The old man nodded seriously. "That is the Crystal?" Again the nod. "And having that Crystal makes you a Mage?" Again the nod. So, this clear disk of glass -- Crystal? -- was some kind of badge of authority. "As for me becoming the new Mage, we will have to see about that."

"Do you wear the Crystal, lord?"

"Yes."

"Then you are the new Mage. Mage .... John-Lyon ...." Though Chryses didn't like it, he'd used the new name.

"We will see about that," John said. The last thing John wanted was to make some kind of Mage-commitment before he found out what the privileges and, more importantly, the duties of a Mage might be. Nothing good was likely to happen to Mages who couldn't perform.

"And there are other band-countries?"

"Yes."

"And they are...?"

"Malachite, Realgar and Cinnabar."

"Four in all, counting Stil-de-grain?"

"Well ...."

"There are additional bands?"

"None that should be spoken of, my Lord."

"Just this once, indulge me." The rigid old man didn't want to do that. "There are just us three. We will not tell others."

"There is the land called Eye-land at the center. But no one since the Hero has ever journeyed there. That is the legend. And there is ... there is the ... Black band."

"That it's name? Black band?" The old man was painfully uneasy with this subject, rubbing the side of his decidedly aristocratic nose with a long, tendoned finger. Even more reason for John to learn about it.

"In the beginning, before the Band Wars ... it was known as Azare, lord. But we do not speak of it. Evil comes from there."

"I see. Six bands in all, then?"

"Eye-land is not a band. It is ... Eye-land. The land of the shining Crystal of full-light, some say." Though that last comment about a shining Crystal passed John by, he did feel he was beginning to understand something about this place.

"Give them to me again in order, please, from the center to the rim."

"The black band, that is the evil Azare, then Malachite, Stil-de-grain, Realgar and Cinnabar."

"With Eye-land at the center, inside Azare?"

"That is exactly so, lord."

"Do each of the band-countries have kings?"

"Of course."

"And each has a Mage -- like Melcor -- who aids the king?"

"Yes. All but the evil band, the evil one being both Mage and king."

"And how did that happen and how did that band get to be evil?"

"It came about before the Band wars. For in those days, Ghyityuekifgm was King of Azare. And he Mhgwqazx." Bad as communication between them had been, it was suddenly worse, as if John were hearing static in the old man's conversation. "But Ygw down-light. And so, uywxa."

"I don't understand," John said, confused -- alarmed. But only got a wave of Chryses' hand for an answer. Somehow, in that single motion, John understood that the old man had also ceased to understand John. But ... why!?

"Ytykeg," said Platinia, the elder apparently understanding that.

"Xzy."

"Wpuyv uz. Yxw."

Glancing nervously around the room, John noticed the windows were completely black, torch light the room's only illumination.

With difficulty, John forced his mind back to this new language problem. What's more, it had taken all this time for him to think of the obvious question: to ask how he'd been able to understand these people at all? Not only did they come from a foreign country, but also from a foreign world. He'd been so stunned, first by finding Platinia in his house, then by appearing here, that he hadn't even asked himself how it was that Platinia could speak English. Had she learned it by watching "through John's eyes" after Melcor had tapped into John's "ghost hand?" Did that explain her childish vocabulary? Maybe. Even if that was some kind of explanation for her understanding English, what about the butler? He'd been speaking English also, and at a considerably higher level than the girl.

Now that John's mind was clear enough to function at least a little, what was really strange was that he had ever comprehended these people! Something was clearly wrong here -- another gross understatement.

Could the ability to communicate with them be a kind of mental thing? Did it come and go? John had to hope so. For he desperately needed it to "come" again. Trying to think positively, John told himself that, should communication never be restored, he could learn the local language in time. For now, the only thing that was clear was that all discourse with Chryses and Platinia had ... stopped.

But wait! As distressed as John was by what had just happened, neither the old man nor the girl looked startled at no longer being able to understand him. Quite calm, they had returned to nibbling at what was left of their meal.

Realizing this, John could breathe again. If the "natives" weren't upset at the loss of dialogue, perhaps he shouldn't be either.

"Iiltjsn," said Platinia softly, shaking her head, her face sober as always, indistinct in the yellow torch light.

And that was the totality of the conversation for the rest of the meal -- which wasn't long.

Supper over, Chryses rose from the table. By gestures, beckoned for John to follow, John, in turn, waving for Platinia to come, too.

Getting up, walking around the table, John waited for Chryses to slide down the bench until he was clear, Chryses pacing to the nearest wall, brushing along it, taking a torch from its mounting.

Torch in hand, the butler led John and Platinia through the castle's moist, dark corridors, then up rough stone steps until they entered John's room off the narrow, torch-lit hall.

Following John into the room was Platinia, both the butler and the girl thinking she would be sleeping with John.

Not that she wasn't exotically interesting, but ....

John just realized he'd stopped seeing Platinia as a child, Platina definitely a young woman. Finding her in his hallway, her size, her simple speech patterns -- had caused him to mistake her for a girl.

Beguiling, perhaps, but no, John would not be exploiting Platinia. From her obvious fear of him, he had the feeling she'd already been abused -- even chained if what he'd been told about Melcor was true! Since Melcor was a Mage as she thought John was, no wonder she feared the great "Mage," John Lyon.

Through gestures, John got Platinia to understand that she would be sleeping somewhere else, Platinia retreating into the hall.

Torch still in hand, the elegant fingers of his other hand trilling, Chryses indicated an adjoining door, John pushing through to discover a bathroom near the left wall at the room's center, a raised seat over a hole that was probably a straight shot for several stories to a dung heap. Nearer to John on the same wall was a mirror of polished bronze, a basin in front of it. Between the basin and the stool was a large container on metal legs, the pottery tank filled with water. On the far side of the water supply, sunk in the floor, was a generous tub, the tub already filled with heated water. Recently filled, the metal wall mirror beginning to fog up. Thick, woolly towels hung from what looked like a folding coat stand to one side. A heavy robe was also draped over that rack.

Chryses' gyrations were clear. John was to take a bath, then go to bed.

Satisfied with the agreeable noises John made to let him know John understood, the butler lodged the torch in an iron cone in the wall just inside the top of the bathroom door, bowed his elegant bow, turned, and walked through the dark bedroom, closing the hall door behind him.

Leaving John alone.

A straight razor of dull, blackish metal lay by the basin. Iron. Not steel, steel not the kind of idea the "Hero" could have brought back from a trip from what was obviously the Middle Ages -- unless he'd been in contact with Saracens.

A leather strop hung by the razor, the wide leather belt used for touching up the razor's edge. A bisque crock on a shelf to the left of the mirror held white powder -- soap? No. Pinching the powder between thumb and forefinger, John thought it was soda -- a cleaning agent that predated the invention of soap.

Strange how you could wish for the most ordinary things at such a time, John feeling nostalgic about his old Norelco. A straight razor? Never used one. ... Before now.

Dipping up some water to wet his face, using soda to set up his beard, John managed to shave without cutting himself. (Proving that this land was a place of miracles.) And for toilet paper? In an iron pan beside the stool, John found a sponge attached to the end of a stick, the sponge to be used for its obvious purpose, washed off by pouring water over it, John guessed.

Quickly, John stripped and got into the bath, his body feeling light, as if floating in water with a high salt content.

Relaxed by a good soak, toweled off, John felt he could sleep.

But first, he needed to learn more about his surroundings.

Robe on, John brought the torch from the bathroom to the bedroom holding the torch high to look around the larger room, John seeing a fresh change of clothes on top a bureau ... a tunic similar to the one he'd been given earlier

Wanting to position himself in relation to the out-of-doors, John went to the window, removed a bar, and pushed out the rasping sash. To find what he'd expected, that it was dark outside.

No. More than dark -- black. No stars. No moon.

John stuck the torch out the window in the faint hope of picking out something by its flickering light, but saw only fog.

Returning to the room, he set the pointed torch handle in a high holder on the wall nearest the bed's headboard, stepped up on the platform, took off his robe, and climbed through the open curtains around the bed to stretch out.

There was a pillow at the top of the bed. No surprise there, the need to prop up your head while sleeping seeming to be universal. There were also light covers on the bed that he pulled over him.

And ... here he was. In this ... other reality ... this land (Band) which the natives called Stil-de-grain. A country in another ... world. A strange girl as his servant (slavey,) Platinia saying she "belonged" to him, the butler also using that phrase. The castle and all within it belonging to the Mage.

And, of course, devious man that he was, John had craftily convinced these country bumpkins that he was the great Mage, Pfnaravin. Pfnaravin, laying low. Pfnaravin, brain damaged. Pfnaravin, playing some grim kind of joke.

This was what he wanted? An adventure? Some excitement to fight depression? If so, he'd succeeded beyond all measure ..... And all John could think about was getting home.

Nothing he could do about that now. Nothing but try to get a good night's sleep so he'd be clear headed tomorrow as he began to tackle the problem of how to manufacture enough static in this primitive place to get him home. No Van de Graaff generators here. But ... maybe he could build one ... in time.

Time to get to sleep. ... Except he was used to sleeping in the dark.

No problem. He could take the torch into the bathroom and plunge it into the water tank.

Getting up, taking up the torch, going into the bathroom, he did just that.

Except ... that ... even under water ... the torch burned! Startled, John dropped the torch's handle, the flaming end bobbing to the surface, the torch floating on its side, its flames burning merrily both above and below the water.

The hair was stiffening on John's neck.

Staring at that eerie torch, he even imagined that its flame was ... cold!?

Steeling himself, his hand trembling, John stepped forward and whipped his hand through the flame coming off the water! No ... heat. .... He trailed his shaky fingers through the fire more slowly. ... No more heat than you would expect from a flashlight beam. Swallowing hard, he plunged his hand into the flame and forced himself to keep it there. .... No sensation.

Retreating a step, attempting to control his ragged breathing, John tried desperately to think of what "fire" like this could mean. Light ... but no heat? ... Electric fire??

It was that thought which triggered the enormity of what had happened to him! That he'd been divorced from every certainty he'd ever known, now in a world so alien that his life had to be in constant danger!

He must get out of this bewitched world! He had no business in a place where fire "burned" under water! Even his assumption that the culture was medieval could be false. The concept of immortal fire opened the possibility that he'd landed in a world of infinite technical accomplishment. Was this castle something they'd built to fool him? Were these people so advanced he was good for nothing but to be an animal in their zoo? Literally, anything was possible!

Without thought, John was back in bed, the covers pulled up, the torch left to float and burn in the bathroom basin.

Sweating. In spite of the evening chill, John was sweating.

He had to get to sleep. He had to. Count sheep? Were their sheep in this world? Did they grow wool? Could the sheep here be man eaters?

Putting everything he knew together, John was in a place of cruel and powerful Wizards. A world where the inhabitants could, then could not, speak English. A land where Mages "withered" their butler's eyes. A place where house hold servants were called slaveys. A world so different that it had "electric" fire, a place where the former Wizard had kept Platinia in chains. (For all John knew, he was in a land where it was a good idea to keep Platinia chained!)

Exhausted, John drifted into a fitful sleep, still hoping he would wake to find this frightening world ... a dream!

* * * * *

Chapter 10

John was coming awake, his body stiff. What day was it; what classes would he be teaching? He was still tired. He hadn't slept well. So, what else was new? His mouth was a swamp. Noises through the windows. ... Odd. ... The windows should be closed -- too cold to have them open this time of year. Had he left the TV on downstairs?

Enough awake to know he was lying on his back, John opened his eyes, had trouble focusing. The ceiling? Where was the ceiling? Blackness. Was it still night? He didn't smell anything. Because ..... sleep prevented smell ....

"Good morning, great Mage," whined a high, thin voice out of the darkness at the foot of the bed. Startled, John sat bolt upright, one hand behind him on the bed to prop himself up, the other scrambling to cover himself below. Peering into the room's half-light, he saw a formally dressed old man at the foot of the bed, bowing, making intricate hand movement in the air. And it all came back!

"My God," John said, convinced, sagging back, closing his eyes, rubbing them with both hands. He opened the swollen lids again to try to focus on the quaint old man at the end of the bed. "Where am I?"

"In your bedroom, Lord," said the cracked, alto voice.

"And who are you?" John knew, but hoped to be contradicted.

"Chryses, your chamberlain, sir." It was all coming back: the stairs, the girl, the new "reality." The dead wizard. Stil-de-grain. Chryses. The fear John had felt last night when the words of these "others" had turned to gibberish.

But ... he was understanding this aged butler, now.

"You can grasp what I'm saying?" John asked, hesitantly.

"Of course, sir."

"But last night ..."

"That was in the night." While answering John's questions, the old man was doing so in the manner of one who explains simple procedures to a child.

John remembered another mystery. "The torch. It wouldn't go out."

"The one in the basin, sir?" The butler seemed to be following the principle that one must speak with elaborate care to the insane.

"Yes. And please, just answer my questions. I'm not yet up to being quizzed." So far, stating his requests as orders had worked as well as anything.

"Of course. How thoughtless of me. It is just that when the slavey found it there, she was ... distressed ...."

"I'm sure," John said dryly, propping himself on his elbows, shifting his pillow behind him so that it supported his head.

"Had I known your desire to have the offending implement removed, mighty Mage, I would have ordered a slavey to do it. In future, a pull on that cord," the old fellow indicated a frayed rope of braided cloth hanging down by the head of the bed, "and your every wish will be attended to."

Another thing John kept forgetting was that the man was blind. "My most profound regrets. I beg you to forgive my negligence. The death of Melcor ... your return under what, please forgive me for saying, was a most peculiar circumstance ..." As the words of abject apology continued to tumble out of the shadowy area below the man's mustache, it was clear that the butler still assumed John to be the Mage, Pfnaravin, returned to his people. But ... first things first.

"Getting back to the torch," John said at the first available crack in the old man's monologue, "the flame was cool."

"Naturally, great lord." Chryses sounded indignant that John would even suggest otherwise.

"I would like the reason for that explained to me."

"But ...." The butler stopped suddenly, running one hand through what was left of his bushy hair, his blind eyes staring at a point just above John's head. "It was not necessary that it be so. No heat was required, the torch being for light, only." And that made sense -- in a crazy sort of way. A flashlight didn't need to be hot to fulfill its purpose, either. Electric fire? That had been John's explanation last night. Except that the torch blazed with real fire. Was not topped with some gimmicky light bulb that simulated flame.

"And water didn't douse it. Why?"

"By the time of the dinner's conclusion, you will recall it was down-light. So ...." Explanations were difficult for both of them, Chryses having trouble finding the words to answer questions he didn't fathom. Perhaps another tack ...?

"I saw the slaveys lighting the torches last night." The butler bowed. "But I didn't understand the process. How did they light them?"

"They just ... thought ... them alight, Lord, as you yourself would do."

"Thought them alight?" The old man half-bowed, plainly uncertain of the direction of the conversation.

"Perhaps, if you showed me how it's done?"

"Of course, Lord. Though the torch," he waved in the general direction of the bathroom, "has been returned to the dining room. If another will do, there would be one in the corridor."

"Fine. Please get it. In the meantime, I'll get out of bed and start dressing. Don't hurry."

"As you wish, sir," the old gentleman said, with a deep bow, turning on his heel to pace out of the room. He had to be counting steps to find his way, John thought, the man striding to the door, having only to fumble slightly to find its wrought iron handle.

At the thud of the closed door, John threw the covers back, was up and into the fresh robe put on the rough wooden end table by the bed. "Dressed," he made a quick trip to the bathroom.

And John was ready. As ready to face the day as he would be on any first day in a new world.

Steeling himself, John opened the bathroom door and ducked back into the bedroom, Chryses, unlighted torch in hand, waiting there for him. "Thank you Chryses," John said, the butler needing constant praise in order to function.

Stepping upon the platform, John sat down on the edge of the bed, the butler approaching to stop at the platform's edge. "I'm ready," John said. "You may light the torch. And do it slowly ..."

"Slowly, lord?" Again, John had asked something which had struck the literal minded old fellow as impossible. Light it ... slowly? When the torch lit, it was lit. There was no way to do it slowly any more than someone could switch on a flashlight slowly. Click -- it's off. Click -- it's on. Strange, how you could see such thoughts, even in a blind man's eyes.

"I mean, don't do it until I'm ready to watch." John thought of something else. "Once lighted, will you be able to ... wave ... out the light again?"

"Why, of course." The man sounded a little miffed. It was what John needed to know, however, to make an educated guess about what was possible by day and by night.

"Lighting torches and blowing them out -- that is, thinking them out -- is done in the daytime?"

"That is ... most true ... great Mage." The butler was now praising John for finally understanding something. John could imagine Chryses telling friends that the "great Mage" needed lots of praise to function properly.

For the time being, John would have to ignore what the old man thought, asking stupid questions the only way John was going to get the basics explained to him.

"And it follows that torches can neither be lit nor 'unlit' after dark?"

The bow of assent.

"Why?"

"Why, lord?" Chryses was at a loss once more, the old man using his free hand to brush back his frizzy hair tufts like he did when confused. "It is that magic is in the light."

"No other explanation?"

"How could there be? Magic cannot be explained. It just ... is." For that matter, John thought, how many people knew (in an age when science was used to explain "wonders") how their cars worked? Or their dishwashers? Or how electricity was generated?

"Magic just ... is. Of course," John agreed. "Will you think it alight now, please?"

Without ceremony, rather like someone would strike a match to touch off charcoal lighter, the old man stared at the torch, the torch head bursting into flames.

As close to a "mystery" as he'd even been, John leaned forward even more, getting near enough to notice this was another of those icy flames. No heat; no matter how close he got. "Will you think it out, please?"

Again ... a simple wave and the torch was out. Magic.

John had a wild thought. Not only the butler, but also last night's slaveys had worked torch "magic." If there was "magic" in the light of this place, did that mean that John could light torches with just a thought?

Concentrating, John put his mind to thinking about a lighted torch.

Nothing. He tried again. The torch didn't light. "Thank you. And just who can light a torch in this manner?"

"Why ... anyone ... Lord."

"You mean anyone in the Castle."

"Surely."

"And people outside the fort?"

"Anyone ... in the Band ... in all the Bands, Lord."

Anyone but ... me, John thought, the unpleasant reality dawning on him that he was probably the only one in the land unable to perform what, to others, was a simple act of torch lighting.

There were moments last night when he'd toyed with the idea that he might be able to adjust to this new reality; found it a nasty shock to learn better! Assuming that torch lighting was only a sample of what could be done with "magic" in this place, what other "wonders" could everyone else do that he couldn't?

In the meantime, he'd better be careful not to let them know what little power he possessed.

Into the growing pause, John heard the butler clear his throat. "Sir," the stiff, old fellow said, his voice even higher than John had remembered from the evening before, "may I say welcome upon your arrival. I fear, in the excitement of last night, I did not express our great joy at having your powers returned to the world. And I know, now, that much has happened to you and that you do not know the ... problem that you face. Since our doom lies ahead, however, there is time for welcome." Whatever that was all about, John decided he should no longer postpone nailing down another "loose" part of local "magic."

"I hate to interrupt," John said, "but I require another bit of information."

"Yes, Lord. Anything."

"The fact that we couldn't understand each other last night is also a function of the light?"

"Yes, of course. The magic makes all tongues clear, Lord."

"But not in the dark?"

"Not precisely, lord. Not in the dark of night, Lord."

"I ... see. In total darkness, blindfolded, perhaps, or in a cave, if it were day, the magic would work?"

"Of course, Great Sir."

"And at night, even in bright artificial light ...?"

"There is no magic after down-light."

"And so we understand each other now because it is day?"

"Even so."

"But last night after ... down-light ... did you and Platinia understand each other."

"Yes, lord. Though the girl speaks little Stil-de-grainese at any time."

"I noticed that."

Thinking of the girl and of their entrance into this world, John realized, with a start, that his right hand felt ... normal. With Melcor dead, that also figured.

"That will do, then, Chryses," John said. "I'll continue dressing. As for breakfast, I'm not sure I can find ..."

"The dining hall is just left down the hall, down the stairs and right, then left, then rights until you arrive," the butler replied, motioning vaguely with one hand.

"You will attend me at breakfast?" The chamberlain nodded solemnly. "And Platinia?"

"I believe the girl has eaten. It is rather ... late, my Lord."

"A difficult night for us all. I needed to sleep."

"It was not my thought to be critical, sir. Please believe that ..."

"Nor did I think that."

Reassured, the butler sighed. "After breakfast I should like a guided tour of the castle and its grounds." Until John could find his way around by himself, he was as bound to Chryses as a trained bear chained to its handler.

"It shall be as you wish, sir. If there is nothing else, I shall leave you alone, then, Lord."

Hearing no objection, the chamberlain made his bow and dignified exit, pulling shut the bedroom door behind him.

Putting on his slippers, John was soon through the door and tripping lightly down flights of worn, irregular stairs, the castle almost as gloomy in the morning as at night.

Eventually -- though not as easily as Chryses indicated -- John found the dining hall.

Seated at the table's head again with Melcor beside him, another of Melcor's silent servants (dressed in what probably passed for livery) brought them fruit and drink, the fruit cut into bite sized pieces and served in a small ceramic bowl; the drink some kind of white substance that tasted like, and probably was, milk. There was also thick cut bread. And butter.

Like the night before, the food was filling -- all that John required of food.

For his part, like a good waitress in any expensive restaurant, one of the ... slaveys ... stood in the shadows: there, without seeming to be there.

"I think, Chryses," John said, after finishing, standing, "that I will review the household staff."

"Very good, sir," said the butler, sliding from behind the table to pull a dark cord.

The pull-cord ringing a bell somewhere, it didn't take long for people to arrive, entering through the four archways leading into the dining room. The staff. Ten. Twenty. Grizzled men and women for the most part.

Ordering them to line up down the room's center, Chryses made introductions, first bending to hear a whispered name, then announcing that person to John. "This is the Head cook, Lord, Justia. And this is your Head of gardens, Lania." Both were hardened old women, seasoned in their craft. "Minia, Soubrette." At last, a young woman. "Orsia, your bed chamber Head. Roosia, scullion. Pfaffina, drudge. Kellia, turn-spit. And this is the Head of the bed-chamber, Denax."

In his role as Mage-guide, the chamberlain was every bit the third world dictator conducting a prized dignitary on a review of the troops.

It was in this, oh so formal, way that John met "his" servants: gardeners, cleaning women, men who tended animals. For their part, the laborers kept their faces hidden as best they could, never meeting John's eyes, curtsying or bowing in the gravest of silence. In turn, Chryses introduced John as the Lord, or great Lord, or Mage -- these titles apparently interchangeable.

When the introductions were over, Chryses set the staff doing whatever tasks they did -- and that was that, John feeling he wouldn't be talking to the servants much in future, the castle's personnel expected to be neither seen nor heard.

After the review, Chryses took John on a tour of Hero Castle, the aged building turning out to be what John had expected, a many storied, square castle -- turrets guarding its exterior corners.

The rooms had names of various types: meeting rooms, morning rooms, bedrooms. One called the messenger bird room, John looking in to see a cage almost as large as the room itself, the enclosure containing at least a hundred parrots: green, gold, orange. A solitary red.

Tapestries covered most walls, their designs featuring fantastic animals, hunt scenes, men chasing and being chased by creatures that looked like the gargoyles and dragons of medieval fancy. Other scenes were of iron-capped men in combat, primitive knights bearing swords, short bows, lances -- all on foot. Except for the lack of cavalry, military technology of the 7th century.

After the castle tour (which left John as confused about room location as when he started) John was led through a heavy, iron bound door (a kind of postern gate) into a flower garden: a large area of plantings, the arboretum surrounded by a low, stone wall. Above the wall, John saw distant mountain peaks, the castle nestled at the top of one of them.

Overhead was an odd, gold sky, looking for the world like it could be painted on a dome of back-lit glass, the bright gold sky seemingly the source of both light and heat.

The garden tour took John down a flagstone path that was beginning to dry after what looked like a late night rain, past the expected trees and flowers promised by any botanical display.

It was all ... too much. "Chryses?"

"Yes, Lord?" came the high voice at John's back. From the first, the old man had been trailing after John at a respectful distance, Chryses seeing his job as directing John's course with a well timed, "A right turn now, Great Mage." Or, "Up the stairs to your left, Lord."

"Is there a library in the castle?" John paused by a nest of low, stone benches, waiting for the old man to come up.

"A ... what, sir?"

"A library. Books."

"Books?" While closing the distance between them, Chryses had stopped at a "safe remove" from the "fearsome Mage."

"Yes."

"There may very well be a book, though I have never been privileged to see it. A book of ancient spells. I believe that Melcor did mutter about such a book. But where it might be, I know not." The butler pulled on his mustache with the fingers of one hand, fluttering the fingers of the other above his head. "There may be books in Xanthin ...."

"Xanthin? A ... city?"

"The capital, great lord." At least the butler was doing his best to keep the amazement out of his voice at John's idiot questions. As for Xanthin, a trip to the capital was a must -- and soon. For now, a council of "war" was what John needed.

"Is it possible for you to call Platinia?"

"Certainly, sir."

Was Platinia tagging along, just out of sight? Shy? Sly? John couldn't make up his mind about that.

Three claps of the old man's hands had Platinia appearing, sober as ever, walking up softly as if making a sound might call down the wrath of heaven.

"Time for a talk,"John said, indicating the alcove beside the path, parallel stone slabs set into it, areas like this spotted throughout the garden, rest stops designed for meditation or for quiet conversation, privacy hedges encircling the nook. Behind the benches were close set trees, their smooth trunks sloping away to be used as back rests.

And so they sat, John on one, polished slab, Chryses and Platinia on the bench across from him, Platinia huddled within herself, the butler sitting rigidly erect, the bony knees of his long legs sticking up awkwardly from under his formal tunic.

John leaned back against a tree trunk, hoping in this way to prompt a relaxed talk.

"When we first met, Platinia, you said I was needed here?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Why?"

"Because of the evil."

Remembering last night, Chryses had also hinted at some kind of evil in the world. Coming from the black band, Azare.

"I don't ... see ... any evil."

"Melcor said it comes," whispered the girl, Platina continuing to stare at the flat tiles sunk into the ground beneath her feet, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees -- as near to a fetal position as you could get while sitting, John thought. So much for the girl.

"What do you know of this coming evil, Chryses?" John asked.

"Only that Melcor feared it, Lord." Palms raised before him.

"And what is ... this evil?"

"It is ... the sky."

"The sky?"

"Melcor feared the sky would grow dim, great lord," the butler put in. "Feared a failure of the magic. Strange animals haunt some Bands, I overheard him say."

"What Bands, may I ask?"

"I believe I heard Melcor say the word Malachite." Malachite. John thought of what he knew about the bands.

"And Malachite would be the ring just to the outside of Azare?"

"The evil band. Yes."

"As I remember, Still-de-grain surrounds Malachite?" Chryses nodded matter-of-factly.

The old man cleared his throat as if about to start a long discourse. "After the last war, there was a league of Mages who brought peace." Wars and rumors of wars, thought John. Just like on earth.

"And Melcor was trying to bring back Pfnaravin, to counteract this ... evil?" John said, cutting off what looked like the beginning of a rambling tale.

"If the sky grows dark, as Melcor feared, the magic will fail. What is most needed is a greater magic." The chamberlain sounded hopeful but also tired and fatalistic.

John looked up at a bright sky. "I don't see a 'darkness' in the sky."

"That is true, here, lord. But there are rumors that in Malachite ..."

"I see. A kind of creeping darkness, perhaps spreading from the evil band of Azare."

"So Melcor believed. That is the reason Melcor summoned .... Pfnaravin .... to increase the magic," the butler offered, trying his best to help. "To fight against the gathering of the dark."

"Magic -- like the kind of magic that lights the torches?"

"Yes."

This was the time to find out more about the magic of this other reality. "Explain to me what other functions magic serves, besides lighting torches."

"For other simple tasks," the butler said, raising his hands, palm up, before him.

"But if I understand you, Mages do greater magic?"

"Certainly. There is defense of the bands ..."

Without warning, from nowhere, from everywhere, there were shouts and the disorganized stamp of running boots, uniformed men bursting into view, soldiers with drawn swords surrounding John and his companions. Other troops with lowered spears phalanxed behind the swordsmen.

Panic knotted John's stomach!

"You are under arrest! ... Stay as you are!" ordered a soldier in front, his breath coming in pants. Dressed in a more colorful uniform than the rest, the man was obviously the commander. In addition to breathing hard, the squad's leader was sweating heavily, as were his men, the troops glancing about fearfully, as if sword and shield were poor defense against imagined terrors. Even their sweat smelled more of fear than of fatigue.

The first rush of alarm over, John caught a deep breath. It seemed that these antiquated soldiers were not going to impale John and his companions where they sat, at least.

"What has happened?" asked Chryses, blindly looking all around, trying to identify the sounds.

"I don't know," John said, more stunned now than fearful. "Soldiers, I think." Platinia sat huddled on the bench. No change.

"In the name of King Yarro," rasped the same man who had spoken before, "identify yourselves!" The officer had stiff, gold braid on his shoulders, was tall, thin, with sweat drops beading his balding head to slide down his forehead and thin face.

"I am Chryses, chamberlain of Hero castle," the old man said with quiet dignity, trying to bow even from his seated position, making his accustomed hand and finger flourishes. "How is it that you enter the castle?"

"Easier than we thought," said the man in such a way that it was a prayer that their luck would continue. "No defense at all. Where are your soldiers?"

"We have no soldiers," said the butler.

"Where is your Mage, then?"

"Melcor is dead."

"Impossible. Don't lie to me, old man." The officer had found his breath again, his tone more steady.

"Falling stones killed him," the butler maintained, the old fellow so self-assured that the officer looked inclined to believe him.

"We will see," the squad leader said, his tone suggesting more hope than doubt. He paused to think. "That might account for it. No defense when we stormed the castle. We'll see."

John continued to feel ... more apprehensive ... than fearful. When you came from a world of hydrogen bombs, he found it difficult to feel threatened by men carrying swords and spears. An attitude that was irrational. Men with primitive weapons were deadly enough, if not to the planet, certainly to three unarmed civilians.

"Second Head!" A short, dark man with a narrow, yellow sash stepped forward; clicked the heals of his solid leather boots, and saluted, hand clinched, forearm across his chest, sword in his other hand elevated. "Your squad will seal the perimeter." An exchange of salutes and the lieutenant stepped back in line.

"Third Head!" A young soldier paced forward and saluted. "Your unit will search room by room. Thoroughly! Remember. My head will not be the only one to be separated from my body if we fail the king!"

"Yes, sir," said the young man, fear and determination in competition for his boyish features.

"You know the orders. All women still fertile to be seized." Salutes from the officers. ... "Now!"

Platoons of 10 men each pivoted in a military manner and fell into cadence behind the lesser officers, the squads marching back along the garden walkway to disappear around hedges, the metronomic footfalls of the soldiers fading to silence.

A third of the men remained. "You will give me your name, girl," the commander said, his voice somewhat softer addressing a woman.

"Platinia," the girl said quietly, lifting wide, dark eyes to stare at the officer.

"Are you the missing slavey of King Yarro?"

"No."

"You had better tell the truth," the officer said -- gently, but still managing to convey threat.

"And you?" the leader (captain?) said, turning to fix John with narrowed eyes.

"I am John Lyon."

"An odd name. You are a foreigner? What is you Band?"

"This one."

"We will see. Bind both that man," he pointed at John, "and the girl."

Quickly, two men stepped forward, one with some lengths of rope already in hand.

"But you are making a mistake," the butler pleaded.

"You had better hope that I do not change my mind and take you as well, old man."

"But ...

"Enough!" The captain turned to John and Platinia. "Stand up." They did.

In no time, using what seemed to John to be a rather flimsy rope, a soldier had tied John's hands. Platinia's hands were bound behind her back, as well. "You said you are the Head here?" the leader asked Chryses.

"I am."

"You will convince my man there," the officer pointed at an older soldier, "that the Mage is dead. After that, if he does not convince me, you will be put to death."

The veteran soldier stood Chryses up and herded the butler off.

On order, what was left of the soldiers surrounded John and Platinia; marched the two of them inside the castle, through anterior rooms and out an iron barred portcullis that guarded the castle's gate.

Already under guard in that open area was a group of five or six young women -- servants of the castle -- weeping, terrified, their hands restrained behind their backs like Platinia's and John's.

Sharp commands forming the soldiers into a square around the prisoners, the military men herded their captives across the cobblestone courtyard and through a tunnel between twin, gate house towers, this fortified entranceway guarding the castle's front approach. After that, the sorry group of prisoners was quick marched over a massive, wooden drawbridge and down a stamped earthen ramp on the other side.

Past the bridge, the officer called a halt.

Eighty yards farther on, John could see more troops, drawn up behind a fringe of rocks. An army. Perhaps a thousand men; siege engines at the army's edges.

Halting the squad and its prisoners on rocky ground beyond the castle proper, the captain commanded the guard to keep sharp, every man ordered to face outward as a precaution against surprise attack, prompting John to wonder what could frighten a thousand men? John didn't want to think about that.

A trailing squad of ten now drummed across the bridge, their footfalls changing to thuds as they hit the dirt ramp, the unit halting before the commander, the platoon's leader clicking his heels, his fist rapping his chest in salute. "The chamberlain told the truth," reported the lieutenant. "We have found the grave of the Mage, Melcor. Dug it up. It was the Mage as the old man said. With my own eyes, I had seen him at Xanthin. There can be no mistake."

"And his Crystal? Yarro will demand that."

"The old man said that he," the soldier pointed at John, "wears the Crystal, now."

Salutes exchanged, the lieutenant's men joined the prisoners' guards.

Meanwhile, at the captain's signal, the bulk of the army formed up, commands barked. John could see files of soldiers peel off at the back, the army's main body beginning its withdrawal from the castle.

The thin faced captain now came up to John and tugged open the neck fold of John's tunic (more gently than John expected) to peer inside at the pendent next to John's chest.

"That also is true," the leader muttered to himself, releasing the tunic, patting it back over the necklace. "It is not my wish to bind a Mage, sir. It is the king's order. I, as Head of this detail, must obey." Ah. Once more, the universal respect for Mages was being evidenced.

"Is it necessary to tie the women?" John asked, trying to press his "Wizardly" advantage, a show of confidence, even of arrogance, seeming to get results.

"I regret that, sir. But, again, I only follow the king's commands. All prisoners are to be bound -- especially the women." The man stared over John's shoulder now, his eyes unfocused as if seeing visions. "Not long ago, an entire unit of Yarro's special forces disappeared on a similar mission to this quadrant of the Band. We live in dangerous times."

With that, the officer took one step back, pivoted, and marched through the guard perimeter where he became the captain once again.

At the leader's orders, squads of ten formed to make a rear and a van guard, John and the women marched to the edge of the keep's plateau, the party eventually entering the dust cloud kicked up by the withdrawal of the main army.

With nothing else to do, John looked around him as he walked, seeing little more than shattered boulders, plus some lichens clinging to rocky cracks.

In the distance, John could see dwarfed trees against a golden firmament.

Though John wasn't sure how it had happened, it had finally sunk in that he was a prisoner of the King of Stil-de-grain. More bad news to be learned later.

A half hour of tramping down difficult terrain found the women lagging, the bedraggled caravan slowing, the women's pathetic weeping mingling with bird calls from distant pines.

The pace slackening noticeably, the captain sent a runner to tell the army in front that, though the women could not keep up, to continue so that all could cross the Tartrazine in good order. A river?

The path continuing to plunge, John had no time for further speculation, needing to concentration on keeping upright on the loose dirt and shale decline, the soldiers assisting the women to keep them from falling.

Still going down, the squad passed the army's siege engines, the trail steep enough to make the catapult crews slow their clumsy machines' descent with ropes.

There was some good natured bantering between the officers of the "artillery" and the squad leader and his lesser "Heads," mostly about how lucky the squad was to have its own women -- the first time John had seen anything that could be called a sense of humor in this place. A positive sign, he hoped.

The terrain beginning to flatten at last, John marched along with nothing to see but the steadily increasing sweat stains on the uniformed backs of the guards in front, the women exhausted.

Finally -- one woman falling and unable to rise -- the squad leader called a halt, the rest of the women sagging to the ground in the middle of the trail.

Though the guards were also tired, the captain ordered the soldiers to remain alert, men detailed to watch the captives, others to keep a lookout on every side.

Able to look around, John saw that they were now in a gentle valley of grassy knolls, flowers adding color to the grass. John heard bird calls and the underlying drone of insect life, the air sweeter here, less dusty.

What time of day was it, John wondered?

Seemingly less tired than either the women or the soldiers, John used the rest stop to look around -- first, behind him at the receding mountains, their jagged bones reduced to lines of gray and purple, seeming to float on the horizon.

Noting how far they'd come, John searched for clouds that might cool what was left of the day, finding instead, the uniform yellow-gold canopy he'd first discovered above the walls of the castle garden.

The flatness of the plain giving him greater breadth of vision, glancing to his left, John was shocked to see a different band of color at the sky's horizon! Green. Pivoting to the right, saw a strip of orange sky at the opposite sky line.

It was as if the group traveled beneath a vast rainbow whose iridescent colors hued the firmament. Orange. Gold. Green. Each color ribbon seeming to have a light source of its own.

And another thing .... Where, in that wildly technicolor sky, was the sun!? No ... sun. Were the color bands comprised of multi-pigmented clouds that hid the sun? It didn't seem so, yet ....

Then came the order to march on, soldiers dragging the women to their feet; the rear and vanguards forming.

And they were off again, the numbness of the march, once more, replacing thought.

* * * * *

Chapter 11

The day of his captivity, John and the women were driven, first through heat, then into a thickening fog, all that time seeing no one on the trail except an occasional old man with staff and pack.

Near dusk, they were detoured down a misty, branching path that ended at a squat inn (five or six open mouthed loafers sitting before it on a rough bench, their feet and legs swirled in mist.) Instead of being taken into the tavern, though, the soldiers hustled them around back and into an outbuilding.

There, untied to be fed and allowed to use a primitive outhouse -- they were retied (loosely, hands in front this time) and bedded down in straw.

As before, the "magic" failing with the light, the dusk turned the women's pitiful talk to babble.

Despite drunken singing that filtered back from the tavern, John fell asleep quickly, but awoke in the middle of the night to soreness in his arms and legs, drifting off again to the sound of a gentle rain sluicing off the building's thatched roof.

The next day, untied to eat a cold porridge of grain and milk that an old servant woman brought from the inn, hands tied behind them again, they were led off into another fog that soon melted under the warmth of the multi-colored sky.

They met more travelers that morning, men dressed in dull colored tunics and leggings, soft cloth caps on their heads, walking sticks in hand, some with cloth covered bundles strapped to their backs, others leading parcel laden ponies, the soldiers refusing to answer the shouted questions of the passersby, keeping the prisoners well away from the travelers.

Traffic picking up as they continued, they found themselves competing with merchants and their loads, pony carts, and other wheeled vehicles, the soldiers calling a halt for a lunch of bread, sliced meat, and fruit.

After traveling several more days, the trail ended in a splintered dock jutting out into a stream.

Wagons were lined up on both sides of the river, most of them four wheel affairs loaded with grain, sheep, chickens in coops, wooden crates, and barrels in many sizes. One wagon was piled high with hay, the mound laced down with ropes. There were also two wheeled carts packed with bolts of cloth, others containing large, clay jars that were probably filled with oil or wine. In every case, ponies pulled the conveyances (depending on the vehicle's size, two, four or eight of the shaggy little animals harnessed to them in tandem.)

At the far end of the dock, a cross-braced tower jutted up, parallel ropes from the tower top stretched across the river to a similar structure on the other bank. Passing each other in the stream were two flat boats, each hooked to one of the cables, sweating river men poling the boats from bank to bank.

The incoming barge docked at last and its cargo of carts off-loaded, the guards walked the captives down the pier and up a portable gangplank to boat deck.

The soldiers and their charges aboard, the ferrymen poled the boat away from the dock, the current bowing the elongated raft to the downstream side until the barge arched back to thump along the dock on the other bank.

Debarking across the river, the captives were marched on again, foot traffic increasing as other paths forked in to broaden the track into a wider, hard packed road.

Day's end saw John and the women herded down another foggy side road and into the courtyard of a larger inn, this way station swarming with twenty to thirty people in worker's tunics, the men unhitching teams or unpacking ponies. Fat children played underfoot. Grizzled old women scolded one and all from the safety of the tavern stoop.

Again, the prisoners were taken to the back to be jogged down rickety cellar steps to the inn's basement.

Rain again that night, the convict party set out through the inevitable morning fog as sleepy travelers emerged from the inn to strap packs on the backs of frisky ponies, the little beasts tossing their shaggy heads and snorting mist trails into the cool, wet air.

Pony and foot traffic in both directions increasing throughout the morning, the captives crested a rise of ground to see an estuary stretched out before them.

Their officer halting the group near a welter of wooden carts parked along and to either side of a stone quay, John could see an island beyond the inlet, past the island, an extensive body of yellowish water. Ships of various sizes lined the jetty, all in the process of off-loading or on-loading cargo.

After a rest, the soldiers threaded the captives through the waiting merchants, the detainees herded over the dock to be tramped up a gangplank to the deck of what probably passed for an ocean going boat in this culture, the vessel twenty yards long and broad of beam, the shallow draft vessel resembling freight boats that plied the Missouri before the invention of the paddle wheeler.

Though the ship was only partially loaded, the soldiers ordered the dock hands to cast off -- getting black looks from the ship's sailors who would be losing money by traveling light.

At shouted commands, wharf hands slipped off thick, braided hawsers of hemp, sailors on board dragging in the lines, coiling the stiff rope at both boat ends. The boat cast free, dock hands used wooden poles to push the ship away from the pier, the ship drifting out and around into more open water.

Gaining maneuvering room, teams of sailors manned the oar handles, the crew walking forward and backward to push and pull the oars until a kind of tide caught the vessel to drift it away from shore.

The rowing stopped, sailors used fore and aft sweeps to guide the ship toward the island, steering the vessel on a sharply twisting course, much like a sail boat veers when under tack, John unable to tell how the boat was propelled unless, like a river, there was a current in the sea, the sweeps providing direction. He'd never seen a body of water meander in this way, almost as if there were vast, but gentle, whirlpools in the sea, the boat rowed-steered from one clockwise "rim" of circling water to the counter clockwise "rim" of the next -- "gaining ground" like a bug might make progress in a given direction by hopping from the rim of one rotating gear to the edge of the next, counter-rotating cog in a train of gears.

Zigzagging around the island, the boat entered a harbor on the far side, a city built on a hill beyond the bay. Xanthin city, John heard a sailor say.

Approaching a ship-lined quay, finding an open space beside the boat crowded wharf, sailors spun out ropes to dock men who pulled the ship in, cleating the ship fore and aft to moorings, the boat tied within a line of similarly fastened vessels.

The craft secured at last, the guards herded the prisoners down a gangplank that had been lifted into place from the jetty, small boards crosshatching the splintered plank to provide a secure footing, John and the others marched along the quay, berthed ships to either side serviced by sweaty stevedores.

Along the anchorage, laborers rolled barrels up gangplanks or ported wooden crates on their heads. Muscular longshoreman packed trade goods on their backs or pushed three wheeled carts loaded with heavier merchandise.

Weaving through this jumble of toiling workers, the soldiers marched the prisoners off the landward end of the mole, into a noisy crowd of passersby: sailors, merchants, idlers, and animals competing for space with pony carts and hand pulled wagons.

Constricted by the press, the soldiers and their captives labored through the crowd as best they could.

The overwhelming sensation was of noise! Cows bawled! Ponies whinnied! Sheep bleated! Pigs grunted! The animal sounds added to the thud of hooves, the rumble of iron shod cart wheels, the squeak of heavily laden wagons.

Fighting their way through was appeared to be a Medieval city -- sellers and shoppers on either side -- almost as if by a magical transformation, the crowds thinned as the captives were marched down a barren street that up a hill that ended with a turreted wall at the far side of an empty concourse.

Arriving at the rampart, a soldier pounded on an iron door, a bolt shot back from within, a shutter opened to reveal an eye peering through a small, grated window, the door unbolted, the soldiers pulling the door open. An action performed twice more before, ahead of them, was a multi-storied building of white limestone, blue silk pennants draped from its peaks, towers gracing its four corners. Clearly, a Palace. The stronghold of King Yarro of Stil-de-grain?

Still guarded by the soldiers, John and his fellow prisoners were directed over a slick, cobblestone walkway that went down the side of the Palace, through lavishly cared for gardens, and around to the back.

Arriving at the rear, John was surprised to see that the fortified chateau was anchored to a sheer cliff that dropped to the sea, at a distance, the mainland from which they'd come. Climbing to a considerable height, three walls guarding the king's stronghold to the front and sides, this formidable escarpment defended the castle's back.

Through another massive door of iron, protected inside by guards -- the captives were ushered into the building where they were hurried along an arched, windowed hallway then down, first by inclined plane, then by rough block steps.

In spite of the uncertainty of his situation, John was impressed. Given the primitive level of the culture, this fort-Palace complex had the "feel" of Constantinople, the triple walled capital of the Byzantine Empire.

Now below ground, the party's footfalls echoed from solid walls patched with dull green slime, the hallway floor in the underground passageway eternally wet and mossy slick.

Two soldiers taking torches from wall mountings, the prisoners were herded single file through a black wormhole in the rocks.

Squeezing forward for several minutes, the cut eventually flared into a tiny anteroom, three hulking men at a decrepit table guarding an iron strapped, timbered door at the chamber's end.

The sentinels rising to unbar the door, the bare chested warders strained to pull it open, the door creaking back at last so that the soldiers could push John and the woman into what could only be called a ... dungeon.

Shoving the captives inside, the soldiers lined up John and the women against a blackened wall to the left, soldiers holding their torches high, others, with the help of the jailers, cutting the captive's bonds before clamping wall chains around the prisoner's wrists.

Down the line, John heard the soft clank of chains against hard walls, the sounds of women crying out in fear, the clack and scrape of soldiers' boots on the stone floor.

All chained, orders were given for the soldiers to march out, the outer door rumbled shut by the turnkeys, the feeble light that had sifted in from the guardroom sliced off as the great door thudded into its casing.

John heard the bars shoot home outside.

Like black wings enfolding him, the closing of the door left John blind, only John's sense of touch telling him that his wrists were clamped in iron cuffs, the cuffs fastened to five-foot chains pinned shoulder high into a wall of slimy stone.

Now that the door was closed, the only hint of light in the hell-black pit filtered down from a source high above his head.

John's eyes adjusting to the gloom, he began to make out ... forms ... to his left, the huddled shapes of the women who, like him, had been chained to the wall, all slumped to the floor by this time, some still sobbing.

Which one was Platinia?

Peering into the gloom, John finally found her -- a smaller specter than the rest.

Looking to the right, he saw other ... bodies ... chains stretched from the walls to felons lying on the rough, cold floor.

The shock of it all wearing off, John found that the stench of the place was overpowering! Rotted meat. Feces. Urine. John locating a small floor-hole beneath him, to be used for elimination.

John's eyes continuing to adjust to the gloom, he could now detect ... items of ... furniture ... in the room's center ... a long table with ropes stretched beneath it.

A rack, a suspect's feet tied to the table, his arms bound to the pulley ropes, a crank ratcheted to stretch the victim's body until his joints were wrenched apart.

The sarcophagus-like cabinet across the room? Were those spikes inside the open door? If so, the box was an execution chamber, the victim put inside, the door levered closed to sink the spikes into his body, the two at eye level longer than the rest ... Called an iron maiden, this was just another idea the "Hero" brought back from the "other world."

A large iron cauldron was one of the shadow-pools across the room. For boiling oil?

On the far wall was a cold hearth, beside it, a number of tools in a stand, these "utensils" (given the room's other "furnishings") used for branding or blinding ... or for something worse. Shuddering, John remembered the fate of Edward II of England who was assassinated in just such a dungeon by having a red-hot poker seared up his anus and through his bowels. Cauterizing as it burned into his vital organs, the story was to have been that the king died of natural causes. No blood. Not a mark on him. ... But someone told.

In spite of the possibilities of what might be done to him here, John was unnaturally calm. Was probably still suffering from that peculiar form of numbness he'd experienced from time to time since coming to this "reality." It was certainly not that he didn't know the desperate nature of his circumstances; it was just that he couldn't get himself to care.

A thundering broke the silence, the dungeon door grinding out, light from the hall dazzling in, men bringing torches, the flames radiant in the murky dark. Many torches, held by guards surrounding a shadowy, bull-necked man, the light gleaming from the man's blue robe.

Holding the torches high, the guards led the man to the line of chained captives, the armed party going past John to the women. There, the man in the middle motioned to a colossus of a jailer, the brute squatting before the first girl, grabbing her face and twisting it up for the thick-necked man's inspection. Shifting from woman to woman, the process was the same, the huge man grasping a girl beneath her chin, tipping up her face for the rich man's approval. Until -- the squad approaching Platinia -- a shout of triumph rocketed from the hardened walls. "This is the one," barked the nabob, the dungeon growling back, the man chuckling wickedly, the ugly noise rippling around the hollow room. "Take the rest away. They will serve me, now. See to it!"

Fumbling up a key tied to his wide belt, the bare chested man began unlocking the manacles on the wrists of the other women, the loose chains clanking back against the wall.

When all in the line but Platinia had been released, the soldiers dragged the other women to their feet, some shrieking, uncertain of their fate. Getting behind the captives, the soldiers shoved them along, then through the open door, the sound of sobbing and the tramp of boots fading down the palace labyrinth.

Leaving the blue-robed man and five others as his guards.

The lavishly dressed man approaching John, he looked at John with curiosity and contempt. "Is this the one?"

"Yes, King Yarro," said the officer.

"And you think," the potentate growled at John, "that because you possess a Mage's Crystal, you are a Wizard?" His voice was all sneer. An easy man to dislike, this Yarro of Stil-de-grain. "Give me the Crystal ...," the king continued, his voice throttled back to a rough purr, "... and you will be released unharmed. On my word as a king."

John laughed. If history demonstrated anything, it was that little came from the word of kings.

"Do you hear me!?" the sovereign barked, his voice abruptly higher, louder. "Give me the Crystal or I will have you torn to pieces!"

There was a pause, one that John allowed to grow before he spoke. "No."

"You will regret that!" the king shouted, his face showing purple even by flickering torchlight.

An interesting thing about this situation, John found himself thinking, was that the king had asked John to "give" up the Crystal. Could there be a taboo attached to stealing the ornament?

Time for a bluff. "If you think you can," John said in a voice as cold and level as he could manage, "I challenge you to take the Crystal!" And there it was! A shifting of the kingly eyes!

Followed by vast silence in the room.

"To our sorrow," the king said at last, his buck teeth leering evilly, "we have learned that Mages can be crushed to death. That being true of real Mages, you should reflect on the many ways a pretend Mage can die."

The threat delivered, Yarro turned to stalk down the wall to Platinia, the girl sitting on the floor, hands beside her at the end of the chains that bound her to the wall. "You will not escape again," said Yarro, softly. A pause. "Did you plot to leave me?" A shorter pause. "Answer me!" The girl said nothing. "If you were taken against your will, I will be lenient." The girl just sat there. "In time, you will beg to tell me anything I wish to hear!"

Satisfied for the moment with making threats, the king wheeled, as did his party, the men following him out the heavy door, the cell guards thudding the barricade into place.

After the rumble of the door, quiet. And pitchy black, before John's eyes adjusted to the dark once more.

Silence ... except for a raging in John's mind!

John may have gotten what he deserved for tampering with elemental forces. But what had little Platinia done to deserve her fate?

Adrenalin pumping through him at last, John was surprised to discover how good he felt. Strong! As strong as ......

Irrational as it was, John thought of the old testament character, Sampson. Blind, bound to temple columns, Sampson was alleged to have found the strength to pull the sanctuary down.

John's eyes fully adjusted to the gloom, he examined the iron clamps that had been snapped around his wrists, the burley man using the same, simple key for all the women's manacles. Not that it mattered since John had nothing to use for a lock pick.

From the cuffs, a rust scaled chain ran to an iron ring set in the wall.

Rust?

Determined to try something, John grabbed one of his chains with both hands and yanked -- savagely! -- with no result.

Snubbing up on the chain, wrapping it around both hands, facing the wall, John jumped, bringing up his feet to brace them against the side of the wall.

"Walking" his legs wider for better support, he pushed with his back, his arms fully extended. ... Pain! ... The chain cutting into his hands!

Wham!, the grating sound coming too late to warn John that the wall ring was pulling loose, John sprawled to the hard floor!

Lights flashed inside his eyes! He had hit ... hard!

He also felt pain in the wrist still chained to the wall, that wrist's chain jerking him sideways as he fell.

Sitting up carefully, breathing hard, John gathered the loose chain, sliding it through his hands until he felt the ring and its attached wall pin, finding that the shaft had been flattened on the end -- like a nail head -- the flared end of the spike inserted in a hole drilled in the wall, mortar troweled in to keep the iron peg in place, John's final heave pulling both shank and mortar through the hole.

One down, and one to go!

John got his feet under him ... stood ... slowly ... testing himself. ... Shaken. Bruised. ... A little strain between his shoulder blades. But nothing broken.

Ignoring the chain that dangled from his freed wrist, John grabbed the other chain; wrapped it around both hands; and jumped.

Bracing his feet against the wall as before, he kicked back ... to feel the pain of the chain cutting into his palms ... the stake pulling free like the first one, John ending on his back again.

Recovered, John got shakily to his feet; began getting the chains out of his way by wrapping each around its wrist, tucking the end of each chain through its respective coil, pulling the whole mass tight.

And he was free -- if having five foot chains wound about your wrists and being locked inside a torture room could be called free.

But first things first. For now, what was important was to free Platinia, John considering the girl to be his personal responsibility. He was not going to leave her to the "tender" mercy of King Yarro. Literally, John would rather die!

Rather die? Though that was the way John felt, he was surprised that his concern for Platinia was that strong. On the other hand, had he ever been completely sane since he'd arrived in this other world?

No matter. Whatever the reason, John knew how it must be. He wasn't going to leave her.

That decided, John looked down the wall to find the girl staring at him, her eyes glowing in the dark like cat eyes. His imagination?

The question was, were her chains set in the wall as carelessly as his had been? John finding the answer to that question to be yes, John using the same, chain pulling technique to pull Platinia's chains, taking the punishment each pull cost him. (After the last chain was out, it took him several moments even to stand.)

Meanwhile, Platinia had followed John's lead by wrapping her chains around her wrists.

To get a better perception of the dungon, John walked to the center of the room, the girl tagging behind him, relying on him.

Closer to the far wall, John saw other chained men, so weak they were collapsed on the floor. All but one man who was standing there in the dark, chained as John had been. Not a large man but compact, poised.

Though John sympathized with these other poor bastards, John couldn't spend time freeing them. In the first place, John's strength was gone. And in the second, there was no reason to assume these others were as innocent as Platinia and John.

Crossing the room to examine the door, more by feel than by sight, John discovered that five, heavy, hammered hinges supported the door's massive, age hardened beams. Even if John found a way to overpower the guards outside, the door was too strong to be forced.

Were there other options? John searched his memory for anything ... everything.

He remembered reading a novel in which a man had gotten out of just such a dungeon by prying stones from the floor, digging out enough dirt beneath them for the prisoner to hide in the hole. Lying in the depression, dragging the stones back over him, the captive waited until the guards had entered to find that their prisoner had "disappeared." Rushing off to catch him before he got away, the convict had made his getaway through the door the jailers had left open in their mad pursuit of the "escaped" prisoner.

Hardly more than the fevered imagination of a fiction writer, there was no practical way for John to make such a plan work.

Was there a place to hide? A wall angle to duck behind from which he might spring out to surprise a guard? John paced the room again, approaching each wall to discover there was no hiding place.

Could he climb the walls to "disappear" overhead?

Examining the walls more closely, John saw they were built of three foot stone blocks set on top one another with no particular care, slabs jutting out here and there as the wall climbed. Hand holds? It was ... worth a try.

Approaching a likely looking place on the wall, jumping, John got his fingertips over the top of an outset block above his head. Scrambling up the slippery wall with his feet, he found a crack for a toe hold. Resting a moment, he reached up with the opposite hand to find a higher slot for his finger tips. Pulled himself up.

It was while stretching up again that his foot slipped, John able to push off so he didn't scrape against the wall as he plunged, even then banging forward into the wall.

Crouched on the stone floor, ears ringing, knees skinned below his tunic, all John could think about was how glad he was that he hadn't climbed higher.

"May I know your name?" came a whispered voice from across the room. A soft voice. Steady. Melodious, as it sighed from wall to wall.

Startled, John whirled around to look. ... The man. The standing man.

"John Lyon," John answered quietly, regretting any contact with someone he'd decided not to help. It was easier to be callous to the faceless, to the nameless. Motivated by the fevered patriotism of war, soldiers never shot at men; instead killed huns, japs, slope heads, commies, and gooks.

"Were I free, I could climb that wall, John-Lyon."

"Perhaps," John said, no hope in his voice.

"From your vantage, can you see how big is the window?"

"Window?" Of course! There had to be a window up there somewhere through which the room's faint light was filtered. John backed away, looked up.

"I can't tell."

"Large enough for a man to pass through?"

"Maybe."

"How high?"

"Could be a window at, what I'd estimate as fifty feet. At least the light's stronger there."

"An easy distance."

"I tried and couldn't make it."

"You are ... strong. I have observed that. I saw you pull the chains. But I have my uses. I can climb."

"Why are you in the dungeon?"

"Too long a story for the shortness of the time."

"I'll bet."

"Though I could not hear the talk, it appears that you, also, have angered the king."

"Apparently," John admitted. "Though I don't know how."

"It is not difficult to incur Yarro's wrath," the man said matter-of-factly.

"I can believe that," John said, taking a couple of steps toward the man but keeping far enough away to be out of chain reach.

The man didn't look frightening. Was well muscled, but small of frame.

"Are you a Malachite?" the man asked.

"No."

"Realgar?"

"No. From no place you've even heard of."

"Watching you at the chains, John-Lyon, I can believe that." Even in desperate straits, the man didn't fawn.

"I'm not sure I could free you, even if I tried. I'm about pulled out."

"It would not take your great strength. There would be two of us to pull." Smart, too. At the very least, the fellow was a thinking man's criminal.

"Probably. But let's suppose that we got you loose. That you can actually climb that wall. When you get to the top, how does that help us?" John motioned to Platinia.

"That, I have been thinking about," the man said, reasonably. "Have you noticed the rack?"

"Actually, I've been trying to ignore it." A feeble joke, but one that made the man smile, anyone in chains who could smile, not a mass murderer, surely.

"The pulleys are run with rope. Quite a lot of rope. Climbing, I could secure the line from above. You could climb the rope?" John thought it over. "Working together, we could drag up the girl," the man said, sensing John's hesitation.

And it was a chance. Not much of one, but more than John had by himself. Then, too, though the fellow might be dangerous, not escaping was fatal!

The balance tipped in favor of freeing the man, working together, John and the man pulled the man's chain-pins from the wall in short order, the man following John's and Platinia's example by wrapping his chains about his wrists to get them out of the way.

Using one of the "fireplace tools" as a pry bar, they stretched the rope off the pulley system on the rack, a long rope, traveling, as it did, around many pulleys. Dragging people apart at the joints took serious leverage, after all.

Assuming the man could climb the wall, was the line long enough to reach from the window to the floor of the dungeon? It might be ... all that mattered at the moment.

Coiling the rope around his body, the man backed away to see up the wall, coolly taking his time, as thoughtful as a mountain climber planning a precipice ascent.

Deciding how to attack the wall, the wiry little man made an amazing jump, at the top of the leap sticking to the mossy wall like a squirrel to tree bark!

An orienting pause, and he began to climb, hand over hand, higher and higher into the shadowy air, John feeling both admiration for the small man's daring and ... shame. Shame that John could not watch from the safety of the floor without breaking into a sweat!

Sooner than John would have believed if he hadn't seen it, the "monkey" man was high above the floor, light shining on him, the man opposite the window.

John would now learn the answer to the question he'd kept himself from asking. Would the man lower the rope ... or .......

Yes! That hissing noise was the rope coming down the rough wall!

John could breathe again.

Until ... the rope stopped a good twenty-five feet above the floor.

"Can you give me any more?" John called softly.

"A little."

For half a minute, there was frantic wave action in the rope, the rope settling several feet lower." Still twenty feet too high.

"Any more?" John whispered?

"No," echoed the answer. "Finding the window bars too narrow to squeeze through, I first tied the rope to a bar." John had a quick thought about how the man could be so precise about the bars' width. "At this time my legs are through the bars. I am holding with my knees. The rope end is in my hands. That is all the length." John could picture it. The man above, feet up, body stretched down the wall, rope at arms length.

"I can't come up to help bend the bars if I can't reach the rope," John called up, frustrated.

John had a thought. "Can you unwind one of your chains and tie the rope to the end of the chain?"

"Good," came the whisper.

A rustle of metal over head; the rope jerked about; a pause; the rope snaking down four more feet.

"Still not enough. It's about eighteen feet up the wall."

"Can you climb the wall to the rope? It is only a short way. You were up the wall almost that far, before."

"Maybe." John had climbed a ways on his own attempt. But ....

Behind John, Platinia waited, watching like she always did, the only sound from her the occasional clinking of her chains, the girl lightly dressed, shivering in the dungeon cold.

Using a chain length had worked once, perhaps it would again! "Platinia," John whispered, motioning the girl to join him by the wall, the girl coming up. "I've got to climb again, to reach the rope. You understand?" She nodded. "I'm going to take you with me. Don't worry." She looked up at him, her eyes in shadow so that he couldn't tell what she was thinking. If he ever could. "And here's how we do it. Unwrap the chain from your left arm," the girl doing as she was told, the lengthening chain clinking softly to the floor, making a metallic puddle beside her, John then unwrapped the chain from his own left arm.

Stooping, John tied the chain ends in what he hoped was a square knot, John now spliced to the girl with seven feet of chain.

If he could climb the wall high enough to get both hands on the end of the rope, there was a chance he would have enough strength both to climb and help to pull the girl up by the chains tied between them. Another long shot, but ...

With renewed hope, John approached the wall, this time weighted down by a chain wrapped around his right wrist, the other wrist chain trailing to Platinia who had come up to press herself into the wall to give him as much slack as possible.

Sweating at the thought of what he was about to do, John had to pause to wipe the sting out of his eyes. Not a good omen.

Blinking until he could see, eyeing the blocks above his head, looking for a misplaced slab, seeing one, John jumped to catch the top of the block, scrambling up the damp wall with his feet until he had a toe in a crack. Using his hands and one foot to hoist himself up, he dug his fingers into another, higher crack, his finger tips sinking into what felt like fungus.

Searching, John found another toe hold and kicked himself up, this time discovering an out-set block and a crack below into which he could stick the toes of both feet.

A place where he could rest. Try to slow his breathing. Take the pressure off his aching fingers.

As secure as he was apt to be, cautiously, John looked up to find the rope just out of reach. One step higher ...

It was then that John realized that the chain which tied him to the girl was stretched as far as it would go. That hand at shoulder length, his wrist was cuffed to the girl at the chain's maximum elevation. "Can you reach up with your arm, Platinia," he called. "I need a little more chain."

"I ... am ... reaching," she said in her tiny voice. Risking a peek, John saw that the girl's arm was already stretched over her head, the girl on tip toe, her solemn face turned up to his. The chain was taut; no slack in it for one more step.

Dizzy from looking down, nauseous, John quickly looked up again. Clung to the wall. Willed himself not to ... fall.

The wave of sickness passing, John realized his only hope was to find a higher toe hold, step into that, use his free hand to grab a higher block and edge up above the hand tied to Platinia. Knowing that, by the time he could reach the rope with his right hand, his left hand, tied to Platinia, would be stretched down helplessly at his side. At that point, John would have to let loose with his free hand and grab the end of the rope before falling backward.

If he was lucky enough to grab the rope end, would he be able to hold on with just one hand? Though the thought caused a chill to wrack him, John knew it was the only chance he had. The only chance Platinia had.

Taking the time to get himself in control while resting a little longer, John reviewed his options. ..... Found none.

As fresh as he would get by waiting, fear giving him an adrenalin boost, John raised one leg, feeling for a higher crack. Found it. Dug in his toe to ease his weight to that foot.

Raising his free hand to search for a higher crack, he fumbled higher, lower ... found one.

Lifting himself, careful to keep his balance, sweat threatening to drip into his eyes again, John edged up a few inches. A foot. Two feet.

Shaking with the strain, his left hand stretched fully down at his side now, pinned there by the chain leading to the girl, John looked over to see the rope within reach of his free hand.

Before he could think himself into a panic, shouting "Now!" to the man holding the rope, John let go of the crack, in the process of falling, grabbed the rope with his right hand! Not as solidly as he would have liked, but ....

Fortunately, John still had his toe hold which allowed him to shift his grip on the rope ever so slightly until he had it firmly in hand, the rough texture of the line digging comfortably into his bruised palm.

Swinging there for a moment, John felt powerful again, terror strengthening him once more! He thought he could climb the rope -- if he could get both hands on it.

Now for the test! Could he pull Platinia up? He could only try.

Keeping his toe hold, gripping the rope with all his strength, John pulled up his left wrist, managing, with the first surge, to get it waist high. Holding his hand at his waist, he was able to lever his elbow down, getting his fist up, from that position forcing up the chain like a weight lifter pushes a one hand bell bar above his head.

Below him, he could feel the girl rising, Platina pulling up the wall with her free hand, scrambling with her feet, catching at the wet blocks to help when she could. Until ... he got his left hand on the rope!

Panting, gripping the rope with both hands, he could feel the girl below him struggle, the stretched chain between them scraping on the stones. Felt her climb with her feet to get a higher hand hold of her own, the pressure on his left arm easing so he could reach up again.

A desperate struggle followed, the man at the top pulling up when he could, John climbing in spite of skinning his knuckles on the slippery stone and getting his fingers pinched between the rope and the wall where the rope was stretched tightly over outset blocks, until John felt the man grab hold of John's upper wrist, John climbing the man's body into the light.

At the grated window, getting a secure hold on a bar, John hoisted himself up with the last of his strength, to throw one leg up and through the bars, getting a bar crooked safely behind his knee.

Tired as he was, the man helping, it was relatively easy to haul up Platinia, all of them safely off the wall at last.

Sweating heavily, Platinia tired, shaken, the clever man untied the rope from the man's chain, fastening the rope to the window grate to make "slings" around the waists of all three of them so they could lean back to rest both their arms and legs, each of them tied securely to the bars.

"All right," John gasped at last, some of his strength returning. (They couldn't wait forever, after all. At any moment someone might enter the dungeon and find them gone.) "Help me bend the middle bars to the sides. They don't look too strong." John hoped he sounded more confident that he felt.

"Not looking strong to you, John-Lyon."

"But if you put a foot on one of the middle bars and I plant mine on the other, then we each grab the nearest bar and pull to the side ...."

Shifting in their rope slings, getting their feet on the bars, panting, straining, the man following John's lead, John pulled with all his remaining strength, both bars ... beginning to bend ... More. ... More ....

"Enough," the man panted, the first hint that he was at the end of his strength, too.

Another pause to breathe.

"Ladies first?" John said.

"What?" John pointed to Platinia.

Understanding, the man nodded, with leaden fingers fumbled the knots loose on Platinia's loop of rope, both men doing their tired best to boost the girl, Platinia grabbing the bent bars, easing her head and upper body through ... to where?

Half way out, Platinia stopped, turned her head to look back in. "A ledge is here."

"All right!" John let his breath out in a rush. The window could just as easily have been a hole in a sheer wall, the wall lined up on the precipice.

A ledge. They might make it yet, John seeing the small man smile, as he, himself, was smiling.

Pushing the girl through the rest of the way, the man untied John, John squeezing his head, then his chest, between the bent bars -- a tight fit. Sucking in his breath, John wriggled past, banging his knee in the process, hardly feeling the pain.

The small man untied himself and scrambled through.

Outside in a blaze of golden light, the air so fresh it renewed their strength, the newly escaped convicts lined up along a thin stone trough. Though not as high as John thought they would be, they were too far up for them to let themselves down with the rope.

Above them was nothing but colored bands across the sky; below them and to the right, the precipice that flanked the palace to the rear.

"We're out ... but we're not free ... until we clear ... the fort," John gasped, grinning in spite of himself, his arms shaking uncontrollably.

"The difficult part is past," said the small man, confidently. "I have knowledge of the palace. Skill. If we are careful ..."

"A little bit more rest, now that we've come this far?" John suggested.

The man smiled, nodded his assent.

In the light, John saw that the other man was handsome -- in a dark, sweaty, smelly sort of way.

"I believe that introductions are in order," John said, able to breathe again. "I'm John Lyon, as you know. And this is Platinia."

"You may call me Golden," said the man, bowing as if to an appreciative crowd.

* * * * *

Chapter 12

On the night of his arrest in Yarro's banquet hall, Golden was certain that his life was over. The soldiers had first stripped him of his finery, then thrown him into the dungeon. Chained him. Left him to die in that grim, dark place. No light, except for a distant glow that filtered through a window too high for him to see. No sound except for the howling of the dungeon door as it opened to admit the jailer who brought Golden an occasional meal of thin, wheat gruel.

After the failure of Golden's attempts to pull out his chains on the first day of his capture, his life had been standing, sitting, or lying down on the rough flagstones of the vault, and trying to keep from soiling himself when eliminating through a small, floor hole. Nothing to do but wait for death.

At first, he thought he might be tortured, the king considering him a plotter of some kind. But as the days passed (each up-light marked by a faint glow from the high, hidden window across the way) he had come to believe he had simply been forgotten.

Then (was it just yesterday??), the man and woman had been shoved into the keep as part of a group. Important felons. Yarro himself had come to see them. And most amazing, Golden had seen the tall, light haired man break free of the wall, then pull the girl loose as well. At first struck dumb by that spectacle, Golden's tongue soon found its cleverness, Golden persuading the man of the strange name -- John-Lyon -- to set poor Golden free.

The rest had ... not been hard. Particularly since, days before his arrest, Golden had made preparations for his own escape from the palace.

Off the water-track and back inside the building by way of an unlocked window, Golden had led the others down darkened hallways to a door Golden had chanced upon earlier; an opening that gave access to stairs that spiraled down and down to the palace dung heap. (It was at the bottom of the steps that Golden had planned to hide after stealing the green Crystal, the place with such a vile odor Golden had little fear of anyone searching for him there.)

Still burdened by their chains, holding their noses, the three of them had spent the night in that cramped place.

This day, Golden had donned the long, old man's robe he had previously concealed in the stairwell, the robe's sweeping sleeves hiding his wrist chains. Had then shuffled out, head down, back bent, to limp along cramped, servant corridors until he arrived here, outside his room on the other side of the banquet hall.

No guards!

Why should there be guards, after all, when the "evil" entertainer was in the dungeon?

Looking up and down the hall, seeing no one, Golden opened the door and slipped inside.

Closing the door behind him, turning, Golden was disheartened to see that every part of his room had been searched: the drawers of the dilapidated dresser pulled out and upended, the room's frayed rug rolled up, the mattress on his bed slashed. Against a far corner, Golden found his empty pack, its contents strewn about the splintered floor. What had the king's men been searching for? Something to incriminate Golden. Something to please King Yarro. (Fortunately, the ransackers did not find Golden's coins, Golden having hidden his coin pouch down the elimination hole in the necessity room.)

Miraculously, everything Golden had so carefully selected for his pack was jumbled somewhere. Iron-strong silk cord with its grapple. (He wondered what the searchers had made of that. Not much, apparently, since they had not bothered to confiscate it.) Iron rods for pounding into stone cracks -- had the ravagers thought these items to be part of Golden's craft as acrobat? Lock picks. Skinning knife. Drill. Hammer. A length of thicker rope with its looped ends. Climbing clothes, wig, mustache, darkening cream to complete his intended disguise. Even the dried food remained. Only his throwing knives were gone.

First, the chains! From his packet of lock picks, Golden selected a probe of the right size to fit the key holes in the iron cuffs clamped to his wrists, quickly ridding himself of the cumbersome and incriminating restraints. Though he felt the need to hurry, Golden allowed himself time to rub the soreness from his chafed wrists, his hands feeling light after shedding the heavy weights.

Removing his excrement-stained tunic, Golden ducked into the tiny elimination room to sponge the filth of the dungeon from his body.

Returning to his sleeping room, first putting on his leather climbing clothes, Golden gathered his scattered items, packed his bag, slung the pack in front of his stomach, and put on the big robe again. (With the robe wrapped about the bag, he hoped he would appear to be a pot bellied elder.) The pack secured, Golden pulled out his makeup bottles; applied brown cosmetic to his face to give him a dark, withered skin. From another jar, he dabbed on old man's spots, after that adding a scraggly mustache that he attached with glue from yet another vial. Completing the picture of age, Golden pulled on a grey, unkempt wig.

Going again to the wash room, Golden bent to look at himself in the murky surface of the bucket water, pleased to see there the cloudy image of a typical old slavey.

Disguised, Golden was ready to escape! Ready ... except for a judgment he had not yet made.

Would he be better off to flee ... alone?

Not wanting to leave the room until he had decided, Golden sat on the knife-ripped mattress.

Climbing to the dungeon window, Golden had planned a solitary escape, waiting for the others because he could not squeeze through the window's narrow bars without the big man's help

Though the man and girl meant nothing to him, he now had the nagging thought that, since he and the man had eluded death by pooling their talents, they were meant to share a common fate. A superstitious thought. One unworthy of an experience-hardened man like Golden.

The only question that mattered in a callous world was what these others could do to help him.

Plainly, the girl should be left behind. An impossibility with the man as the girl's protector. Golden would have to travel with the girl as long as Golden journeyed with the man.

As for this John-Lyon, what of the stranger's stupendous strength, Golden never seeing a man so strong? And what an odd name. John-Lyon. To say nothing of the man's green eyes and foreign ways.

Agitated, Golden got up to pace the edges of the torn up room.

As an entertainer, Golden had journeyed ... far. Except, of course, to mystic Cinnabar.

The stranger was no man of Cinnabar. Not a flyer. That much was certain. Nor was he from Stil-de-grain, nor from Realgar. And surely, he could not be, as Golden was himself, a Malachite. ........

That left ... the dark band. Azare! Making it possible that the stranger was a spy of the evil Auro. If so, was he imbued with that wicked Mage's mystic powers? Could this be the reason for the man's potency? If so, could Golden find a way to use the man's prowess to gain the Crystal at some later time?

Thinking these thoughts, moving even before he realized he had decided, Golden was at the door again. Listening

Cracking open the door, looking out to see no one, Golden slipped into the hall and began shuffling off -- the very picture of an aged slavey.

Slowly, carefully, Golden retraced his steps without incident until he was before the door that hid the others.

"Golden," he whispered, not wanting the strong man to think the hiding place had been compromised.

Hearing a whisper to enter, Golden ducked inside, ignoring the others' amazement at his disguise.

Shutting his mind against the enclosure's fetid smell, Golden said, "Come to me. I will free you from the chains."

Lock pick out, working by the light of the stair landing's single torch, Golden unlocked their cuffs, letting the chains clink softly to the floor, the man and woman doing as Golden had done, rubbing their wrists after the weight of the chains had been removed.

Breathing more easily as he became inured to the foul air, Golden slipped out of his robe and unstrapped his pack, putting it on the floor. "Food," he said as he dug out dried meat and fruit.

"Excellent," John-Lyon said, the first word the brawny man had spoken since Golden had returned. The girl, looking pale, said nothing.

Huddled in a circle about the pack, the three of them ate, Golden and the girl having to force down the food because of the enclosure's smell, John-Lyon having difficulty also.

The eating over, Golden rearranged his pack, strapping it on his stomach again, putting on the robe.

"Can you get us out of here?" the man asked quietly.

"Yes. I know the way. It is not far." The man nodded. The girl said nothing.

Taking the torch from its wall socket, Golden went to the door. Listened. Looked. And with the others trailing, set off down the hall, veering to enter the narrow branch corridor which led to the postern exit.

Twenty yards. Thirty yards.

Raising his hand, Golden stopped to edge his eye around a sharp turn in the hall.

To find no guards at the small, iron braced door at hall end. (Golden had also found that to be true the last time he was here. The drop off on the palace's flank was so formidable that guards were not needed.)

Unbarring the door latches, they went outside, blinking like owls in what remained of the day's light, taking in deep breaths of fresh, fresh air!

A moment to allow his eyes to focus and Golden thought out the torch, putting it inside his robe, stuffing it in the top of his pack.

After that, Golden led the others the short distance to the edge of the cliff.

Beyond the bluff, the sea sparkled in the light, the far shore as yet not hazed with evening mist. Below, was the thin beach.

Unstrapping the pack while the others watched, Golden pulled out the right number of iron spikes, sticking them inside his belt. Got out the mallet. Secured it in like manner. Dragged out the thick, loop-ended rope from the pack, he coiled the rope beside him.

Should he discard the robe? It had served him well. And might again. Deciding to keep the robe, Golden picked up the bag and shifted it to his back, strapping it across his shoulders by lacing the fastenings around his chest. In this way, the straps would help both to secure the pack and to keep the robe out of his way.

Ready at last, Golden picked up the rope coil and approached the cliff's edge (as he had done, but more carefully, on his earlier, practice run.) Taking out a stake and the mallet, stooping, he drove the stake into the rocky top of the cliff. Uncoiling the rope, Golden slipped one end-loop around the cleat, tossing the rest of the rope over the bluff. Grabbing the rope firmly with both hands, Golden backed over the cliff edge and began climbing down the rope.

Nervous about how much time had passed, Golden wished he had been able to leave in the pitons he had pounded into the cliff on his first trip to the bottom. Still, he was content with his decision to remove them on his ascent. If someone had looked up the wall from the shore below -- if a ray of light had flashed from a metal stake -- he might, even now, be sliding into ambush.

At rope end, getting one foot through the bottom loop, standing on that foot, Golden hammered a second iron dowel into the rock face. The spike in, he hoisted himself a little to remove his foot from the loop, slipping the lower loop of the rope on that pin.

Looking up, Golden beckoned to the man, the man coming over the side and down the rope, the girl clinging to the man's back.

When all three were hanging onto the bottom peg, Golden undulated the rope off the piton above, the top of the rope falling past them to dangle from the second spike. Leaving the other two clinging to that peg, Golden slid down the rope again to pound a second stake into the cliff face, the others sliding down after him as before, the process repeated until all were at the bottom.

Down at last, Golden led the others over the shattered rocks below the cliff's face, the three of them trotting a distance down the narrow strip of sand that secured the cliff to the water.

Ahead, was the stolen row-boat, the boat hidden in a sandy niche in the escarpment.

Yes. Just past the bend in the cliff.

Seeing the place, Golden turned toward the bluff, the others on his heels as if he led them by an invisible tether.

And there the small boat was, just as Golden had left it, overturned, backed into a fissure, the exposed prow concealed with driftwood and what scant brush Golden could find along the shore. Under the boat were its oars.

They were almost free!

Shouts! Golden could hear distant shouts and ... running sounds in the sand! .... Behind them. Just around the bend in the cliff. Men. Coming nearer!

"Quick," John-Lyon said softly, but with command. "Under the boat!"

Golden, his fingers nimble at all times, had already untied the pack straps, Golden slinging the pack under the overturned boat.

Meanwhile, after helping the girl get beneath the up-curving side of the little boat, the man scrambled under the edge of the boat himself.

His pack safe, Golden rolled under, the three of them arranging themselves lengthwise, Golden peering out to see ..... Soldiers! A squad of them. Rounding the bend, swarming past to secure the strand.

No doubt at all, now. The escape from the pit had been discovered! Nothing to do but hide.

And so they hid, hoping the armed soldiers did not discover the camouflaged boat.

As for possibilities of escape, all Golden could think of was attempting to slip past the soldiers in the fog of down-light, somehow get off the beach, work around the cliff face and find a road to Xanthin. In the bustle of the capital, the pursuit looking for two men and a woman, they should split up ....

"Can you swim?" the man whispered from across the boat's beam, the three of them on their bellies, facing the prow, the man on the other side of the girl.

"Yes," Golden hissed.

"To the far side?"

"Yes." A necessary reply though an uncertain one. Had Golden been convinced he could swim the strait, he would not have troubled with the boat. "Swim?" It was the girl's tiny voice. "What is ... swim?" Golden could see the man turn his head to the girl.

"Paddle on the water," said John-Lyon softly, his tone telling Golden that question had surprised John-Lyon as much as it had Golden. In her way, the girl was as much a mystery as the man. "Moving your arms and legs so you go forward and don't sink in the water," the man added as an after thought.

"I ... cannot do that," replied the girl softly.

"You can't swim?"

"As a child. I remember ... But I cannot do that now. Too long ago." The man raised his head to whisper across the girl. "When repelling down the cliff, I didn't see any other boats along the coast that the soldiers could use to chase us. When the soldiers disappear into the fog at either end of their patrol, we might be able to roll the boat over and get it into the water before they see us." He paused, then added, "If the fog gets thicker."

And that was another thing about the man that puzzled Golden. He did not seem to understand quite simple things. (Rather like the girl, now that Golden thought about it.) In the stranger's case, the man had just showed uncertainty about the fog. Would the vapor thicken? Of course! -- was the answer to that odd question. The mist always solidified before down-light. Still, the man did not seem to know that, the man's ignorance causing Golden to ask himself again -- just where had the foreigner come from to know so little about the most fundamental things?

"The fog will gather," Golden answered carefully, wondering whether or not he had misunderstood the stranger's comment about the fog. "But it will not aid us. By the time it is dense enough to cover the boat being pushed into the sea, we could no longer see the distant shore. Not knowing the proper direction to row, we would get lost on the sea."

"Do you still have the torch in the bag?"

"Yes."

"It will burn under water, I believe?"

"What?" What could the man be talking about?

"If you ... think it alight ... it will continue to burn under water. Isn't that the case?"

"I ... don't know," said Golden, puzzled. Burn under water? While that could be true, why would any sane man put a torch under water to find out?

"From what I've learned, it's worth a shot," said John-Lyon, pausing, as if thinking something through for the second time. "Here's the idea." Though excited, speaking rapidly now, the stranger was still remembering to keep his voice low. "Even with the fog as wispy as it is now, there's a good chance I could roll out from under the boat and crawl to the water without being seen. There's a small dune to the right that would hide me from that end of the beach. As for the other side, I don't know. But you could look that way for me, couldn't you? See where the guard is?"

Golden was completely lost. Was the man thinking of swimming away and leaving them? If so, why was he telling Golden? Then, too, Golden had come to think that the man would never desert the girl.

"If you would light the torch, I could hide it in my tunic until I was in the water, keep it beneath me as I swam. That way, not much light would show."

"I don't see ..."

"As I understand it, the trouble with the fog is that, by the time it's thick enough to get the boat into the water here, it would be too dense to see all the way over to the mainland. And without being able to see the other side, we won't know which way to row -- will drift, get lost at sea."

"Yes."

"But what if I started to swim right now, before the murk set in for real. Half way across, I switch to a back stroke, hold up the torch now and then. Though by that time, you couldn't see all the way to the other side from here, you could see half way across to the torch. At that point, you put the boat out and guide on the light. From the middle of the narrows, I could still see the other side, even if you can't. I keep swimming for the far shore, you keep following the light. And I lead you across. It'd be like halving the strait."

Swimming while holding up the torch? Insane!

Insane. ... Of course! A wave of fear rippled through Golden! More than eccentric, the big man was completely mad! That was the solution to the questions presented by the foreigner. He was insane and, because he was a lunatic ... dangerous!

"You will ... swim ... to the other side?" Golden asked carefully. The man must be humored.

"I think I can make it. I'm feeling much better than I thought I would at this stage of the game. I seem to recover fast here in ... Stil-de-grain."

With that, the outlander stuck an eye under the upward curving gunnel of the boat, peering out down the beach, apparently looking for the soldier on that side. "In about a minute, I think my man will be as far away as he gets. Check your guard." Golden did as the maniac asked, seeing that the soldier to the left was also at some distance, marching away on his picket.

"It is close to the time."

"Quick," said the man, "get the torch and light it."

Still wishing to appear to be cooperative, Golden reached over and unfastened the pack flap. Fumbled out the torch.

It was a dangerous moment. Golden must seem to collaborate with the lunatic, psychopaths being so strong. Yet, a lighted torch might show out under the boat and attract the soldiers. "Now!" the man hissed.

With no option, Golden lit the torch, the man taking it by its base, gingerly waving the fingers of his other hand through the flames as if he feared the fire might be dangerous. Insane behavior!

The man then nodded to himself and thrust the torch under his tunic, hugging it to himself while he wrapped the cloth firmly around the torch head, closing the top of the tunic over the flames, keeping them inside next to his skin. And ... surprisingly ... that dampened the light.

Letting go his breath, puffing out his relief, Golden turned to look out from under the boat for the soldier, seeing that the guard was still marching away.

Watching until the guard was at a distance (but still a little way from his turning point) Golden signaling the man, the foreigner kicking out the camouflaging brush along that side of the boat, the big man squeezing past the gunnel and rolling out from under the boat on the far side. Squatting for a moment on hands and knees, the stranger checked the guards to left and right, then flopped to his belly to begin a zigzag wriggle down the sandy strip.

Looking past the girl, able to see all the way to the water line, Golden watched the man serpent his way to the sea edge, the stranger slithering into the gentle surf, beginning to dog paddle, then as the water deepened, to swim with powerful strokes until he was out of sight.

Golden stiffened to listen with the whole of his body. ....... No. ..... The soldiers had seen nothing, were still patrolling.

Golden was able to breathe again, taking quick, shallow gulps of air to steady himself.

Still safe under the boat, Golden could think again of some sensible way to get off the island, his problems relating to that task now simplified. The man gone, Golden could also be rid of the girl.

All that remained was for the fog to condense to a mass sufficient for Golden to sneak past one of the guards and thread his way around the escarpment. If he could reach the city -- still disguised as he was -- he might yet slip onto an outbound boat!

"Is it time?" It was the girl's childlike whisper.

"Time for what?"

"Time to get the boat into the water."

"We are not going to do that. The man was insane to suggest it. We are better off without him."

"No!" The hysterical girl had cried out loud, Golden instantly paralyzed, the hair on his neck rigid. Was she as crazed as her patron!?

"Quiet, girl," Golden hissed, reaching over to clutch the girl's shoulder, shaking her. "Listen to me. We will not follow the man. It is impossible."

"You must follow him. You must!" Though the girl was whispering once more, the innocent desperation in her voice commanded attention.

"Why?"

"Because he has ... power. If you do not follow, he will punish!"

"Keep your voice down and listen to me. He will not be able to harm you. He will drown in the sea."

"No. He is ... He has ... magic. He is a mighty Sorcerer. He is ..."

"Yes?" Her childlike belief in the big man's Wizardry made Golden's heart beat faster. "Who is he?"

The girl's voice swept Golden with the softness of a dying breath. "Pfnaravin."

The power of the name alone struck fear into Golden's heart! Pfnaravin! The greatest of the Mages! The Mage of Malachite!

Impossible! The girl was a liar! Impossible!

But ... try as he might, Golden could not avoid the truth! Had he not seen the man rip out his dungeon chains, then those of the girl? Had he not heard it from the stranger's lips that he came from a mystic world? How sightless had Golden been not to have seen that this was a man of power! Pfnaravin! Returned at last!

And another thing was clear. Pfnaravin's presence in the Palace. Like Golden, the Mage had also come to Xanthin palace for Pfnaravin's Crystal!

The only vexing part was that the king had captured Pfnaravin.

Of course! That could only mean that Pfnaravin had allowed himself to be arrested. ..... And ever since, had encouraged others to believe him ... witless. ....... The Mage was in disguise as much as Golden! Pfnaravin had deliberately cloaked himself as the muscular simpleton -- John-Lyon.

Sweating, more afraid of giving offense to the mighty Pfnaravin than of battling a thousand soldiers, Golden looked out his side of the boat.

As the girl had said, the fog was gathering. If they were to follow Pfnaravin's lead, they must move the boat into the water.

And one more thing was clear. More important than all else. When in the Mage's company, Golden must conduct himself with utmost care. Must show himself worthy to become the future king of Malachite!

* * * * *

Chapter 13

Following the Mage's torch, the man, Golden, had rowed her across the sea until, through the fog, they had seen the Mage himself, as if he stood on the water with his torch held high. But he was standing on the other shore with the fog so thick it hid the land and also his feet upon the land. And they were across to the other side, the little boat grinding up on the sand of the other beach.

On the far bank at last, after getting out of the boat, the Mage had said it was the yellow light of the torch that cut through the fog. Yellow light always did that, said the Mage. But Platinia did not understand what he meant.

Down-light had almost come. So had the rain, the men talking softly in its sprinkle, standing close in the failing light, the rain dripping off their noses. It was while talking that Golden used the rain to wash the brown off his face and arms, also taking off his long gray hair. To become Golden again.

Soon, though, it was dark and the men could talk no more.

Golden asked Platinia, in Malachite, if she could speak that language. She said she could speak simple words. Golden then said in Stil-de-grain that, for some reason, the Mage did not wish to talk to them after down-light. Told her to be quiet.

Then the men, gesturing to each other, had helped Platinia to climb a big tree. They had climbed up, and lifted her to a place where she could not fall out because of two limbs. The Mage gestured to Golden to tie her! She was afraid! When other men had tied her ...! But it was only to keep her from falling in her sleep. Golden said that.

After down-light, Platinia could not understand John-Lyon-Pfnaravin when he talked. (Neither could Golden.) The Mage did not speak Stil-de-grain after dark. He sometimes said the words of the other world, but Platina did not know many of those words.

Platinia did not mind the dark but did not like the rain. The drip, drip of it. It was cool in the night and even colder to be wet. And it would rain like that -- drip, drip -- all night, Golden had told her. They would dry out in the morning, he said. After awhile, Golden no longer spoke. The men had gone to sleep.

Now that the men were asleep, Platinia tried to get free. She worked and worked to undo the knots Golden had tied to keep her from getting away. (He said, to keep her from falling out, but she was not fooled.) She tried and tried, telling herself that if she could climb down the tree and find a rock, she could smash in the men's chests -- like Melcor's chest had been smashed in -- and that this would make them die. But she could not untie the knots, falling asleep instead.

In the morning, Pfnaravin (so that he would not become angry, she must remember to call him by his other name, John-Lyon) had untied her. When the fog was almost gone, they climbed down the tree.

Golden went off into the woods to find food.

Alone with the Mage, Platinia tried to see into the Mage's mind. But could not. He was not thinking of her at that time.

Then Golden returned. He had caught some small, furry animals with long ears. In a trap made of string, he said. The animals were dead but there was not much blood. Golden had also picked some berries, bringing them back in the folds of his tunic.

With a small knife, Golden cut the skins off the animals. Like the soldiers with their larger knives had cut the priests into pieces! This had killed the priests! Platinia had seen that they were dead! What she did not know was if cutting the Mage into pieces would kill him. Anyway, even if she had the strength to do that, Platinia did not have a knife. All she knew for certain was that a Mage could be killed by large stones falling on his body.

After the "skinning," Golden took the fire stones from the torch, putting the stones in a hole he dug in the ground with his small knife. First thinking the stones into heat, he cut some forked sticks from a tree. He pushed the bottom of the limbs into the ground on both sides of the heating stones, putting the bodies of the animals on another branch and that limb across the forks of the other sticks.

Platinia now huddled around the warmth of the stones with the others. They got dry at the same time the bodies of the animals were cooked. The three of them then ate.

While they were eating, the Mage had asked many questions, which he always did. When he asked questions, his strange green eyes cut into you like Golden's knife had cut into the small animals! He asked about the fire stones and about how the fire stones could both make flames to see by (but the flames were not hot) and also be waved to make heat (but not light.) Golden, fearing the Mage almost as much as Platinia feared Pfnaravin, tried to answer the questions, though Golden did not know how. Golden had said it was the magic in the light.

Platinia's question was why the men had not forced her to serve them? Not even the terrifying one. It was not because the Mage did not have the power. She had seen his power in the other world! She had seen the ... thing ... that carried him so fast!

Could it be that the Mage did not know she was an Etherial? If that was true, she would be as safe from him as would be any other slavey -- until the Mage found out who she was.

She knew nothing about Golden. She could find no feeling for her in his mind. He did not hate her. He did not desire her. He did not think about her except when telling her what to do. There were no thoughts about her in Golden's mind for her to strengthen.

Sometimes, in the Mage's mind, there was the thought to help her. This was because she was his property. She could add to that thought, sometimes.

After eating, after Golden waved the fire stones cold, (putting them back in the torch, the torch back in his bag) they had gone walking in the woods, Golden in the lead.

As she walked, Platinia looked at the woods. At the trees. Though at first she had not realized it, trees were all different. Some had broad, jagged leaves. Some narrow.

Here and there beneath the trees were baby trees and bushes and brightly colored flowers. She had seen flowers brought into the temple as an offering. The woods were very different from the marble rooms of Fulgur's temple.

As Platinia walked behind the men, she tried to think of what to do. If she could not find a way to kill them, could she run away? She did not know. If she ran away, she was afraid the Mage would hurt her sooner than if she stayed. Hurt her more!

The king said he would hurt her very much because she ran away from him. Even though she had not run away but had been stolen by the Mage, Melcor. Who was now dead. It seemed a long, long time ago.

These men had not hurt her yet. More important, she had been able to increase Pfnaravin's wish to keep owning her and, so, to keep her safe. And that was all she knew for now.

After a long time, stopping to eat the rest of the animals (eating the meat cold this time, eating quickly) they had come out of the woods. From lots of trees all around them, suddenly, there were just a few trees. Then there were none and they were at the edge of the sea again.

Coming up, she heard the men talking softly, Platinia stopping a little behind them, all three of them looking out at the great, sand colored water. Golden said this was the sea called Sea Minor. He had been keeping them back in the trees where they were hidden. Now, they must find a boat to take them to Malachite, said Golden. Malachite! The land where she had been a child. Before the priests of Stil-de-grain had taken her away.

Golden said they might find a boat at the town of Canarin, that was down the shore. But they must be careful to see if soldiers were in the town. Soldiers who looked for them. That was why they would come to the town by walking along the beach, he said. By walking along the coast, they could come into the town before they were seen.

Then they had followed the sea, keeping just back of some trees so they could run back into the forest to hide if they saw soldiers.

Well before down-light, they had seen the town ahead. They had been very slow and careful in coming up to it. But since no soldiers were to be seen there, had finally come out of the trees and onto the village street. Platinia was glad to stop. She was very tired from walking.

Canarin was a small place. Not like the king's city. There was only one street. Far away, at the street's end, boats were tied to a walk-way that went out into the sea. Just like there were boats at the King's city -- but not so many.

An inn was on the town's one street. The inn was like the ones along the road when she had been a prisoner of the soldiers. But this time, they went in the front door. There were many men in the inn, eating, drinking, laughing, shouting, talking.

Golden had told Platinia to sit at a table over by the back wall while Golden and the Mage stood at a high table in front with some of the other men. Though she could hear little because of all the noisy men around her, she could tell that the Mage and Golden were talking to the other men. Platinia could see them. She even heard a few loud answers about boats at the ... dock. (The walk-way where the boats ... rested ... was called a dock.) They talked of where the boats had come from. Where the boats were going. No, there had been no recent soldiers in the town. No, no messenger birds had come.

After hearing the answers to these questions, Golden and the Mage had seemed pleased. They had come to sit at the table with her. And a man of the inn came and Golden ordered food and drink to be brought to the table.

Then they had all eaten. Some meat. Some vegetables. There was beer to drink.

When they had eaten, since it was almost down-light, they had gone upstairs to a small room with beds in it. And gone to sleep! Neither the Mage nor Golden had raped her yet. Nor had the Mage sold her to other men. Nor had he raped other women with Platinia there to strengthen his desire. More and more, Platinia believed that neither Golden nor John-Lyon-Pfnaravin knew she was an Etherial.

The next up-light, they had eaten bread and drunk goat's milk in the room below. Golden had coins to pay for everything. Then, they went out into the street again and the Mage had asked Golden to buy a comb and a metal mirror at a small shop. These, the Mage had given to Platinia so that she could comb her hair. She had learned to do that in the King's Palace. In the temple, slaveys had bathed her and fixed her hair.

Then they had walked to the boats which were down the town's road. More than three boats. Boats that were tied to the long wooden walkway that stuck out above the water.

Golden talked to one of the men who he had talked to at the inn the night before. And that man (who was a sailor) took Golden and the Mage to talk to the Head of a boat. (The Mage called the Head, the captain.) The captain was giving orders to some town men who were rolling barrels up boards to the deck of the boat. And Golden said to the captain that there were three of them with little money. That he and the Mage (he did not use the word Mage) would work on the boat if the captain needed sailors. That they were, like the boat, going to Malachite.

So the captain said that they could ride. And the three of them had climbed up on the captain's boat, the boat's deck packed with boxes. And down below the deck, there were more boxes and bales. Platinia could see them through a big, square hole. It was a merchant boat -- very fat and very wide. The men would help to row the boat, like Golden had rowed the little boat. Except that the oars were very long on the big boat and it took many men pulling on each oar to make it go.

After awhile, more men came. Sailors. They had been sleeping in the town, too. Some men looked ... sick. Some were singing. (The ones who were singing were the ones who were still drunk.) And the sailors had come up on the boat; and other men from the town had untied the boat; and the men and sailors, using poles of wood and also the oars, had pushed the boat away from the dock and out on the sea a little ways.

Then the sailors, the Mage and Golden helping, put the oars into slots in the boat's sides -- on both sides of the big boat -- and they all stood and rowed the boat away from the land and onto the sea. Other sailors pulled and pushed on a long handle that went over the back of the boat, guiding the boat in this way.

And that was the start of the first day on the sea.

On the sea, after the fog had gone away, the sky was so big! There were colored bands across the whole of the sky. In the middle of the day, she could see far. So far that at one end of the sky she saw a little streak of red. Far, far away. Then came orange, then yellow overhead. In front of them was green. And ahead and to the left was a little black. Then the haze had come so that Platinia could no longer see the far colors.

Down-light came and the sailors, with the Mage and Golden helping, had rowed the boat to land and to another wooden dock floating out over the sea. (Two other boats were there already. Three more came in after that. That would make more than three boats at that place.)

And the sailors had tied the boat to the dock with long ropes, then pushed the boat out into the sea again, so that it was tied to the walkway with the long ropes. John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had asked why the long ropes. And the captain of the boat had laughed. Laughed, not like the priests, to make fear in those who heard -- but in a happy way. And he had said that John-Lyon-Pfnaravin did not know about rowing on the sea. That the long ropes kept the boat away from the land so they would be safe at night from dangerous land animals. For here, there was no village. Just a place to tie up boats passing by. No boat should be out on the deep sea at night, the captain said, for fear of deep sea creatures who were dangerous when the magic failed after it became dark. And for the same reason, they should be away from the land, for fear of the savage land creatures that were also dangerous in the night.

They went out again on the water at up-light. And every day after that for more than three days.

There was nothing to do on the boat. There were some pretty birds in cages in the bottom of the boat. Two cages of yellow birds. A cage of orange birds. It was when she was trying to get her fingers through the cage bars to pet the birds that she saw the cat. Watching the birds. But she could not catch the cat. The cat was black, with big white spots.

Platinia spent the days walking about the boat or sitting among the boxes on the deck. In the boxes and barrels were things that the boat was taking to other Bands. There, they would trade these things for other things that the sailors did not have, but that they wanted. And every day, with a bucket on a rope, she would raise up water from the sea, using the water to bathe and to wash her hair. As did the others. But the others did not do that every day.

The Mage and Golden had time off from their work. So did the sailors. The men talked with the sailors and especially with the captain of the boat. Platinia had heard Golden ask how far the ship (the boat was also called a ship) had been on this trip, learning that the ship had been almost to Cinnabar. And John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had asked many strange questions like he always did, first covering his mouth with his hand as he did when thinking. But over his hand, his eyes were the color of Malachite sky: a glowing green. He looked hard at everything. At every one. His deadly eyes made her afraid.

The Mage asked about foreign words that Platinia did not understand. He asked about something called the "sun" and about the "moon" and "stars." And no one had heard about these things and were as puzzled as Platinia about what the Mage meant. (Except that the sailors knew him as John-Lyon, only.)

The Mage asked about the sky and why it had bands of color like it did. And some said this and some said that. But no one knew for sure. At least, that was what Platinia thought.

When the great Mage and Golden were alone with her, to eat, at the back of the boat -- the men only rowing every now and then to help to change the ship from one big current to another -- Golden had tried to answer the Mage's questions. (After Golden had found out that John-Lyon was a Mage and more than a Mage -- Pfnaravin -- Golden was very eager to please the Mage.) When asked why the sky had bands of color, Golden had said that this was a religious thing. Then, the Mage had asked Golden to explain more about the sky. And Golden said that it was a large bowl of iron, upended over the earth, like the rowboat they had hidden under had been overturned. That some said that the colors were painted on by the Founders. And the Mage had smiled at that answer. The Mage had then asked if the world was round or flat. And Golden had said that it was both round and flat (round, around the edges but flat like a wheel) with the iron dome of sky over it. Then the Mage had asked what held up the earth. Why it didn't fall. And Golden had said that he did not know, that he was not a Mage.

Finally, Platinia was bored with all this talk.

By this time, though, she had caught and tamed the cat. The cat was on the ship to eat mice, a sailor had told her. (There had been mice in the temple of Fulgur, but she had seen a cat there only one time.)

She could catch the cat and hold it any time she liked. It would sometimes made the sleepy sound of rain. And she petted it and it would come to her. And she would feed it bits of meat saved from her meals. It was so soft! There had been cats at Hero Castle but Melcor would not let her hold them.

After a time, it had been the longest Platinia could remember that she had not been raped or tortured. Was this because they were on the boat? If so, -- since she could not think of how to kill the Mage -- Platinia wished she could stay on the boat forever!

* * * * *

Chapter 14

After the usual, early morning fog, it was another bright, warm, windless day as they drifted out from under the golden band over Stil-de-grain toward the greenish sky of Malachite. The air was fresh as it always was after the night's gentle rain. V-shaped birds soared above, glinting white as they folded their wings to dive at the sea. Gulls?

Leaving the tie-up dock, John had seen, wading along the sandy shore, a number of pink and black, duck sized birds with long necks and stick legs. Just inland, pelicans sought food at the mouths of run off rills, the night's rain oozing rivulets from the forest's tangled trees.

Now late in the day on the open sea, John could make out a merchant ship in the distance, a ship similar to their own: a wide, round, deep draft boat laden with boxes, barrels, packing crates, and bags. Probably angling for a tie-up dock as they would be doing soon. Yesterday, John had seen a squadron of naval vessels -- long, shallow draft cutters -- the flotilla far away, thank whatever gods this "other reality" boasted.

It surely couldn't be too much longer until they said goodbye to Stil-de-grain.

"Are we almost there?" John asked as Coluth joined him at the rail.

"Just about." Captain of the Roamer , Coluth was a compact, raw boned man of sea worn skin and indeterminate age. Leaning on the rail by John, the Captain cast a "weather eye" at the sky, then shaded his eyes with both roughened hands to look at the forested shore a mile to larboard and at least that far ahead. "You see way up there?" He pointed with a thick jointed forefinger. "There. Just to the side 'a that big old tree?" John tried to follow Coluth's point, a sighting made more difficult by the continuous circling of the boat as it curved around one of the great, interlocking whirlpools that gently swirled on the sea's surface.

"The one with the dead limb?" As far as John could see, a whitened oak was the only tree that differed in any way from the tangled thicket of lush, live oaks, elms, hickories, chestnuts, pine, and birch of the old, deciduous forest that stretched before them down the coast. "That's the one. Now you look to the right 'a that big tree and you see those smaller trees?"

"I see them." Now that it had been pointed out to him, the forest's trees did seem to get abruptly shorter just beyond the oak, as if they'd been cropped with a giant scythe.

"That's the border 'a Malachite." It was John's turn to gage the sky for distance.

"Just about where the yellow sky band turns to green?"

"Just about."

"Would you say that the colors of the sky bands correspond to the country bands under them?"

"Why, sure. That's the difference, you see. That and Band sickness."

And there it was again! Ever since he'd been on board, John had been hearing snatches of sailor talk about "Band sickness," always accompanied by a little laugh or wink or poke to indicate just how ignorant the farmers (their word for landlubbers) were to be afraid of it.

Was this the time to ask about that malady? John had "floated" so many questions (and gotten so few satisfactory answers) that he hated to push his luck. Still, as a "farmer" himself, his queries about the sea seemed to produce more mirth from the captain and his crew than suspicion at John's lack of knowledge.

"What can you tell me about Band sickness and why your men don't seem to be afraid of it?" Asked that way, John hoped he would be credited with some prior knowledge of this mysterious affliction.

"Well now," the captain said, leaning over the deck to spit into the gently rolling sea before settling back comfortably, putting his rough elbows on the varnished wooden rail that arched around the ship's wide bellied sides. "I don't mind admittin' that when I first came to sea I was as afraid 'a catchin' the Band sickness as anybody. I'd heard all those old tales about it, you see."

"What are the symptoms?"

The captain looked over at John, both of them side by side, elbows on the rail, looking out at the peaceful, looping sea like loafers draped over any wrought iron courtyard fence in any small town ... in another world. John's free time was spent like this, watching the calm sea.

As usual in slack times, sailors fished along the rail, catching several kinds of hand-sized gold and silver fish with which the sea teemed.

Recently, they'd all been busy re-packaging the cargo, breaking it into smaller units, funneling cooking oil from the large deck-tied barrels into smaller, more salable casks -- all the while waiting for the next electric moment of shouted orders to man the oars and pull as if their life depended on it, to starboard or to larboard.

"Well," the captain said, having thought it through, "the sickness is that you feel heavier and you get more tired doin' even little things. That's of course if you're travelin' to the inner Band's. That's where we're goin' and what's goin' to happen to you when you cross over into Malachite just after it clears off tomorrow morning. Of course, if you were to be travelin' in the other direction, crossin' a Band would make you feel like you were floatin', like you could lift the boat out 'a the water all by yourself."

"That's ... it? You don't get a ... fever ... or anything?"

"What's a fever?" Again, that blank stare at what John thought was a simple question. John would always be a stranger in this strange land.

"Your face gets hot. Like you've been working the oars." John certainly knew about the heat of rowing!

"No. Nothin' like that," Coluth was saying, one big hand waggling. "You just feel ... heavy. Get ... tired. That's all. You got to take it easy. But you get used to it ... in time."

"You have to pace yourself."

"That's just it."

Band sickness was something other than a "disease" then, more like what might be called ... a condition. As for disease, come to think about it, John could not remember seeing any of the sailors ill. Oh, there'd been a little therapeutic, post-party throwing up back at the Canarin dock. Except for that, however, everyone had been well. Apparently, a hard and lonely life at sea was a healthy one.

"Now a' course," Coluth continued, dropping his voice to a rough whisper, "if you was to get careless in the Sea Throat, and get swept in to Azare -- what used to be Azare but is now the black Band, why there, the Band sickness's worse. There, you got to go slow, 'cause you can't go fast, if you get my meaning." Coluth spit into the sea; watched the bubbles drift along side the ship.

"Heavier?"

"That's for certain. I never been there 'acourse ... after it went black." And plainly, that was the sum of what the captain was going to say on that subject!

Band sickness. Still an enigma.

On another puzzling topic, what did it mean that, instead of seeing the hulls of out bound ships "disappear" from the bottom up as they went over the arc of the earth, John could see entire ships fade to dots in the distance? Did it mean that Bandworld was ... an enormous planet, because of the planet's size, the horizon line much farther away than it would be on earth? Tapping his straining memory banks for any relevant knowledge, John remembered that, on the moon, the curve of that much smaller satellite soon cut off an astronaut's view. There were no "vistas" on the moon.

Still, in this place, if the vast distance to the horizon meant that this world was larger than earth, wouldn't gravity also be stronger? And it wasn't. If anything, hearing the captain talk about feeling "lighter" in some Bands than in others, weak gravity in Stil-de-grain could explain the "light" feeling John had been experiencing since he landed here. Weaker gravity could also account for John's "strength" -- remarked on by Golden in the dungeon and occasionally by sailors on the ship.

Of course, you would also have a non-existent horizon line if this world were (like the natives believed it to be) flat. A consideration John didn't wish to think about at the end of a long day.

Docked before down-light, hearing from the sailors of a berthed, Stil-de-grain cutter that there had been border clashes between Stil-de-grain and Realgar -- interesting! -- the dark descended to cut off John's discourse with the other's. The ship tethered to the dock, the Roamer pushed back into the sea at the end of a long rope, John Lyon did what he always did. Listened to the shrill night calls of birds and bugs and to the deeper grunts and coughs and sometimes screams of the invisible animals of the night. He also liked to hear the foreign blur of sailor-talk.

That night, John observed the same phenomena he'd noticed before. After dark, the crew paired up in twos and threes. Always the same groups. Friends? Or simply men who could understand each other's tongue after dark. And something else John had been noticing. Golden, so busy exercising most of the time that John no longer had much contact with him, seemed able to move from group to group, talking quietly with everyone. Did this mean that, unlike the others, Golden understood more than one language? John made a mental note to ask Golden about this -- provided he could get Golden away from his demanding physical regimen!

And thinking of Golden, when Golden had too much of the ship's sweet wine after an evening's meal, he would sometimes sing, the crew always after him to do that, sailors desperate for any kind of entertainment to break up the sameness of their routine. What was interesting was that, not only had Golden climbed the dungeon wall like a cat burglar and arranged their escape from the king's palace by methods that indicated detailed planning, but Golden could sing beautifully. It made John wonder what other surprises might be expected from that young man, a man who, on short acquaintance had been calculating, close mouthed, suspiciously adoring, and unbelievably stuffy. Golden. At best, a tricky piece of work!

The following morning after sun-up (which, since there was no sun, John would be advised to think of as day-break) after a breakfast of pan-fried bread and sweetened, fruit-flavored water, they had pulled the boat back to the dock via its tie-up line, untied, coiled the rope in the prow, and rowed out through the thinning, sea-bound fog to catch the first circular current of the day, one that swept them out over the water and down the coast.

Out and down ... under a changing sky. Changing from bright Stil-de-grain gold into a kind of murky gold and green, toward the edge of a solid, bright green sky band which signaled Malachite. Passing the spot on the shore where the forest of larger trees gave way to shorter trees, the place that Captain Coluth had pointed out to him as the border, John felt ... heavy.

Band sickness! The captain said there would be no mistaking it. And Coluth was right! John felt like unseen hands had strapped weights to him: to his arms, legs, chest, head.

Looking around, John could tell by the way the sailor's moved that they were also feeling weighted down, the crew shuffling about the deck more slowly than they had before.

Turning his too-heavy head to look toward the back of the boat, it was of some comfort to John to notice that even Golden had given up on jumping jacks for the moment. A sure sign that Golden, too, was lumbered with "Band sickness."

Making the effort, John shuffled toward the back of the boat, finding Golden sitting down, leaning against one of the trade boxes stashed on deck. "Tired?" John asked, not that displeased that Mr. Bodily Perfect was also feeling the strain.

"Band sickness," Golden replied matter-of-factly. Somehow, the knowledge that the "sickness" didn't seem to worry Golden any more than it had the captain, made John feel better. And ashamed of himself for enjoying Golden's discomfort.

"But it goes away," John said, glad to know something about this other world.

"You get used to it, of course," Golden corrected.

"Right. Look, Golden ..." Golden now listening intently, with the "eager to please" look of a cocker spaniel. Golden was a complex young man, no doubt of that. "I noticed that you seem to be able to talk to all the men at night. After down-light." Golden nodded. "That's ... unusual?"

"Yes, John-Lyon."

"I've been paying attention, and it seems to me that the members of the crew speak about three languages. Am I right about that?"

"I believe you are, sir. One is Still-de-grain, another Realgar, and the third Malachite."

"And are there other languages that you know?"

"I ... there are other languages, but ..."

"Cinnabar?"

"I would assume so, sir. But who has ever talked with flyers?"

"Of course." That seemed to be consistent with what John had learned of Cinnabar -- as well as anything fell into line in this odd place. "And what about Azare --- the dark or black band?"

Day by day now, the ebon sky-circle which John took to be Azare, grew before them and to the left.

"Yes, John-Lyon."

"And do you speak that, also?"

"I am ... was ... an ... entertainer, sir. I did know some Azare." Golden looked around him, turning his head as quickly as a man could who was suffering from "Band sickness," seeming suddenly to be uncomfortable. A common reaction in those speaking of the Dark Band. "But it is not ... wise ... to speak of that here."

"Why?"

"Because one might be taken for a ... spy. It is unusual enough to speak the language of more than one Band. But to speak Azare. I would only admit that to you, Sir."

"The language of the enemy."

"Just so."

"And your being an entertainer ...?" From the way Golden had climbed the dungeon wall and from all the exercising the young man did to stay in shape, John could believe him to be an acrobat.

"I performed at night, sir. And of course ...."

"At night, without the magic, someone of one band cannot understand someone of another." Golden nodded. "Traveling from Band to Band as an artist, performing after dark, you had to learn all the languages you could." Golden nodded. Simple. "And since people don't often travel from one Band to the other because of 'Band sickness,' there's little need for the people of one Band to learn the language of the people of another." Again, the nod. John was learning some things about this "other reality," at last. "Particularly since the magic of the light translates all languages by day." The nod.

It was then that John noticed Platinia, huddled behind a bale. Sweating. With the same fearful expression on her small face she'd had in the hallway of his house. (She still held the ship's cat, however.) "What's wrong, Platinia?" he asked, clumping over to her, his legs weighted down by what felt like the body of a fat man.

"I am dying."

By this time, Golden had struggled to his feet to trail along behind. "You have Band sickness," Golden said to the girl, his voice matter-of-fact when addressing anyone but John. "That is all. No one dies from Band sickness."

"Band ... sickness?" the girl asked.

"You are feeling ... heavy?" Golden continued. The girl nodded slowly, her head obviously seeming awkward to her.

"Is this the way you felt when you were in my house?" John asked, squatting down before her, hoping he would have the strength to rise again. "In the place where we met? But even more that here?" This time, besides the nod, the look of fear on the girl's face told John that she understood.

Band sickness. Something you got when you left one Band for another. Something you got when you left one world for another.

One mystery had been solved, at least. Why Platinia was "dying" in John's world.

And what, exactly, was this "Band sickness"? A sudden loss of muscular strength as in an instant case of muscular dystrophy? (Surely something other than a medical problem. For when crossing some Bands, the captain said, you felt lighter.)

John had another thought. Could it be that the land under his feet just over the Malachite border ... thickened? That there was increased mass beneath that Band, making more of a gravitational pull on everything on the surface? And if that could be true, could it also be that John was not standing on a ball of earth beneath his feet -- a ball pulling down with the same gravitational force everywhere on its surface -- but on what the natives clearly thought of as a flat world? Everything he knew about objects in space told him that the norm was spherical suns and planets. Still ....

Considering that many things in this "other reality" didn't make sense, how much more absurd would it be to believe that this world was flat? After all, John had come to accept that there was "magic" in the daylight that allowed the natives to understand all languages -- including English. A magic that let the natives think alight a "cool" torch, but to think some other way to make a torch's "firestones" give off heat for cooking.

What remained -- hardly more than a trifle -- was the difficulty of accounting for night and day in a flat world. Or how there could be night and day without a sun. Or a night without a moon. Or a night with no stars. Or a world with little wind. Or a world that dripped rain every night. Or a day that began and ended in thick fog. Or ......

So ended that line of thought, Band sickness providing the day's excitement.

Other than that, the Roamer continued to spiral down the coast, its "heavy" crew having to put more effort into making the periodic boat shifts from one whirl to another on what had become a bright green sea. A sea the color of the Malachite sky.

Days passed. Days in which John grew accustomed to his increased weight. After all, "earth people" gained weight all the time -- if more slowly. And they got used to it, their extra weight slowing them down, perhaps, but not interrupting their lives to any great extent. So what if John had "gained" 50 - 60 pounds by crossing into Malachite? He'd get used to it. And he did.

Interestingly, John found that, relative to the others, he still had more strength. Which pleased him, childish as that was. Just what you would expect, he found himself thinking, from a dangerous "creature" like himself who was "built" to withstand the pull of a heavy gravity planet!

Stupid.

* * * * *

Chapter 15

"Another drink, lovey?" asked the short, dark bar girl, winking at Golden. Even in the middle of the day, the girl was attempting to set up her evening "appointments." Though the Mage and the girl also sat at the table, the waitress was ignoring them.

Golden had slept with women from every band and there was nothing like the strong loving of the girls of Malachite. Vaguely, through the haze of too much wine, he wondered if all men thought that way about the girls from their home Bands.

His songs, even when unaccompanied (he had to leave his harp behind) attracted women. Not wanting to lower himself in the Mage's eyes by seeming to be nothing but an inglorious entertainer, he sang only in the Mage's absence or -- regrettably -- when drunk. At this tavern and at that.

This girl had been wooed by a short piece of his own composition which, moved by too much wine, he had just sung:

What is it makes me love so true?

Your pixie face? Your devilish eyes?

I even love your playful lies!

Still -- others have these features too.

Why is it, then, I love but you?

Words the woman had apparently taken to be for her, alone.

The night before, more tipsy than he wished to remember, he had sung the old Malachite ballad in yet another inn, the song the first king had composed for his queen.

In silence alone we prove love's bliss,

The secret look, the steady kiss,

The hand that touches in the dark.

Each, in its own way, leaves love's mark.

Since the Roamer had brought them into Bice harbor fifteen up-lights ago, Golden had gotten his fill of tavern girls. And tavern food. And tavern wine. (It was a truth that the inns he frequented only served cheap wine and cheaper women: Fyfeia, Chiappia, Secchia, Valia. Even when sober, their names ran together in his mind.) For, though this was his city -- by right -- he had to keep to the seamier side of Bice. To its back-streets. To its inexpensive bars, Golden and the other two constantly on the move, sleeping in an inn a night. This was the one city where he must not attract attention; not the place to display either his purse or his many talents. And certainly not the city for drunken boasting about his royal heritage. Lithoid, the usurper, would eliminate even the lowliest of those challenging the pretender's claim to the throne.

Unable to focus on the waitress' face in the dim light, seeing a blur of bobbed, black hair, Golden waved her away.

It had not taken long for Golden to discover that coming to Malachite was a mistake. Barely inside the Bay of Bice, a military cruiser had stopped them, sending over a boarding party with sharp questions for the captain and crew, suspicious Malachite naval men picking through the cargo, the Roamer's messenger birds confiscated. Right then, Golden -- and all the others -- had suspected something was very wrong .........

Beyond the serving woman was the inn's main room. A quiet space at this time of day, filled with splintered tables and their run-down chairs, a few drunken patrons sitting on high stools at the counter across the way, the barrel-stomached barkeep serving these "regulars."

"Gim'me 'nother drin' an' make it th' good stuff, this tim'," said a scraggly haired oldster to the barman.

"I ain't ascar' 'a nobody 'ner nothin'," said another guzzler to an old man at counter-end. "This Auro's tough? Jus' let 'em come 'an I'll kick his ass!"

"Shut yo're mouth.' By th' sky-shell, you'll brin' bad luck wit' that kinda talk!" So went the drunken snatches of self important conversation that occasionally wafted across to Golden along with the stale smell of week-old beer. Though Golden saw the barkeeper through an alcoholic mist, Golden knew the man would have a bald head to go with his fat belly. One meaty hand would be poised to paw coins off the counter; the other would clutch a dirty wipe rag. They were all the same.

Upstairs were the usual sleeping rooms, Golden renting one for the night. As usual, he had to pay extra for the two additional beds that must be moved in.

"What about you, mister," said the waitress, turning her too bright smile on the Mage. She would make no "appointment" with John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, either. Not if Pfnaravin continued in his curious pattern of chastity.

A strange man.

"I think I've had enough," John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was telling the waitress, smiling up at her, seeming to be oblivious to her real offer -- as the Mage seemed unaware of so many things. Though the Mage was tall to be a Malachite, dressed in a local tunic, he could pass for one. There were light-haired Malachites, though not many. Golden, of course, was back in his home band.

The girl seated beside them (also a Malachite by birth) said nothing, the waitress paying her no heed. The girl would not provide the extra income that was the waitress' desire.

And here they were, Golden in his own country; but not as its king. (Aristocrat that he was, Golden had vowed not to show his feelings of depression. Certainly, not to the Mage.)

After their escape, when Golden had first suggested to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin that they must leave Stil-de-grain for Malachite, Golden had hoped he could find a way to use the Mage's power to overthrow the usurper, Golden so eager to get to Malachite that he'd even risked lying to the Mage. For there were places in Stil-de-grain where they might have hidden. Caves in remote mountains. Secret rooms beneath inns, the price of these to include the silence of the owner. The quarters of rogues and thieves were also available at outrageous cost, where to hide in an emergency a lesson Golden had learned from the cut-throat pack who had captured him when Golden was a boy.

Instead, Golden had different plans. Once in Malachite, the Mage might demand that he, Pfnaravin, be restored as the Band's Mage. After that, as a loyal friend and follower of Pfnaravin, Golden could find himself installed in Lithoid's Palace, positioned to cause the usurper's death. Or if Pfnaravin failed to be recognized as Malachite's true Mage (John-Lyon-Pfnaravin no longer having the green Crystal of his office) the Mage might cause a revolt against the king. Either way, Golden had plans for assuming his rightful place on the throne.

Sadly, these hopes had been idle ones. Fifteen up-lights had passed with no indication that the Mage planned to wield his power here, any more than he had used it in Stil-de-grain to extricate himself from Yarro's dungeon. Why? Pfnaravin was still in hiding. Keeping the yellow Crystal of Stil-de-grain covered at all times. (Only if you knew it was there around his neck, could you see the outline of it beneath the Mage's green striped tunic.)

Might it be possible that a Mage of one Band could work little magic with a Crystal from another? Golden knew next to nothing about Mages.

That afternoon, the tavern was almost silent. Even at night when filled with riotous drunkards, the gaiety would be forced. In his guise as entertainer, Golden had been to Malachite in better times.

Taking another sip of wine to still his hunger while he waited for the Mage to gobble down a huge helping of boiled potatoes and cooked meat, thick bread with yellow butter, honey beer and fruit ... plus sweet nuts for desert ... Golden knew that what was wrong started with the light. Instead of bright emerald, the sky of Malachite was off-color and too dim. Golden had noticed this on the first day the Roamer had tied up at Bice's crowded peer. It was also true that he (as well as others) had more difficulty in lighting torches in that faded light. It took more thought. More concentration, the torches giving less light than usual, occasionally threatening to wink out!

"What about those men over there," the Mage whispered suddenly, a potato piece on his knife point dripping with rich grease. With a quick shifting of his luminous green eyes, the Mage indicated two young men who had just appeared inside the door, the newcomers blinking their eyes to adjust them to the dark.

"I do not think so," Golden said quietly. "Though they have the look of soldiers, they stand like civilians." The Mage was still fearful of pursuit from Stil-de-grain.

"And you said that, to the best of your knowledge, no one here is looking for us?"

"In my guise as soldier, I could find no one knowing of three fugitives from Stil-de-grain." Under his long cloak, Golden was still wearing the soldier's uniform, stolen so that Golden could do the Mage's business: inquire about a possible pursuit.

The Mage satisfied, Golden returned to his own thoughts.

Though eager to come to Bice at first, Golden now knew they must leave this sad band. Disaster was in the dimming of the sky; in the failing of the magic.

The dark Band. That was the source of all this evil. And every day, they risked a worse thing happening!

Stopped at the harbor's mouth, eventually allowed in, they had rowed within the great, encompassing land-arms that protected the Bay of Bice to find that the piers across the gulf were packed with naval ships, many newly built, all being readied for attack. Along the docks, carpenters were fitting new made oars into oarlocks. Mounting heavy duty sweeps.

On shore, they had passed additional cruisers in dry-dock (covered by canvas in an attempt to conceal them) stored there because there was no space along the wharfs. Nor could anyone hide the frantic sawing and hammering from cordoned off construction yards. Could this be anything but a mad rush to match the larger naval strength of Stil-de-grain?

Off the docks, the town was alive with Sailors and marines. Bice -- the classic picture of a naval build up.

War! But against whom? The evil Band? Possibly, though more soldiers than sailors would be needed for that venture.

If not already too late, they must leave this place. Return to Stil-de-grain. Ship out for Realgar. Take a boat bound for mystic Cinnabar! Go anywhere but here!

Golden shuddered and drank deep. If only he could find a way to take back his council that they come to Malachite!

To the anxiety he felt growing with each day, Golden must now add his fear of the task the Mage had set for him that afternoon, Golden's fear intensified by not understanding why the Mage wished that "favor." The Mage had tried to explain. About what the Mage called "static electricity." But Golden had not understood. Nor had the girl.

No ... that was not entirely true about the girl. For the Mage had spoken directly to her about this, mentioning some machine the Mage had possessed in the other world, a wonder that the girl had seen. And she had seen it. Golden could tell.

The Mage had asked about a magical way to make hair stand on end in this world. Which, from anyone but a Mage would be a silly thing to ask -- the beginning of some kind of joke. But with Mages .....

And Golden, like a fool, said that for magic (as if a Mage needed magic) common people might consult a Weird.

Golden had never done so. It was unwise to associate with people of shamanic power. (Feeling that way, what an irony that, at this very moment, Golden was sitting next to the man with the greatest Wizardry in all the Bands!)

Weirds.

Some called them female Mages. And there were resemblances. Both Weirds and Mages had the use of magic. Both had Crystals, the Crystals of Weirds (Golden had heard it said) being of the same flat, disk shape as a Mage's Crystal -- but larger.) Large crystals in which the Weird could see ... pictures ... of the future, of the past, of the present. Enchanted images.

There was a Weird in Bice. Golden had heard someone tell about her the last time Golden had been in the Malachite capital. And, like a fool, Golden had said that to the Mage. All this happening while waiting for their food!

Now, Golden must locate her. A prospect that gave Golden prickly skin. There was enough trouble in this dispirited place without association with Weirds!

"Platinia and I will go upstairs to see if the room is clean," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, finally finished with his lunch. "If you could run that little errand for me now ...?" Golden nodded, fear waves climbing his neck.

The others going upstairs to wait, this left poor Golden to stagger out into the street to question passersby about the Weird, a task -- given the dark looks that Golden got for asking -- that quickly sobered him.

Even the few who admitted to knowing of the Weird, gave incoherent mumblings, mutterings about the failure of the magic and of how the Weird of Bice had foretold disaster.

At last, tipping one old man a silver and bribing another with five coppers (getting the same location of the Weird from each) Golden returned to the tavern.

And, of course, as Golden feared -- in spite of the lateness of the day, fog wisps, even now, nosing down the town's twisting innards like blind, white worms -- the Mage, on hearing of Golden's success, insisted they set out to find the Weird, Golden to lead.

Starting in a barely familiar part of town, the three of them entered a quarter of the city unknown to Golden. Here, sidling past buildings packed together so tightly that many shared a common wall, they wove through streets clogged with sodden litter. There was also an evil, Azare wind in this place. Golden could feel the panting of its foul breath!

Picking their way along dark, garbaged by-ways, they passed pathetic people huddled in the deeper shadows of dilapidated doorways.

From those people, Golden witnessed ... another thing. A thing ... for which he had no words. For how could anyone account for the strange ... sounds ... coming from these huddled, helpless creatures? Sneezes. As if they had inhaled the most expensive pepper of the Cinnabar! (Which, in their poverty, they had not!) Out of their eyes trailed tears ... that were not tears. Tears also dripped down from their noses!? Golden heard coughing -- probably from wind-blown dust?

What did this mean?

Because of his confusion, without thinking, Golden blurted out a question to the Mage. "What is wrong with these people, sir?"

"Wrong? What do you mean?"

"They sneeze. They cough. They have water coming from their eyes and noses."

"Perhaps the flu." And what did the Mage mean by that?

"I do not understand."

"Some of these people are ill."

"What is ill?"

At Golden's question, the Mage looked as startled as Golden felt at the many questions of the Mage.

"You don't know the meaning of the word ill?" Golden shook his head. "Unwell?" Golden looked blank. "Indisposed, unhealthy ... ailing?" None of those words held meaning for Golden.

It was the Mage who now seemed at a loss for words. "All these words -- mean that something is wrong with your body."

"Tired?"

"Yes. You feel tired. But not from overwork. You've caught some kind of virus. A disease." Golden just shook his head. Explaining the word "ill" led to other words that Golden did not know. Still, something the Mage had said caused Golden to remember ......

"I have heard of this happening in the Great Mage War. At that time, the combating Mages hoarded Sorcery, no magic left for common people, it is said. And ... something ... happened. To the nose and throat and chest. People became ... tired. They hurt. Their eyes ... leaked water. Not everyone, but some. And there was no Wizardry to ... mend them."

"You have never had these ... feelings?" They were talking quietly as they walked through puddles and around nameless, fetid things, the fog licking past them like moving, melting tongues -- the girl trailing. But ... John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had asked a question. Had Golden ever felt this way? Perhaps ... now and then .......

"In the night, I have sometimes felt an ... itching ... of the nose. Have been awakened sneezing. My throat was ..."

"Scratchy? Sore?"

"Yes. Those would be the words."

"But only in the night?"

"Yes. In the day, the magic ..."

"I see," said the Mage, light flashing from his emerald eyes. "Daylight magic kills the disease." Since "disease" was also a word Golden did not know, he could not answer. "And you have never seen people with these symptoms in the daylight?"

"Never."

"But we see them now."

"Yes."

"Could that be because the light is less strong here, than in Stil-de-grain?" So, the Mage had noticed. "And with a weaker light, less magic?" Golden nodded.

"So like all the other 'evils', the black band causes colds?"

Colds?

"Which leaves the important question: how is the black band able to control the light?"

"I ... do not know."

For long moments after that puzzling conversation, the three of them trudged on through the dark and ruined, fog-swept street.

It was cool. Too cool for a warm band like Malachite!

"Tell me, what's your version of how the Black Band got to be the Black Band?" asked John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, as if the conversation had never stopped. "I understand that it used to be called Azare."

"It is well not to speak of these matters ..."

"But I want to speak of them. I must understand," said the Mage.

Golden glanced about, nervously, people-shadows seeming to stalk them.

"So, tell me. How did the evil Band get to be black?"

Golden paused to let an elder who was not a shadow, hobble past. Except for that bent-back dotard, the lane seemed deserted.

"At the end of the Great Mage War," Golden whispered, "the winning Mages used their Crystal power to stop the light above the Azare Band. So that the Band was in darkness."

"How did they do this?"

"I do not know." Golden's voice would go no louder in this place.

"And in the dark, there is no magic in the Black Band, is that it?" Golden nodded, not wishing even to whisper of these iniquitous things.

"Is it your contention that the king of the Black Band has found a way to retaliate, some way to shut down the light over the Band of Malachite?" Though Golden could not get his thickened tongue to answer, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin did not seem to notice. "Clearly a case of, 'Do to others as they have done to you.'"

Saying this, the Mage smiled so broadly that Golden could see a flash of teeth even in the grayness of the building-shaded, mist-bound lane.

"I am not a Mage and do not know these things," Golden whispered, an answer that he hoped would stop this dangerous talk!

It was then that the street ended suddenly in a crumbled structure, so that they had to plunge down another, even smaller path that left-forked off on its torturous way. Yes, left at the ruined building! So had said both informants after Golden paid them.

Turning left, it was only a short way into that twisting warren that Golden became aware of people. Real people. Gathering behind the gaping jaws of doorways. He could not so much see them for the dark and fog as hear the noises that they made. The shuffling of their feet, the whisperings, the ragged breathing. Concentrating, he could also smell them. The carrion of this quarter little more than vomit behind the doorways' teeth!

Thieves!? Murderers!? Or had people along the way overheard the conversation of the Mage? About the evil Band? Because of this, had the three of them been marked as spies?

Whatever the danger, they had to get off the street!

Thinking these dark thoughts, ahead and to the right ... Golden saw the solution. The dilapidated building with a blue door was the Weird's den. "See, John-Lyon, we have found the Weird's home at last." Golden pointed.

"This is it?" the Mage asked, their arrival taking Pfnaravin's mind off the discussion of evil as Golden had hoped.

"Yes."

Twenty steps took them to the small shack-of-the-blue-door, the narrow building even more crooked than the others in the block. Though made wealthy by the fees they collected for giving Crystal-counsel, Weirds lived in such places, it was said. Their power tinged with evil, they did not wish to live ostentatiously, thereby further antagonizing the masses. At least, that was the "common" wisdom about Weirds. And that they were always ancient women. And that Crystal-staring drove them mad.

By this time fearing the street more than the female Mage, without knocking, Golden opened the house door, the three of them ducking within to find themselves in a pitchy hallway, a violet light flickering at the back.

Nowhere else to go, they moved toward the gleam, touching the greasy walls as a guide, stepping gingerly over unseen objects on the black, hall floor.

At hall-end, they entered a small room, the room with the light, a grape colored globe flickering in the center of a chair-surrounded table.

Except for this round, central table, the room was empty. ...... No. .... There was a couch along the wall. On the couch, a form in purple.

Directed by the Mage, creeping closer, Golden saw that the shape was a woman, a woman on her back, average in size, average in every way except that she was old, a wisp of frizzy hair covering her head. The Weird. Breathing slowly, deeply. Asleep. Perhaps in a Crystal-trance.

Reaching down reluctantly, Golden shook her, the woman moaning for a moment before awakening with a wild look in her eyes as she saw them bending over her.

"Leave me 'lone," the woman muttered, her speech slurred with sleep. "Can't fix it. Worl' comin' to th' en'." While Golden jumped back; the Mage stepped forward.

"Pardon me, Madam," said the Mage, with an encouraging smile. "But we've come a long way to see you. Is it true that you have a Crystal that makes your hair stand on end?"

The woman rolled her eyes in the Mage's direction, looking at him as if she thought him to be the insane one.

"We won't trouble you much, Madam," the Mage continued, still with that exaggeratedly polite tone, "but if you could show us how your Crystal works ...?"

With a grunt, the woman sat up to swing her birdie legs over the couch edge, her large feet thumping on the floor. Rocking back and forth, twice, she launched herself to her feet, swaying woozily for a moment before staggering past the Mage to the table. There, she fumbled out a chair with her veined, spindly hands, flopped down on it, and hunched it forward. On the table before her, looking like a circular pool of purple water, was her Crystal, a thin, tapering disk a foot in diameter. The roundel of the Weird was framed with a ring of iron, a chain attached to that ring. Though bound to be uncomfortable because of its size, the Weird's Crystal -- like the smaller Crystal of a Mage -- could be worn around the neck.

"Wanna' see th' future?" the Weird asked. "Ya' won't lik' it. Nobody lik' it. Ever'body blam' me. Nobody lik' 'er future. Ever'body get old. Ever'body die. Nobody lik' 'er future."

"We won't mind," said the Mage, coming over to pull out one of the other chairs around the table, slipping into it quickly, never taking his eyes from the Weird, motioning Golden and the girl to come over and ease down beside him.

Golden, wishing he was anywhere but here, sat as ordered, the girl dissolving into the chair on the other side of the Mage. "Ya got a sil'er?" asked the Weird, a solferino flash from the enclosed fire-stone bowl catching the greedy look in her scummy eyes.

The Mage motioned for Golden to give her the coin, Golden taking it from his pouch, Golden's silvers almost gone. Putting together a considerable sum to make his escape from Xanthin island, he still had the golds, Golden having to hope the Mage's help would yet prove as valuable as he was costing.

"Actually," said the Mage, "I don't really want to see the future. I just want to see how the Crystal works." The Weird shrugged.

"Cryst'l sho' th' future. Th' past. Sho' ever'thin'."

"All right. Just make it work for us."

At that, after clutching up the coin Golden had put before her and dropping it down the front of her deep purple dress, the Weird picked up the iron-bound saucer, slotting it into a groove in the table top cut for that purpose.

Looking into her side of the vitreous disk, the old woman's face distorted through the glass, the Weird passed her hands over the Crystal, then began to stroke it, the circle glowing with a cold, gray light that overwhelmed the mauve. At the same time, the Weird's hair rose as if made of writhing worms.

"Excellent!" said the Mage, Golden startled to hear him interrupt the Weird at such a time. "That's enough. Thank you."

With a shriek of pain, the Weird stopped her stroking and stared over at the Mage, her grey eyes wide, the glow in the glass dying, the Weird's hair settling down to its former tangle.

"Stroking is what produces the static," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin to himself, at the same time rubbing his chin. "Of course! The Crystal behaves like amber." Golden saw the Mage begin to finger the outline of his own, yellow Crystal, hidden as it was under his tunic. "But it would take a large Crystal to produce enough power to ....."

Coming to himself again, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin lifted his head and turned once more to the Weird. "How much would it cost to buy the Crystal?" The weird looked disorientated. "Is it for sale? If so, how much?"

"Do'n sell. Neve' sell Cryst'l." The Weird shook her head violently, her limp hair flipping back and forth.

"I see." The Mage frowned. Then he brightened. "I have another idea. Do you like to travel?"

Golden could tell that these questions were too much for the Weird. Never in her life had she been asked these kinds of questions.

"Soon, we'll be traveling back to Stil-de-grain. And I'd like you to come with us. I'm sure we'd be able to make it worth your while. At any rate, I'd like you to think about it. I assume that Crystals like yours are in short supply, that I can't simply buy one right off the shelf at the super ....."

Shouts and running feet cut off the Mage in mid-sentence, the Mage, Golden and the girl spinning about to face the noise behind them in the entrance hall!

Instantly, the room was filled with angry, sweating, stinking, plum-faced gargoyles! Men and women, mostly of middle age and of the lower classes, shaking their fists, cursing. In the chaos, the noise and the threatened violence paralyzed Golden's mind.

It was the Mage who spoke. "May I have your attention, please?"

At that completely unexpected request, the crowd noise lessened. "May I have your attention, ladies and gentleman?"

And there was silence. But a frowning, thick, and ominous silence.

The Mage was smiling. "Thank you. Perhaps someone could tell me what seems to be the matter?"

At that, the crowd began shouting again until the Mage held up his hand for quiet, the mob hushing immediately. "You, sir," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin to a man at the front of the crowd, "be the group's spokesman. You tell me what the trouble is."

In spite of his own panic, Golden could feel the Mage's power. For the first time since Golden had known him, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was using the magical force of his Crystal. If Golden had ever doubted the Mage's power, he doubted it no longer! The Mage's will, amplified by his Crystal's dynamism, had stunned the room.

"Well, sir ...," said the man named, the man unable to meet the Mage's eye, "... well sir, it be like this. This Weird, long ago it was, foretold the troubles. That we'd be short 'a the magic. Short 'a the light. An' that happened. Is happenin'. And the white animals what is comin' out of the black band, is eatin' our children. And evil is all around." He paused to glance down at his feet, then up past the Mage at the Weird. "An' it's her fault!" he said belligerently, pointing a shaky finger at the Weird, the old woman now mumbling incoherently, waving her hands as if in dialogue with herself. "She make these bad thin's happen! She knew. 'Cause she cause it!"

"You're sure of that? That since she predicted these 'bad things,' she caused them?"

"She got magic."

"I thought you said you're blaming her for the loss of magic?" The Mage was still smiling. The smile of power.

"She got bad magic. Eatin' the good magic of the light. She from the Black Band!"

"I see. And you want her arrested. Is that it?"

"Want to drown her! Kill her bad magic!" There were cries of agreement with that, the mob again growing ugly. "That'll stop the evil!"

One hand stroking his hidden crystal, as if unintentionally, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin held up the other hand for quiet. And there was quiet!

"It is evil to behave illegally," said the Mage, still with that reasonable smile. "I agree, of course, that these charges should be looked into and, if found to be true, she should be punished. And I am doing that."

"You?" That comment bewildered the man.

"Of course. I am from the government. We are here to arrest this Weird on the very charges you good people have brought against her. In addition, I can now report that you have done your citizens' duty by turning her over to me for judgment. If you had taken the law into your own hands, of course ...." At that, the Mage's voice fell so low that all in the room must strain to hear. "... and perpetrated violence against her, then you, yourselves, would be prosecuted." The Mage smiled a knowing smile. Continued more brightly. "It seems to me that you are quite fortunate in this matter. Your problem will be taken care of. And you will not be punished as law breakers." Golden's head swum. What could the Mage mean?

"Well ... how do we know that you're from the king?" said another, thick-made man.

"Because," said the Mage, shifting his gaze to stab the doubter, the Mage's odd green eyes sharpened to draw blood, "we are in disguise. It is true, is it not, that you failed to recognize us as government agents when you saw us coming down the street? You were gathering in the alleys as we came past, were you not?" There were mutterings of assent. Even in the emergency, Golden vowed to remember that the Mage saw more than he revealed. "Of course not. For we came here for the collecting of evidence -- which we now have -- against this Weird. A further proof should you still be unconvinced, is that this man is a soldier."

Startled, Golden realized John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was pointing at him!, Golden feeling like an animal in a snare! What was expected of him!?

"Take off your robe, soldier, and show them your uniform." ........

Yes! The Mage had remembered that Golden was wearing the soldier's uniform under his robe.

Seeing for the first time the direction of the Mage's thoughts, Golden stood -- stiff backed, like a member of the military -- then took off his robe for all to see.

There were "Ahs" among the crowd.

"And I now proclaim that this Weird is under arrest. Take charge of her, soldier."

Without looking at her, languidly, the Mage nodded in the direction of the old woman, the Weird too stunned to understand.

As if a soldier in John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's cadre, Golden strode around the table and seized the wrinkled harridan by the arm, her old flesh loose to the bone. "As for the rest of you, you are dismissed!" This, the Mage said as a command.

Meekly, the crowd turned as one, jostling each other in their hurry to shuffle down the hall. Muttering. Mumbling. Whispering ...

And they were gone.

No longer having to act the part of arrester, Golden dropped the Weird's arm. Resisted the temptation to wipe off his hands on his soldier's tunic.

"It seems, Madam," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, turning to the Weird, the old woman just sitting there, "that the prophet has been confused with the prophecy." The Mage looked ... sad. "If it's any comfort to you, this is not the only world where men hate the bearers of bad news as much as they hate those responsible for it. At any rate, it is my judgment that you are no longer safe here and that you had better come with us. It also seems to me, Golden," the Mage looked up at Golden standing beside the Weird, "that, having run this bluff, we'd better get out of town as quickly as we can. If I know people, word of this incident will spread to the king. I should think that, paranoid as he must be to prepare for war in the frenzied fashion that we've seen, his spies are everywhere -- at least one of the king's spies certain to have been in this mob that I have just dispersed with a whiff of nonsense. Once the king hears of this event, he will be more than interested to learn who is arresting people on his authority.

"Perhaps, if you know a quiet way out of town .....?"

The Mage was right. News of this event would fly quicker than the evil wind, so fast there was no chance of making the harbor before it was sealed against them.

"The harbor will be closed, I think." Golden's mind raced over the other possibilities. "Land routes from Malachite are few. If, as you think, news of this happening soon reaches the king, if messenger birds are used, even the mountain pass to beak-ward may be closed to us."

Golden also knew another way to flee Malachite, a way of dim memory and of terror!, Golden hoping never to be driven to suggest that dreadful route!

Could the need to escape be used to justify the abandonment of the girl? She would slow them down .... No. Too risky to ask for that. Still, another handicap might be eliminated. "This ... person ... would make flight difficult," said Golden, pointing at the Weird. "She is a thing of magic." And old and slow, Golden thought, but did not add. "She should be left behind."

"And what would her life be worth if we did that? You saw the mob. They will be back." Golden shrugged. Her life was not worth his own. "No. She will go with us, under our protection."

John-Lyon-Pfnaravin now turned his full stare on Golden, a glow of green that penetrated flesh. "In fact, I can tell you that she is so important to me that she would be the last one left behind!"

Trembling at this clear warning from the Mage, Golden nodded eagerly to show his complete understanding and acceptance of the Mage's meaning.

The Mage rose now, as did the girl, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin turning to the Weird who was still seated. "Do you know what is happening?"

"They mad. They killin' mad. Not my faul'. I go."

"And be sure to bring along your Crystal. I believe I have a use for it later. Meanwhile, we will be waiting for you in the hall. But not for long."

The Weird rose at last, swaying behind the table, still uncertain on her feet. She would doom them yet in one way or another, thought Golden, a belief forever locked behind his tongue. "Pack what valuables will fit into a small case," ordered the Mage. "It is my judgment that it will be a long time before you return."

Though muttering to herself, the Weird seemed to understand; was looking about the room as if taking inventory. "And by the way, what is your name?"

"Nam'?"

"Yes. Being weird is your profession, I suppose," said the Mage, dryly. "But what is your name?"

"No on' as' me nam'. Fo' lon' tim'. Nam' is Zwicia."

"Hurry, Zwicia," was the Mage's final, quiet dictate.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

Golden leading, they were going slower. And then slower still.

It must have been at least a month since they'd left Bice, all that time on the march, pausing only to rest and to eat. At night, they'd slept in inns where they could, finding any kind of shelter when they must.

Going cross-band as they were, John had seen the country of Malachite (never what anyone could call fertile) change from hard scrabble farms growing barley and rye, to pasture land dotted sparsely with goats, to scrub thickets and cactus-like growths with leathery, spiny leaves.

Now, they were trekking across a desolate moonscape, John's mind as tired and barren as the stony land.

Mining provided the wealth of this band, Golden said, the immensity of the diggings they'd skirted lending substance to that claim. From promontories, John had made out what must be thousands of workers (as small as ants in the distance) excavating ore to feed gigantic furnaces, the noxious plumes of smelters smudging the distant sky by day, open-hearth kilns firing the night a dull red through the horizon's fog.

Past the mining region, the country grew more barren still, so devoid of life they no longer saw the smallest animal or insect, the terrain made more foreboding by saw-toothed mountains, not so much tall as never ending, breaker after breaker of them rolling across the plain, their harsh, granite inclines unsoftened by erosion, their steep pitched slopes as angular as the day titanic forces ridged them into the sky.

While it was slow going in the mountains (John and Golden hauling the women up particularly steep slopes) the blighted plain they now traveled was so flat John thought they could set a pace that would take them across the Stil-de-grain border by down-light, the green band of Malachite falling behind them, the green-yellow sky above turning to Stil-de-grain gold ahead.

Yet Golden had chosen this moment to be hesitant, pausing frequently to check his bearings.

Though John didn't care much for stuffy Golden, to give the man his due, he had never given John a reason to complain about Golden's bravery. Nor about his resourcefulness. No matter what the women thought, Golden, not John, was the leader of this expedition. There was, of course, some doubt about whether or not the women thought. Did Platinia? John could never be sure about her. And what were the mental musings of the old woman with whom they were now encumbered? Zwicia, the Weird? When she wasn't slowing them down by getting caught in brambles, by being unable to trudge up even gentle slopes unaided, by wandering off, and by being difficult to get up in the morning, she was complaining that she needed rest, grousing about her feet, trying to get someone else to carry her light pack, grumbling about the heat -- too cold -- and about the food -- neither plentiful enough nor of a temperature to suit her. She even whined about the shallow latrine trenches John and Golden dug at the end of every day. The rest of the time, she was a muttering machine, a mumbling imbecile attached to an important Crystal, a Crystal-addict who, at every stop, stared into her pansy-purple Disk and gibbered to herself.

Crystal gazing. A means by which a person could practice self hypnosis? Ruefully, John had to admit that whatever the Weird was doing seemed to be "catching." For John himself thought that, from time to time, as the old woman sat stroking and stroking her Crystal, he could glimpse reflections of "pictures" coming through the circlet's back.

The power of suggestion was amazing. You "saw" what you thought you were going to see; enough so that, if you knew you were supposed to see "pictures" of the past, present, and future in the Weird's "glass," you "saw" them.

With nothing to occupy his thoughts but stepping over rocks, John speculated again about the wisdom of bringing along the Weird -- against Golden's advice. John's interest in the Weird and her Crystal was in the Crystal's ability to generate static-electricity, of course. Though her disk had too little power to get him home, John had seen it build up a considerable charge, setting up the possibility that a bank of Crystals would do the trans-world trick.

Except for the Weird's Crystal, John hadn't been impressed with what he'd found in this band of Malachite. Nor did he care for its people -- hell bent on war, apparently, judging from what he'd observed both at the harbor and in the city proper.

To be charitable, John was willing to consider the possibility that there might be "better" neighborhoods in Bice. He didn't know. All he knew was that, once out of the harbor district with its ships, docks, carts, stevedores, warehouses, ship works, rope coils, fish stalls, rotten smells, sailors, bars, prostitutes, and assorted wretches, all he'd seen of the rest of the capital was narrow, littered streets crowded with grubby people, vermin ridden inns, and rows of small, ugly, blocky houses with doorways so low he often banged his head when entering. Short people, short doorframes. To top it off, everything -- houses, clothing (and sometimes even the food) -- came in nauseating chartreuse shades. He supposed it was natural for a people to be proud of the color of their Band's sky. But ... green!? Even the skins of the people took on a sour apple cast under the Band's "jaded" sky.

Long before tangling with that lowlife mob at Zwicia's, John had come to believe that getting out of Malachite was a good idea.

Once he'd seen the static electric generating potential of the old woman's Crystal, of course, getting out of Malachite had been the prime directive! If they could get out, Golden's pace making that seem iffyer and iffyer.

At the beginning of their odyssey, John had believed Golden's pleas that they had to leave Stil-de-grain, John beginning to have doubts when no Stil-de-grain naval vessel overhauled them at sea to look for important fugitives. The looming military clash between Stil-de-grain and Realgar was giving Yarro better things to do that chase escaped prisoners. John's fear of pursuit had been further weakened when John discovered (Golden actually did the discovering) that no one was looking for them in Malachite.

Their current course of action was to plod forward in their "combat boots." (Golden had been right about what they'd need in footwear on this journey.)

Golden had said the mountain pass -- called "The Gap" -- had been sealed, John confident Golden was telling the truth about that, if, for no other reason, than how eager Golden was to leave Malachite by way of the mountains. Equally apparent was Golden's dislike for exiting Malachite in the direction they were traveling now, to the up-light side of the band, one explanation for the slow pace Golden was setting as they neared the Stil-de-grain border.

John realized that his thoughts about Golden were uncharitable. True, the man was cold. Reserved. Calculating. Conceited. Self-centered. Vain. Stiff-backed. Haughty. And ego-maniacal. But who didn't have his little faults? For that matter, no one would describe Platinia as a "ton-of-fun." As for the Weird .... Enough said.

John hitched up the straps on his pack. Unlike the women who were carrying what was left of the food, John's bundle of entrenching tools and fire stones didn't get any lighter.

Fire stones! Maybe it was this magic business that had John so much on edge. And thinking of the fantastic, what was he to make of that crazy story Golden told him about the Malachite/Stil-de-grain border being guarded by invisible giants? Imperceptible titans who hurled translucent rocks, no less? Laughable. (Golden had first dragged out that "giant" story when advising against the direction they were now headed, back when Golden was hot for taking the route through what he called The Gap.)

John had asked if The Gap was the fastest way to Stil-de-grain (other than by ship, an option closed to them) and in particular, to Hero Castle. To which Golden had said no, telling John a shorter route was possible, but that it lay through the land of the unseen, but grizzly, giants. As "Jack and the Beanstalk" as that story was, Golden had told it with a straight face, adding that, as a child, Golden had been led through the land of the shrouded colossuses (colossi? colossum?), these giants hurling transparent rocks that squashed the adult members of Golden's party. In fact, so sincere had Golden seemed on that occasion that John had believed him. Not about the monsters, of course. But that Golden believed in the existence of said beasties.

These "Giant" thoughts leading John back to the consideration of magic, the subject of Wizardry making John feel skittish, particularly since he saw evidence of magic on a daily basis. And in more ways than "thinking" firestones alight. Although he'd thought that sailors were unusually healthy because their life at sea isolated them from contact with common germs, he'd recently come to believe there was "healing Witchery" in the light. Just another demonstration of the "enchantment" of this place.

There were more pressing problems at the moment than trying to explain this world's magic, however, the first of which, that Golden had come to a complete halt, Golden's party of two eccentric women and one pretty fed up earthman, stopping behind him in a ragged, little line.

"This is exposed territory, Golden," John said as he plodded past the women to stand beside Golden, hoping that, by pointing out the obvious, he could pry a little more speed out of the not-too-likeable young man. Platinia, coming up to stand just behind John, said nothing. "If we can see for miles we can be seen for miles." John said this to exploit Golden's paranoia about the "dangerous animals" rumored to be loose in Malachite.

"I ... was just ... trying to remember ...."

"Remember?"

"The right way. I was ... a child."

"I know. You told me about that. But surely, there are some kind of markers, something to indicate which way to go."

"No one comes here." Golden's face was a perfect blank. A mask to hide his fear?

"Because it's the land of giants?" John considered laughing as a way of shaming Golden out of his paralysis until Golden's sober look warned John off.

"Yes." Again, John was struck with Golden's sincerity -- sincerity of belief having nothing to do with truth, of course.

"This isn't much of a place to camp out," John pointed out again.

Thinking about stopping for the night, John realized that part of the reason he was being short with Golden was because John blamed Golden for providing too little food to cover all eventualities, a criticism that wasn't fair, particularly since Golden was paying for everything. Though John didn't like to take advantage of anyone, he had no money; and no way to earn any. (Even what little American currency he had in his billfold when he came "through" -- much good that would do him here -- was in his pants back at Hero Castle.) The girl had nothing. Gave no indication of knowing what money was. All the aforementioned facts making it a matter of necessity that Golden be their source of revenue. Perhaps the Weird would eventually contribute something to the common larder, a faint hope, John knew. Her only talent lay in muttering; an art form which, like most avocations, was without monetary value.

John wrenched his mind back to ... the problem.

The reality of the moment was that the party was at a standstill, Golden seemingly rooted to the rocks beneath his booted feet.

Rocks. No longer a spike of desert grass to be seen.

For the better part of a day, they'd been trudging through this ... loose rock ... desert of crumbling stone, a monotonous gray and green and gray-green wilderness of decaying chunks that, in eons, would be sand. A desert by any definition, except that this desert lacked heat. And yet heat had been here once; scorching heat; an inferno of heat! The leather-armored plants they'd passed in more "lush" terrain had told him so.

No sun to be seen, of course. John had almost gotten used to that.

"I ... can't ... go on." In addition to his legs, Golden's voice seemed also to have taken root.

"What?" Realizing what Golden had said, John was alarmed. "What do you mean you can't go on?"

"I do not remember the way."

"You said that all we had to do was angle to the up-light side of the band."

"It is that I do not remember where the giant's rocks fall."

"That again." John was at a loss for a way to exorcise Golden's ghostly behemoths. "Tell me about that once more."

After a long pause, Golden cleared his throat, nervously, his hands fumbling at the dusty seams of his robe.

"It is said ...," he began in a too-quiet voice, "and I have seen for myself that it is true -- when I was a child -- that there are giants in this land, phantoms that no man can see. And that they drop boulders on men who travel here." Though John still didn't know how to break down this odd notion, he knew he had to find a way. As long as Golden held these views, it was obvious nothing that John might say could move him.

They couldn't stay here. Nor did John think they could return to Bice. On short rations for days, they didn't have enough food to back out of this wilderness, necessity demanding they move forward or starve.

"You're sure that The Gap is closed to us?" John knew that, in his soldier disguise, Golden had checked out that escape route. It was just that asking nonsense questions was the only way John could think of to keep the conversation going.

"Yes."

"Instead of crossing into Stil-de-grain here," John suggested, trying another tack, "how about following the band to the left, getting across into Stil-de-grain farther down?" Golden just shook his head.

"That way, there are impenetrable mountains."

"Then this is the only way."

"Yes."

"But is it reasonable to believe in diaphanous bogeyman?"

"No. .... It is just that I have seen their handiwork."

"When you were a child."

"Yes."

This was getting them nowhere. "Perhaps you could tell me in more detail, what you saw?"

"I was a child. Fleeing from Malachite for my life." Again, the far away look in Golden's dark eyes, that unfocused stare noticeable when Golden had first talked about this incident from his childhood. "There were adults ... leading me. All in a line. Starting here. I am sure this is the place. In my dreams, I see those rocks." Golden pointed to some purple rock formations ahead and to the right, a pile of rocks that was distinctive, a ridge of stone higher than any elevation for miles. "And, one by one, the line leaders, would be ... killed ... the unseen giants striking each one down in turn."

"Killed? How do you mean that?"

"Crushed."

"Knocked down?"

"Crushed. As if the greatest weight in all the world had fallen down upon them." John could see Golden began to tremble with that memory. "The next man would swing wide around the spot of the dead man -- who was not a man, now, but a wide film of skin and flesh and blood." John could see Golden shiver, as if racked by chills. The young man struggling to make himself stop shaking. "And the rest would follow. I was last in line. Presently, the next front man would be smashed. And we would go around that spot. And then the next. And then the next." Golden shook his head to clear away the dead men's ghosts. "Until .... only one servant remained.

"How he came through with me, I do not know. But he led me out of the land of giants, into the band of Stil-de-grain."

"And you thought that once you got back here, you could lead us through?"

"Yes."

"But you can't?"

"No. My dreams ... are not ... clear. One mistake ... in direction ....."

What Golden needed more than anything was confidence. John could see that. The story about Brobdingnagian spooks was absurd, of course. At the same time, caution forced John to admit that the sheer unbelievability of that tale did not mean that this forbidding terrain was entirely safe. In fact, John found himself looking around nervously. Not much of an example to be setting for Golden, he thought bitterly! It was just that, as an historian, John knew that legends like this sometimes contained the smallest grain of truth. In this instance, that some hidden danger might haunt this savage spot. On earth, for instance, solid looking terrain could disguise quick-sand; what looked like harmless plants and animals might be poisonous; seemingly friendly people could be back-stabbing bastards.

Considering the adage, "Desperate people do desperate things," was it time to "pull out all the stops?" Was it time to try ordering Golden to go forward? ..............

No.

With Golden so obviously frightened of something in this barren land, it was less than sensible to force the young man to continue against his "better" judgment. Surely, though, some way could be found to give Golden the confidence to continue of his own volition, at his own, prudent pace. "You say that, as a child, you knew the way?"

"I am sure of it."

"And that you see the way in dreams?"

"Yes. But dreams ... change. They are not entirely to be trusted."

John was getting a glimmer of an idea. Not much of one, maybe, still .......

Would Golden go along with what John was considering, even if such a thing were possible? "There may be a way of getting back to your childhood," John said, starting slowly, trying to "read" Golden as he spun out his idea. "A way of tapping your mind. ... Another way besides your dreams." Though Golden didn't look convinced, he was listening. Good. Even that was progress. "The Crystal. The Weird's Crystal? Don't I remember her saying that the Crystal showed not only the future, but also the present and the past?" Golden nodded. "If you can get her to show you the past -- your past -- if, by looking in the Crystal, you can focus on the time you were here before ...." Even as John spoke, he could see sweat break out on Golden's face, a profusion of sweat, Golden's features turning an even more sickly green than they usually looked under the verdant sky.

It was only then, a movement to the left causing John to glance around, that he noticed that the Weird had been listening to their conversation. "Out of it" most of the time, the old woman was easy to ignore.

John turned to her now, desperate for some way through this impasse. "Can you help Golden to see his childhood, when he was last in this place?"

"I will not look into the Crystal," Golden said flatly. For all his seeming self assurance, Golden had his limits. Looking in the Crystal was one of them. In that tone of voice, John believed him.

"Don' haf' look inna Cryst'l." The old women was shaking her head violently as she sometimes did when muttering to herself. Except that now, she seemed to be "tracking."

"There's another way to help Golden to relive his childhood?" John asked, trying his best to keep the Weird "with it."

"Don' haf' look inna Cryst'l. Look inna own head." John shrugged. What did she mean by that?

"I he'p. Comma me." She motioned for Golden to come closer to her, Golden standing there, sweating, a good ten feet from the Weird.

"What will you do?" Golden asked in a thin voice, Golden having difficulty maintaining the pose of his rigid self.

"Comma me."

After a long pause and a look to see if it was John's wish, Golden took hesitating steps in the Weird's direction, stopping well away from her.

"Jes watch," said the Weird, raising her hands, passing them before Golden's eyes like she waved them over the Crystal at the beginning of what John had come to think of as her "Crystal-bouts."

Next, the old woman began muttering, rhythmically, timing her nonsense sounds with the motions of her hands.

It was then that John knew what she was doing! She was hypnotizing Golden. Nothing magical about that. Although ... hypnosis had certainly seemed to be "magical" back on earth before people understood the process by which one person could gain control of the thoughts and feelings of another.

"Y'u go ba'k whenna y'u a chil'," said the Weird, speaking in cadence. "Y'u go ba'k whenna y'u here befo'." She kept up her circular hand-passes.

As for Golden, he looked more calm, his eyes following the Weird's hands, a sure sign, John thought, that the hypnosis was "taking."

John had to admire the Weird's skill. At the same time, knew that hypnosis wasn't much of a trick. You could even mesmerize a chicken or a rabbit. All it took was knowing how. No reason to credit the Weird with special powers just because she knew the "trick."

The Weird continued. "Y'u a chil', now. Y'u a chil' in this place. Men lead y'u. In a lin'." So, the Weird had been following Golden's explanation about the line of adults leading him out of the land of the "testy" giants.

Strange, but Golden now ... looked ... different. Seemed to be shriveling into a child-like version of himself, something "childish" in the way he stood, in the way he held his head. Something ...

"Y'u go now," said the Weird, waving her hand as a way of turning Golden about. "Go now."

And Golden .... went.

So they were off again toward the Stil-de-grain border. Through the land of unnoticeable Goliaths. Slowly.

Golden in the lead, John fell back to his "rear guard" position, Golden's movements (from what John could see of them) like those of a ... youngster, Golden leading them on a twisting path over the rock-strewn gray-green steppe. Until ... John began to notice ... little ... gusts of wind on that airless plain. Not gusts, actually, but puffs, as if there were whirlpools of moving air that dotted the wasteland they were crossing. It was difficult to be more precise than that because the land was so flinty there was not enough dust to make it possible to "see" the wind. "Whirlpools?" To say that the wind was twisting like what John had called "dust devils" as a child -- was also inaccurate. It was more correct just to say that, abruptly, John would feel a breeze ruffling the hair on his calves. (He'd gotten used to wearing a tunic by now. But not to strange little blasts of air on his bare legs.)

And speaking of strange, there was the course Golden was setting, a curving, zigzag passage around what first seemed to John to be imaginary walls, "visible" only to Golden. After some time, though, John came to believe that Golden was "dodging" the "breaths" of air that John had been feeling on his calves, going around them, between them.

A question among other questions was, since no air gusts could be felt until you were passing them, how could Golden tell in advance where such disturbances might be?

In this odd, sinuous way, they snaked along for half an hour, when, again, Golden came to a complete and sudden stop.

"What's wrong, Golden?" John asked, coming up around the others. (As usual, Golden was leading, the Weird next in line, then Platinia, with John still bringing up the rear, the little line carefully undulating to follow Golden's precise footsteps.)

"I cannot go any farther," Golden said in a high, childish voice.

"Why not?"

"I have fainted." Amazingly, Golden looked like he might cry. What??? Oh ... yes. If any proof was needed, this was a confirmation that the Weird had regressed Golden to his childhood, that Golden really had been following a memory trail through the "giant's" territory. Golden had said he had no recollection of how he'd finally gotten through this land, because the last "servant" had carried the child Golden when Golden had lost consciousness.

Without warning, Golden threw himself to the ground and curled into a fetal ball, head tucked into his knees, eyes hidden, hands over his ears.

For a long moment, John thought about what he was witnessing here, the women (even the Weird) as silent as the arid wilderness. Assuming that Golden remembered his childhood accurately, after the adults (had he called them servants?) were each killed in turn, Golden had panicked and, as he said, fainted. Under those circumstances, he would have no memory of which way to go. Even hypnosis can't help someone "remember" what that person doesn't "know" in the first place.

So where were they? Besides out in the middle of nowhere.

Hovering over them like an unlaid ghost was the larger question. Was there something dangerous in this barbarous land?

John glanced at the sky to see the light was fading, the coming dark reminding him of the so called dangerous animals released by the night -- though he hadn't seen any of those, either.

Looking down at Golden who was still curled into an embarrassing ball on the ground, then all around at the featureless plain, it was then that John first saw the wind phenomena he'd been feeling. Down-light coming fast, John noticed the evening fog form on the ground. Nothing remarkable about that. It was just that, scanning the flats, John could see the fog ... move. Not swirl, but ... move. Here ... and there. Fan out in circular patterns like smoke rings blown straight down upon a table. Like someone pouring pancake batter that quickly flattens to a thin disk in a heated pan.

Thinking about the unexpected ... and strangely beautiful ... phenomena he was seeing, and about the course Golden had set for them across this desolation, it seemed to John that Golden's path had taken them around the places where the fog was being "poured."

If avoiding the "pour spots" had been Golden's purpose -- as John increasingly believed -- now that John could see those "pours," John could take the lead.

Reaching down to stand up the quietly weeping Golden, John conducted the young man to the back of the line where John thought Golden would feel most comfortable.

John returning to take the "point," setting out, he veered right to steer around a place of settling fog, feeling, as he did so, that odd wind on his legs (the breeze nothing more than the fog as it settled out from the base of the "pour.") Without being able to see it until now, this was the wind he'd been feeling as Golden ushered them around such places.

On the other side of the "vent," looking up quickly at the rapidly darkening sky, it appeared to John that they were almost out from under the sky band of Malachite. Scoping ahead, the plain seemed to end in a line of mist-enshrouded hills.

Though the fog was growing thicker by the moment, did John see greenery on those hills -- trees?? Stil-de-grain?

If they hurried, they could make it before the light gave out entirely!

Before them, there was only one more place where the fog was "dumping" from the sky.

Pushing faster now, shepherding his little band on a sharp cut around the last fog "pan cake," John had gone no further than fifty yards when he felt his mist shrouded feet step onto grass. The change was that sudden. That dramatic. As if he'd stepped from a cobblestone road onto a grassy curbing.

Stil-de-grain. The grass said so. The darkening gold of the rim of sky above him said so. Feeling suddenly lighter, stronger -- confirmed it. Stil-de-grain at last!

Time to get the Weird to "wake up" Golden, or, as these people would probably say, take the "spell" or the "curse" off him. Time for someone to "think" the cooking stones into heat so the four of them could eat the last remaining scraps of food. Time to locate a spot to camp out for the night. (Golden was good at finding such places, "forts" against the "dangerous" animals that "prowled" after dark.)

Stopping, John slung off his pack, the women doing likewise, John motioning the Weird to wake Golden, which she did by snapping her fingers, Golden coming around but remaining groggy.

The pressure of traveling through stony land relieved, John was exhausted; so tired he was having trouble forming thoughts.

Hardly knowing what he did, the others waiting patiently for him, John turned to look back into Malachite, still able to make out the nearest "fog dump," the shaft of mist grown thick enough to resemble a "water spout" at sea. (John had seen a tornado sucking up a water column from the ocean -- in a TV special about weather.) Watching the fog "pour" down that "spout," then spread out over the ground to all sides, John wondered -- knowing that the citizens of this world always "went to ground" for the night -- if anyone else had ever observed these "fog pours."

It was then, as John gazed out over the cloudy plain, that he saw a bird wing out from Stil-de-grain to enter the "air space" of the Malachite plain, John continuing to track the bird (hawk, eagle, buzzard?) the great fowl wheeling, fighting the increased gravity under the gloomy, gray-green sky. Men had always envied the birds their ability to fly, their freedom. Da Vinci had made a study of gulls in an effort to copy their wing movements, the result -- Leonardo's sketch of a "flying machine." Too bad that a man's chest muscles lacked the strength to "row" him into the air.

Modern technology had provided super-light material, however. Using materials like mylar, man had achieved his dream of flying like the birds, by unaided muscle power. Technicians had built a man powered "bird" at last. Not "lofted" by man's feeble arms but by his much more robust legs. Bicycle peddles .........

It was then that the bird ... fell! Straight down! Directly into the last "pour."

Though John could not see the bird hit the foggy ground, he heard it! An impact like a thunderclap, the bird hammered in an instant to a film of blood and flesh. As if a transparent boulder ... had struck it down! A boulder hurled by a huge, invisible behemoth!

* * * * *

Chapter 17

Now, just before up-light, the inn was packed with boisterous men, young men, grizzled old men: soldiers, merchants, travelers -- all waiting for up-light to drive away the terrors of the dark. Though he could hear them across the crowded, table cluttered room, Golden could barely see them.

Golden and the others had been there most of the night, the Weird grumbling, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin ordering a halt. And that was fine with Golden. Golden needed a drink.

They had finished eating a late meal: bread, gravy and deer meat, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin leaving the table to take the Weird upstairs to their sleeping room.

The Weird. Golden reproached himself for being so afraid of the old woman.

The girl was still at the food-stained table, Golden hardly able to make out her small face in the room's insufficient torch light.

Even drink could not blot out what had happened on the journey through the land of giants when he'd been under the Weird's power. That was why he drank. Better to be drunk than to remember. Vaguely, Golden realized he must pull himself together. He was still Golden. The Weird had not stolen his soul. At least, she had given it back to him.

Guarded by Mage-Magic as he was, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had also been afraid. Though the Mage had not been frightened of the giants at first, he'd seen something ... dreadful ... in that awful land. Golden could tell by the questions of the Mage that morning. Always questions. But this time, serious ones. About the giants. Questions about what the Mage called "fog pours."

Early in the morning after their escape, fog still upon the ground, the Mage had Golden bury the soldier's uniform and the other clothing identifiable as Malachite, after that, had sent the rest of them ahead to find a road that went toward Hero Castle where the Mage wished to go. But the Mage said he was going back into the land of the giants to experiment with "fog pours." Insane! But how could a man argue with a Mage?

Golden had thought he might never see the Mage again; that the giants would kill John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.

Later, though, a shout from behind had told them John-Lyon-Pfnaravin lived, Golden yelling back so that the Mage would know they were on the road ahead.

They had waited, Pfnaravin presently appearing. Talking. Talking about what the Mage had called "gravity traps." About a thickening of gravity in spots so that the fog was pulled down to earth. About how birds flying over these heavy spots of gravity would be mashed flat. How, if you threw small rocks, they would fall down fast over such places. About sticking a branch into a gravity trap and having the end of it smashed to splinters on the rocks below. It was like Band sickness, the Mage had said. Terrible Band sickness -- but only in small areas.

While the Mage seemed able to smile at that, Golden needed to drink to forget the land of the giants; to forget that the Weird had taken away his soul.

And that was what Golden had been doing at every inn after that. Drinking to forget, drinking to shift his mind to something pleasant -- like love songs -- Golden trying to remember one he always liked. How did it start? Was it: "What is it makes me love so true?" .....

The rest was ... gone.

Golden's fear was ... not.

"'Nother drink, here!" Golden yelled over the din, the overworked tavern keeper signaling that he had heard. A tiny inn. One barkeep -- the owner. So many men drinking. Soldiers. War. The coming war.

Golden was more depressed than ever when he thought of war. Led astray by the usurper, how many of his people would be killed? Two bad kings. His uncle, Lithoid. And Yarro of Stil-de-grain. Without them, there would be no war.

A shaking of his arm aroused Golden. Head on the table, Golden had almost been asleep. "You must go to the room, now," said the girl, in Stil-de-grain.

The barman was also there with the new cup of wine, picking up the empty cup, wiping up a spill.

"You get 'way fro' me," Golden said to the Malachite girl. She understood simple words in her native tongue, enough to learn that Golden didn't take orders from her.

Golden fumbled out a gold from his purse, slapping it on the table for the barman, drawing tight the purse strings with exaggerated care, returning the purse to his belt pouch.

"I'll get you your change, sir," said the Stil-de-grain barkeep.

"You do that," Golden said, also in Stil-de-grain. Got to be careful what language you used here. War fever. Dangerous.

The barkeep walked away with the gold, a gold piece saying that Golden was a man of property. Get better service.

Across the room, Golden could see the tavern owner talking to men at the counter, the bartender gesturing at Golden with his eyes. Probably telling them Golden was a rich man. Get better service.

Golden drank deeply, the pleasant burn of alcohol fuzzing up his memories. Like it should. Drank to forget. The Weird. The war.

"You must go," said the girl again, tugging at the sleeve of Golden's traveling cloak. Cloak of a trader, Golden to be a merchant, now. Keep them safe. Dangerous times. With a final gulp, Golden downed the rest of the wine.

"Come," said the girl, standing, pulling on Golden's arm. "The Mage wishes it."

"Leav' me alone!" Golden cried. "You got cat hair on 'ya. Leav' me alone!"

Rough hands seized Golden then, pulling him to his feet. Who ...? Golden looked around with bleary eyes. There was an evil laugh in his ear. Three of the men who had been at the counter were holding Golden up.

"So," said one of the men quietly, "you speak Malachite when drunk." Golden could see that the man was a soldier. "Spies shouldn't drink. Makes you careless." Spies? What did the man mean? "Take the girl, too."

"Want me to tie 'em?"

"No. Take them upstairs to our room. We'll secure them there. Don't want to start a riot here. Don't know how many others here are spies."

"Look like Stil-de-grainers, to me," said another voice.

"Might not matter. Drunks like to fight. Who knows? This crowd might even want to kill the spies. Yarro wouldn't like that. And it is never wise to anger Yarro." There were mutterings of assent.

Golden was at a loss. Could not follow what was happening. "So let's do this quietly. After most have left, we'll get them out then." Golden had only understood one word.

"Spies?" Golden asked. "Who?"

"Let's go upstairs and discuss that, sir," said the first man, Golden feeling himself held up the armpits, pressed between two men, the third taking Platinia's wrist.

Then, they were being led through the revelers, the others shouting at them, laughing, calling insults about Golden being so drunk he needed help getting to bed. The men beside him smiled and shouted back good naturedly. To the stairs at the back. Up the stairs. Stumbling, being lifted, dragged. Past ... the Mage ... who was coming down.

The first stroke of luck was that John was upstairs when Golden and Platinia had been arrested. For he might have been captured, too. Had either Golden or Platinia made a mistake that had them typed as spies? The second, that no one had noticed the look of horror on John's face when he realized what had happened to the others. Coming down the inn stairs after getting Zwicia settled, it had been a shock to see that Golden and Platinia were in the custody of soldiers.

Not knowing what had happened, John thought it better to pretend not to know his friends, even though Platinia's eyes pleaded so piteously for him to help her.

John's third break was that up-light had come, most men in the bar able to leave to go about their business, John stepping to the end of the bar to order a tankard of the sweet beer they sold in Stil-de-grain, knowing that a free question came with the price of every drink.

Up-light translating John's English into Stil-de-grain, he could find out what he needed to know.

"What's going on?" John asked, taking the foaming stein from the barkeep, sipping the bubbles, wiping his wet mouth on the back of his hand as was the time-honored practice. John rolled his eyes at the stairs.

"Ya' mean them two?" The barman twitched his head at the stairs, one hand scratching his ample belly through his coarse, beer stained tunic, the other polishing the counter with a rag.

"I was coming down and it looked like soldiers had arrested somebody."

"That's right. Spies. Turned 'em in myself."

"Spies? How'd you know they were spies?"

"Heard the spy speak Malachite. Just before up-light, it was. Somethin' funny about 'em. Paid with a gold."

"Do you get a reward for turning in ... the spies?"

"Just the gold." The barkeep smiled his overly friendly, gap toothed grin.

"I've been hearing rumors about a war. Do a little business around the band. Travel some. I don't get out this way much."

"Had to fight 'em before, and we'll do 'er agin."

"Good for business, though," John said.

"You're right there. Lots of travelers in a war." The barkeep leaned closer. "Now don't take this wrong," he said, pleased to have an opinion to pass on, "but this 'en might not be sa easy."

"That right?"

"Yeah. Had the Mage for the last one. But he's dead. Least ways, that's what I hear. And, being so close to the Mage's castle as we are, I figure that's right."

"What's the Mage's name, again?"

"Melcor."

"He's dead, then?" It seemed that though there was a lot of talk about Mages, common men had no contact with them.

"That's what I hear. Accident, I heard."

"Malachite got a Mage and we don't, is that it?"

"They don't got one neither. Pfnaravin's their Mage. But he's gone. Been gone since the Mage War. No. It'd be even on that score. But I hear tell that the Malachites is joined ...," the barkeep lowered his voice, settling over the counter on his powerful forearms, "to the Black Band." The barkeep made a sour face. To match his breath. Straightening, he wiped an imaginary beer drop off the counter.

"That true?" John took another drink, trying to look like someone passing time with a little conversation.

"Like the las' time."

"Mage war?"

"That's right. 'Cept we got no Mage no more. If they're with the ... you know who ... then they got magic and we don't."

"And then there's spies like those others." John jerked his thumb at the stairs behind him. "The soldiers will take them to the Capital, I suppose? To Xanthin?"

"I guess. What else'd you do with spies? Try to make 'em talk. Tell where their friends is."

And that was all John could learn from the inn-keeper.

Needing to trail Platinia and Golden, John went upstairs to explain the situation to the Weird; had gotten Zwicia to part with some of her hocus-pocus money for traveling expenses. (He could only hope she'd stay in the inn where he'd told her to remain, John still hoping her Crystal was the key to his return to "the world," an attempt he'd been forced to delay -- again!)

John's luck holding, he avoided capture during the days he trailed the soldiers and their prisoners, John able to blend in with other travelers along the way.

Nor was John seen taking the cable ship across the river, nor recognized when buying passage on the ferry the soldiers took to Xanthin island.

Off the boat in Xanthin, shoving his way through the crowd (the soldiers themselves having trouble making progress,) John tracked the guards long enough to see that, sure enough, they were taking Golden and Platinia to Yarro's palace. Just where in the palace, John had a good idea.

Certain of Platinia's ultimate destination, John had doubled back to the harbor to be impressed with how many naval vessels crowded the docks -- the King of Stil-de-grain also preparing for war.

If John's luck held and this world worked like Medieval England, the king would even have called his merchant ships home, increasing John's chance of finding the Roamer .

And there she was, tied near the end of a mole!

Swinging on board, renewing acquaintances, John found the crew pleased to see him but angry at being prevented from taking on cargo, Yarro fearful that someone would carry intelligence to Malachite, the best way of maintaining security, preventing any ship from leaving the harbor.

The comradery of shipmates plus the captain's irritation with King Yarro had made it possible for John to enlist Coluth (and two handpicked sailors) in John's plot to "spring" Golden and Platinia.

All background, leading to the moment; John and the three sailors rowing a fishing skiff along the back side of Yarro's Palace-on-the-cliff.

"There," John said, pausing in mid-stoke to point at an indentation in the beach, the captain nodding, giving the order to the sailors rowing at the back to steer for the land.

John and the captain continuing to ply their oars, the Captain's men, Orig and Philelph, used their paddles as rudders to turn the dinghy so that its bow nosed onto the narrow strand beneath the sheer rock cliff.

John double checked the location. ....... Yes! There was the hole in the cliff where Golden had hidden the rowboat that had allowed them to escape some months earlier. If only Golden's pins were still in the cliff ....

Grounding the craft on the sand, unpacking the skiff, the four of them walked along the sandy base of the sheer stone embankment, John leading, the sailors behind him shouldering coils of various weights of rope, grappling hooks, cargo harness, and one gigantic pliers-like chain breaker. It helped to have well equipped friends in the merchant marine, no doubt of that.

Just around the next bend should be where Golden had climbed down the cliff, an involuntary shudder racking John at the memory of carrying Platinia down Golden's slender rope!

Yes! Coming to the spot, looking up, John could see the first of the iron pegs just above his head. "There's the first one."

"I see it," said captain Coluth. "Ya see it, Orig?"

"Right, sir," said the wiry, little man.

Unlimbering a great coil of knotted line, Orig tossed up the end of the rope, its grapple catching on the peg, Orig climbing hand over hand to the stanchion. Once there, holding the spike with one hand, the wiry old sailor swung the grapple to the next higher peg, missing only once, hooking it on the second try.

Monkeying up the rope, he repeated the process until he'd scaled the cliff, the long, knotted rope trailing down for the rest of them to climb, all pulling up with ease -- even John -- who, while increasingly nervous as he gained height, was pleased to be able to climb without the help of the cargo harness the captain had insisted on bringing as a means of hauling landlubber John up the cliff. (Band sickness in reverse meant that John had his super strength back now that he'd returned to Stil-de-grain.)

The four of them standing on the plateau behind the back of Yarro's Palace, the sailors checked their gear, Orig coiling his grappling rope, Philelph looping the knotted climbing rope over his shoulder.

As before, no guards.

All in readiness, John led the sailors beneath the dungeon window.

Again, with grapple and rope, the sailors scaled the Palace wall, the building's stone blocks irregular enough for the grapple points to catch.

This time, John did have to be pulled up in harness. (Not strength, but a sailor's grace and balance on the perpendicular wall was what he lacked.)

Drenched with sweat, the four of them were now on the narrow ledge outside the high, dungeon window, John pressed against the building, breathing shallowly, the sailors seemingly at ease with the height.

Though they were prepared to winch out the bars if need be, they found that the iron rods were still bent just as John had left them on his previous escape, meaning their captors had not figured out how John, Golden, and Platinia had escaped from the dungeon. Did the king attribute their getaway to confederates in the Palace? Was it possible the king believed John's magic had aided the three of them to make their break? Who knew what went through people's minds in a Medieval world!

Tying the climbing rope to the bars, the four of them had an easy time lowering themselves to the dungeon floor.

To find Platinia and Golden chained as before, no additional security posted to guard them.

Of Course! Since Golden and Platinia had not been recognized as the escaped prisoners, they'd been thrown in the pit like any common felon.

The only difference John could see from when he himself was incarcerated in this rank dungeon, was that there were more captives chained to the walls, rounded up as a result of war hysteria, John guessed.

Ignoring the other prisoners' pleadings to be freed, with the use of the chain breaker on the manacle cuffs (no percentage in pulling chains out of the wall when you didn't have to) all of them -- Golden helping with Platinia -- were up the rope and out the window in short order.

Nor did it take long to get down the outside of the castle wall and to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea.

It was when they were descending the escarpment on the way to the skiff that they ran into trouble! The two crewmen already down to get the boat in the water, Philelph positioning the oars in the wooden locks, Orig, two steps into the water to steady the boat, John, Platinia, and the captain still struggling over the rock pile at the bottom of the cliff -- they heard .....

Golden? Still on the bluff above?

After that, came a muffled shout. A soldier!? Another cry. Two soldiers?

"Get away!" That was Golden, leaning over the edge, waving his arms at them. "Don't wait. I can out run them! I'll meet you where you came from!" And Golden disappeared, followed by more shouts ... that faded .........

And "get away" they did, hoping the soldiers were so busy chasing Golden they wouldn't look over the cliff; or if they did see the small boat, wouldn't think to send messenger birds up the coast to have a cruiser in wait for them.

But ... nothing happened, the crew rowing the boat around the island without further incident.

Turning the craft over to the captain's fisherman friend who owned it, they were able to pick their way through the crowds to the harbor where they boarded the Roamer .

Followed by a worrisome week, John trying to occupy his mind by helping with ship's maintenance, a little caulking with what looked like tar, plus the replacement of waterlogged timber.

No Golden.

Figuring that Golden had gotten caught, John considered suggesting another rescue attempt -- but rejected it. Not, he was certain after some soul searching, because Golden was far from lovable. It was that the captain and his men had taken more than their share of risks. Anyway, there was no way to plan another escape, if for no other reason than that the prisoners they hadn't released when springing Platinia and Golden -- for revenge or to curry favor -- would have told their jailers how the escape had been affected. The window entrance to the dungeon would be sealed. Traps laid for them.

Golden was on his own.

The next extraordinary event came later in the week, starting with a frenzied increase in activity on the dock and on the streets up the harbor's hill, solders marching down the quay in force, the Roamer's crew at the pier-side rail.

After boarding ships up the line, the corps of soldiers got to the Roamer , tied as she was, near the end of the mole. Climbed the gangplank.

"You are the Captain?" the leather-tough leader of the detail asked Coluth, the ship's sailors backing their Captain as he faced the boarding party amid-ship.

"Yes, sir," said the Captain with a short, ungraceful bow. (Coluth wasn't used to bowing to anyone. For all the Captain's gentle ways, he was accustomed to being obeyed, not to obeying.) "What's the matter?"

"Line up your crew."

Behind the officer, his soldiers -- ten, twelve -- formed into a smart, tight rank.

In answer, Coluth waved his hand, his sailors, John included, doing their scraggly best to line up behind Coluth, the military man stocking to the end of the sailors before pacing back slowly, looking each seaman over carefully as he went by.

"This is all of them?"

Coluth nodded, as an afterthought, pointed to Platinia who was sitting with her back against a cask at the rear of the boat, the squad leader ignoring her.

"No Malachites here who are not sailors, if that's who you're lookin' for," said Coluth.

When the officer said nothing, Coluth asked again. "What's the trouble?"

"And this ship is your ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"Its name and origin?"

"It's the Roamer ; built in this very harbor, she was."

"Yes, I saw the construction marks when I came on board," agreed the squad leader. "You can't be too careful in these times. The assassin could be anywhere."

"Assassin?" The Captain's eyebrows went up.

"Yes. Didn't you know? The King ... has been assassinated." The officer said it unemotionally. All military? Or could it be that the fellow had as little reason to love King Yarro as everyone else?

"Yarro?!" Coluth asked, incredulously.

"Yarro ... may he go to Fulgur. ... A hard man. ... Long may his son, King Yarro, reign!" The captain saluted, fist clinched, right forearm brought smartly to an elevated diagonal across his chest.

"If I have heard aright," Coluth said, hesitantly, "his son is but a ......" Coluth shrugged.

"Under age." The squad leader shook his close cropped head. "No Mage. No king. A coming war ...."

With that, fearful he'd said too much already, the leader brusquely ordered his search party off the boat, down the slip, and onto the next vessel.

Leaving the Roamer's crew buzzing with the news.

Yarro dead. While it was impossible for John to crank up any sympathy for a man who'd chained him to a wall, Yarro's death made a difference in all their lives. Like the troop leader seemed to think, Stil-de-grain could come apart before the war started. And to think that John had wanted to leave Malachite to keep from being caught there for the duration. How much worse could it be than to be trapped in a country slated for defeat!?

The compensating factor was that here, John was closer to Hero Castle -- provided he could find some way to provide the static he needed to take him home.

For that matter, since all ships were confined to the harbor during the emergency -- security bound to be even tighter with the King's assassination -- how was John to get back to the mainland? He could swim again. But how would he get Platinia across? (John couldn't leave the fragile girl at the mercy of a war.)

Nor could John presume on the Captain's friendship to ask for sailors to row them to the mainland, these good men already doing more than enough for John and for John's party. With Stil-de-grain in turmoil, anyone caught without an explanation for his activities risked execution.

The last in this peculiar chain of events occurred the following day, starting with a woman prancing down the dock, idle sailors and stevedores calling after her, offering their services in any capacity she might want to use them.

Next, to John's complete surprise, the woman paused at the Roamer gangplank, turned, and climbed it, stepping off nimbly on the deck, the ship's crew quickly surrounding her to the cat calls of jealous sailors on adjoining boats, macho remarks shouted back from the sailors of Coluth's boat.

Apparently satisfied that the ring of sailors was hiding her from the view of idlers on the dock and from the other crews, the woman suddenly took off ... her ... hair. And standing before them, in a colorful woman's tunic ...was ... Golden!

"How did you ....!" John started .....

"Shuuuu," Golden said, holding up his hand for quiet. Recognizing Golden immediately, the other sailors huddled even tighter to protect their young comrade from prying eyes.

"Mornin'," said Captain Coluth, who'd just come up, the seaman's colorless eyes speaking his relief.

"The same," said Golden in a more human tone than John had heard him use. To John, Golden seemed as shaken as when newly released from the Weird's trance. Was pale. Perspiring.

"How did you escape?" John asked, still stunned.

"I ........"

"May we talk in the hold?" John asked Coluth, getting the Captain's nod.

Meanwhile, Golden was removing his longer, woman's tunic, his short, man's tunic underneath.

The Captain's permission given, Golden climbed down the steep hold steps at the ship's center, John following, Golden thinking alight a torch set in the hull just above the bottom step. Except for evenly spaced squares of pig-iron ballast, the hold was empty, cavernous, and smelling like the inside of a hollow log. Musty. With a hint of wet decay.

With several empty half-casks lying about, John picked one up, upending it on the flat, ship hull, John sitting down on the cask's bottom, Golden doing the same with another barrel, sitting near John, facing him.

"First, I'm glad to see you," John said. And he was. He didn't care much for Golden, true. At the same time, John hated to think of Golden being Yarro's prisoner. "I didn't want to leave you back at the cliff."

"You had no choice. You had to go." Golden spoke in his usual melodious tones, but gently, the sound of both their voices echoing softly around the empty, hold.

"And we did. But no one wanted to. We just didn't see how we could have helped you. .... What happened to you?"

"I ... I ...." Golden looked down at the shadowed, pig iron blocks on the ship bottom. If he looked at anything.

It was time -- past time -- to get some answers from this secretive young man.

"You've got to be completely honest with me, Golden. There's about to be a war. Everyone's got to know where everyone stands. It may be a matter of life and death. The Captain and his men could be thrown into the king's dungeon, mutilated, murdered -- for what they've done for us already."

"I ... know."

"There's a lot about you I don't understand. For instance, you call yourself Golden. But that's your 'stage' name, isn't it? Not your real name?" John was guessing, but a good guess, he thought.

"Yes."

"And your name is ...?" John could see Golden take a deep breath.

"I am Cleadon, son of Cleadon." Golden squared his shoulders; sat a little taller, Golden thinking the name ought to mean something to John. "You will remember my father."

"Ah .... no."

"But you are Pfnaravin." Golden was pleading with John, now. "Not I alone, but you also, must reveal yourself at such a time." He rushed on. "You are the only one who can stop the war!"

Golden looked away, shook his head as if trying to clear it. "I thought I could stop it, but I have failed." Then, more haltingly, "The usurper, Lithoid, the brother of my father -- is allied with the dark Mage. As he was before. He had my father killed before the Mage war, and seized the throne." Golden looked up at John intently. "You must help me regain my rightful place as King of Malachite so that I can stop this war!"

"I do remember your saying that you're from Malachite, originally," John said, stalling while trying to digest this machine gun burst of "facts."

"I know that many men claim to be the heir of King Cleadon." Golden continued, both hands waving away these "other's" claims. "It was the loyal courtiers of my father who rescued me from Bice, when I was to be killed. They were the ones who led me across the land of the giants. They were all killed but the one who got me through. Though you might not remember me as a child, you, more than anyone, have seen the proof of this!" Another piece clicked into place -- Golden escaping from Malachite through the land of "invisible giants," the dangers of which, John now had reason to believe, were concentrated spots of heavy gravity.

John decided to reverse the "polarity" of the conversation. "And where have you been all this time?"

"In the Palace."

"Yarro's Palace!?"

"There are places to hide there. Before, while waiting to entertain, I learned of such places." Good. John felt he was getting the truth from Golden at last, Golden's "hiding places" squaring nicely with the ease with which Golden had been able to conceal John and Platinia as the three of them were making their first escape from Yarro's dungeon.

"And what were you doing there? Did it take you all this time to make your way out of the Palace?" After the second escape from the dungeon, security would have been tightened.

"No. I was ... trying to prevent the conflict between my suffering people and those of Stil-de-grain. Only the two kings and the evil one want such a war."

"And how were you going to do that?"

"You do not know," Golden said softly, bowing his head as if John were about to punish him. "I should have told you, but ... I thought you knew." He looked up at John again, his eyes pleading in the dim flicker of the ship-hold torch. "After you left this world for the next, your Crystal, which you left behind, was stolen by King Yarro. I was ... trying to get it back for you." Golden said the last sentence in a rush: as a child tells only part of the facts. Perhaps Golden wished the Crystal for himself?

Feeling he was getting at least most of the truth from Golden at last, John decided to let it pass.

"The treasure room was heavily guarded," Golden continued, seeming to see it all again in his mind's eye. "And your Crystal may not have been in the treasure room. Yarro could have many hiding places in the palace for a thing of incomparable value. He could have had it about his neck. But ... he did not. I had no time to search further. I was almost ... caught."

As Golden rattled on, John began to consider something else. If Golden had stayed behind, as he said, to "stop the war," then he had done so deliberately, meaning that Golden himself had made those sounds of soldiers on the cliff.

"So what is it you would have me do?"

"If I had gotten your Crystal, you could have left this place, taken ship to Malachite. Then," Golden continued hopefully, "presented yourself to the usurper; demand that he recognize you as the Mage. Pfnaravin, Crystal Mage of Malachite!" Golden's dark eyes shone as if with an inner vision. "And you could have made me king! As king, I would have stopped this war."

"Without 'my' Crystal, what can I do?" John had decided to play along.

"You have the yellow Crystal of Melcor." So, Golden knew about that, too. And John had been so careful to hide that little bauble ... from everyone. Had Platinia told Golden about the Crystal? "Yarro is dead. Present yourself as the Mage of Stil-de-grain to the young king. Show him the Crystal. He must make you his Mage. Then find a way to stop this war!"

John Lyon, Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain!

If the prospect wasn't so frightening, the title had a nice ring to it. But could John pass himself off as the Mage of Stil-de-grain?

"Why not?" said his "little devil" self. Though taking every opportunity to deny it, he was still being taken for Pfnaravin, lost Mage of Malachite.

At first not inclined to "play" what had to be a dangerous game, John now must consider where his duty lay. He'd been to Malachite; he'd seen the naval build-up here. The hysteria.

And John would like to stop the war. As an historian, John knew that anyone who could preserve the peace -- should.

"And you think I could do it, assume the role of Mage of Stil-de-grain?"

"Without question, great Mage."

"I would need the proper clothing."

"I could have that for you in a day, John-Lyon."

A bluff was what they were talking about. On the other hand, John had already run a number of deceptions in this world. All of them successful.

Then, too, though there was still much he didn't know about this place, he had the knowledge of a superior civilization to aid him.

As a hedge against disaster, becoming Stil-de-grain's Mage might give him the power to do static electricity experimentation. Assuming his research went well, he was close enough to Hero Castle to escape to his own world at the first sign this "Wizard business" was falling apart. Looked at from that direction, pretending to be Stil-de-grain's Mage might be the safest of all options available to him.

John stood suddenly, motioning for Golden to stand as well. "Do you know what the Mage of Stil-de-grain is expected to do?"

"Who knows about Mages, John-Lyon."

"Like the 500 pound gorilla, anything he likes?"

"Pardon me, but ...."

"Never mind. I suppose that the Mage has enough influence to do what he pleases."

"That is certainly so, sir."

"Then I might as well be the Wizard of this band as the next."

John had a cautious thought. "You want me to stop the war, then make you King of Malachite?" Golden bowed deeply, reverentially. "What if I can't do that? Suppose war momentum is too great, even for me to stop?

"I know that might happen, sir. That there is a greater force ... some would call it the power of the gods, or fate ...." Golden stopped, at a loss to explain the unexplainable, Golden, to his credit, displaying more modesty in the face of imponderables than your average preacher in John's world.

"What I wanted to ask is this. Should war come in spite of all I can do to prevent it, what will you, as a man of Malachite, do?"

"Sir?"

"If the Malachite navy comes, where will you stand?"

"Why ... with you, great Mage."

"No matter what? No matter if it means fighting your own countrymen?"

"I would not be fighting them, sir. I would be fighting against the usurper, Lithoid."

"I see. That relieves my mind, Golden. I need people around me who I can trust."

"You can trust me, great Mage. Always."

Yes. Except that in both love and war, "always" did not necessarily mean "forever." In a political context, in fact, "always" meant as long as you, yourself, were benefited, in this situation, "always" meaning as long as Golden had a chance to regain Golden's "rightful" throne.

For the moment, though, John was pleased with Golden's new found candor. So much so, that John had refrained from asking what could very well be an embarrassing question. How it was that Golden knew the green Crystal of Pfnaravin -- was not about King Yarro's neck!

* * * * *

Chapter 18

"And the latest intelligence?" John had to ask for the most elementary information. It was maddening. A combination of too much respect and too little competence might yet be the death of Stil-de-grain.

Across the polished walnut table in the marble columned, third floor chamber that John had dubbed the "war room," army Head, Etexin and his younger Head Second, Flebb, smiled and nodded. Tell the Mage of Stil-de-grain what he wanted to hear, was their passionate desire. Anything but the "ugly" truth.

Just how quickly a ruler could become isolated from his people was an historical theme John had stressed with his students, this phenomenon the result of friends and functionaries hiding unpleasant realities from "the boss." And now John found himself the "beneficiary" of this same, dangerous pollyannaism. No one wanted to upset him; everyone wished to be the bearer of only the "gladdest" of glad tidings.

"Everything goes well, great Mage." Though too small to command respect-at-a-glance, Etexin had grown a goatee which compensated for his weak-to-non-existent chin. Almost.

Etexin's Second, Flebb, wishing nothing so much as to be in agreement with his Head, nodded vigorously enough to rustle the stiff, gold braid on the shoulders of his dress tunic. They were both so eager to please.

"From now on," John said dryly, "all messages are to be brought to me directly." The Head nodded.

"Any reconnaissance about when the Malachite mobilization will turn into an attack?"

"No sir." Etexin placed his weathered hands palm down on the tabletop, his blunt fingers wiggling nervously.

"Any guesses?"

"Surely, great one, they will not invade now that you have become the Mage. Your overwhelming power will ..."

It had been like that since John had fooled everyone into believing he was Stil-de-grain's Wizard. Golden had been right. The right clothes, the yellow Crystal, a talent for bold lying, and John Lyon, "Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain," had been installed in sumptuous accommodations in Xanthin Palace, John's first decree: that no one be allowed to disturb a Wizard after down-light -- on pain of being turned into a grease spot. John didn't want to think about what would happen to him if the "folks hereabouts" discovered that their Mage didn't speak Stil-de-grain!

The young king -- a child of nine (and acting younger) -- had proved to be a cipher; all the problems of rule immediately dumped in John's lap. John Lyon, defacto King of Stil-de-grain -- the power behind a very shaky throne.

Golden and Platinia, Platinia in black, Golden dressed like John in a white robes (though less magnificently) sat behind John in armed, high-back chairs, there as much to frame the magnificence of their Mage as for any other purpose, both continuing to provide John with the help he'd come to expect from them. ...... Little and none.

As for his elevation to the job of Mage, it hadn't hurt to be arriving at a time of crisis, Yarro assassinated -- though the head of the guards denied it; insisting Yarro had died of apoplexy after some felon had stolen into the king's bedchamber.

In the negative column, the Malachites continued to muster their forces, no help to be expected from Stil-de-grain's child-ruler who kept lisping, "I don't want to be king," before bursting into tears.

It went well beyond understatement to say that Stil-de-grain was in need of leadership!

There had already been limited progress under John's administration -- political prisoners freed -- a squad of soldiers sent for the Weird, Zwicia now installed in the Palace along with Platinia and Golden.

At first, John could find nothing for Platinia to do. (Cat petting had its limitations as a useful skill.) She couldn't, for instance, be used for an advisor, the girl knowing next to nothing about her world. She had no technical know-how. No ambition.

In was only later that John discovered -- at first doubting his own observations -- that "things" went better when Platinia was in the room. John had even done some crude testing of that thesis. Both with, then without Platinia, John had held meetings -- with LaVayer, the Palace butler, Kabir, Head of the guards, the wine steward, assorted merchant princes who craved audiences about trade matters, the army and navy Heads. And in every case, the meetings had been more productive when Platinia was near him. Not that she did anything. She never did anything. Just sat and stared. Still, if a scientific term could be applied to her presence, her "being there" served as a kind of catalyst to other activities ... made everything work smoother, seem more pleasurable. Why? Was it that people were on their best behavior with a woman in the room? John didn't know. .... Not that it mattered, since there was no reason Platinia-and-cat should not be beside him.

As for Golden, John had to admit that the young man had been helpful in getting John orientated to the Palace. For Golden did -- as he claimed -- know the Palace's nooks and crannies. For now, John was keeping Golden on a tight leash, it better to have that secretive man-of-many-talents where John could see him than to let Golden recede into the shadows. Golden was a Malachite, after all, and what's more, one with delusions of grandeur. Then again, it was never wise to take anyone for granted, particularly someone who has intimate access to you. Ignore a crony, and you could find him popping out of the woodwork at you.

John had even taken the time to think about "woodwork popping" and Yarro's fate. For instance, wasn't that tale of Yarro dropping dead of a temper tantrum a bit too convenient, especially for those charged with guarding Yarro's life? The king assassinated on my watch? Certainly not. He just ... had a stroke.

After considerable thought, John had decided to keep Kabir on as Head of the guards, figuring that no one would defend the Palace with such fanatical devotion (Kabir not having a hope of surviving a second "assassination" of someone he was protecting.) The result? That Kabir's guards were always with John and John's people, marching before and behind them, securing doors, frisking visitors to the Palace, and standing watch before bedroom doors throughout the night. While annoying, John thought additional security a necessity during war time. (John was also pleased to know that Golden -- under heavy guard like John -- would make no nighttime "ramble" through the Palace without security, and therefore John, being aware of it. The more John knew about Golden's whereabouts, the better John liked it!)

It was with minor decisions like these that John had begun to "rule," John needing to remember to at least pretend to be carrying out the orders of the boy king.

If John had made any mistakes so far, it was his early lack of attention to the protocol of the palace (like king-consultation,) empty gestures to be sure, but ceremonies essential to the preservation of the kind of kingly grandeur that buttressed authority. John must remember that no less a political savant than Machiavelli had stressed that it was often more important to the enhancement of a ruler's power to look good than to be good.

More than protocol, an even greater "black hole" into which John's days disappeared was routine. With the young king unfit for any duties, John had to receive foreign dignitaries, hear complaints about taxes from those most able to pay them, even supervise the work of Palace slaveys. Once a day, John must be shaved by the fussy palace barber, Quig. Had even allowed Quig to style John's hair in the modishly long, Stil-de-grain bob.

John also had to be fitted for robes that reflected the glory of Stil-de-grain's wealth and worldly position.

Serious concerns were fitted in around what really mattered -- the continuity of daily life. One of these serious concerns ... war!

Put in charge of the "war effort," John had started that task by asking to see a map, only to be told there weren't any. (Why was John not surprised?)

So making a map was the first task John assigned to Golden. (Who better to employ as court cartographer than the man who claimed to have been everywhere?) And the map Golden had drawn on a sheet of parchment -- had turned out quite well, not withstanding the fact that, from a distance, it looked like a pizza with everything on it. (As much as anything, John had begun to miss familiar foods!)

The map showed the Tartrazine, John crossing that river both as a prisoner and as a friend of prisoners and, further "West," the lake of Quince. In addition, Golden inked in a number of cities John had never heard of: Orpiment, Carotene. And features: the Delta Ridge, River's end, the Leech, and Eyeland in the center, John pleased that the map reflected what he, himself, had learned about the bands. As for the blank spaces, was it because there were few important locations to be noted, or was this lack of detail the result of people traveling so little they were only minimally familiar with their world's geography?

Note: to see Golden's maps, go to: www.johnstockmyer.com/books/uts/

While the map was being drawn, John had continued to ask questions. First, of Golden. Then, as John became more familiar with his surroundings, of others.

For instance, fearing that his lack of religious knowledge might cause John to make an unforgivable faux pas, John had tried some tactful questions about this world's beliefs. To find to his relief that, though every band had its unique religion -- jumbles of male and female fertility deities, hawk-headed gods, absurd rituals, world-as-an-egg legends, divinity consumption ceremonies, incarnation fables, sacrificial scapegoats, blood drinking, and mutilation -- John found that religion seemed to "run its own," ghastly game. Like Mages, priests had little to do with the people, the sole function of priests, to "tend" various gods. With religion at the margins of society, John felt it safe to postpone studying the place's myths, anything he could "put on hold" for the moment a "gift from the gods."

Establishing command -- advisors met, experts consulted, economists ignored -- John felt himself (as California crazies would put it) "centered" enough to begin planning the island's defense, the first step, a fact finding tour of the island's perimeter in a forty-oared, big brother of the "skimmer" he and Coluth's men had used to rescue Platinia and Golden, John discovering that the sea around the island -- at 200 yards -- was nowhere deeper than a fathom. In short, too shallow for either this world's military cutters or its deeper-draft merchant boats to get anywhere near the island. The single exception was Xanthin's port, where both the sea approach to the harbor's mouth (as well as the water in the harbor itself) was deep enough to float capital ships. It followed -- though no one in the military seemed to have thought of it -- that a "marine" landing could not be expected anywhere on the island except through the harbor mouth itself. John's master plan? Defend the island's single port and there was nowhere else an enemy could off-load troops. Unless -- John's speculation strengthened by his knowledge of the Normandy invasion in World War II, and in particular of Omaha Beach -- the foe had small "landing craft" in which to ferry troops over the shallows to the island's shores. No possibility of LCTs, the navy Head had assured him, Vancu astonished at a "radical" idea like small-assault-craft.)

Meanwhile, John had learned that this world's only naval "weapon" was boarding -- grappling lines used to lash warring boats together, the boats' marines fighting over the railings -- pirate style. A little archery, maybe. But mostly sword play. Very Errol Flynn.

"Assuming my magical powers are less impressive to the enemy than to you," John said, his wandering thoughts returning to Etexin's hopes for a Wizardly win, "what is your best estimate of when the enemy's navy can assault Xanthin island?"

"I should think ... not less than sixty up-lights, great Mage." Etexin pinched the corners of his thin mouth with forefinger and thumb, making his lips into an O.

"And how do you arrive at that estimate?"

"The messenger bird of this morning revealed that it would take another thirty up-lights to gather food for the Malachite marines; a similar time for the armada to row from Bice harbor to Xanthin." When Etexin said the messenger bird "told" him this information, he wasn't using a metaphor. John had learned that messenger birds were this world's equivalent of parrots, messages taught to these "homing-pigeon-birds," the birds "parroting" the information upon arrival at home "perch." (How long it took to train the birds, John didn't know. Just another, completely stupid local custom John planned to change when he had the time.)

Two months to arrange the island's defense; enough time if the data about the arrival of the Malachite navy was anywhere near accurate. "And by the way, where is Vancu?" Vancu was the Navy Head, one of the staff officers John had summoned to the meeting.

"Taking soundings in the harbor as you order, sir. You may expect him shortly."

An update that was followed by fifteen minutes of finger drumming silence before the richly embossed walnut door swung open across the way to reveal the weathered Vancu -- yellow sash across his sunken chest -- the elderly Navy Head entering, pivoting to close the thick door behind him.

Turning again, the Navy Head bowed to John, then crossed the room with the rolling gait of sailors everywhere. Another bow and Vancu eased his old bones into a vacant, gold edged, straight chair close to John but on the unused side of the ceremonially long table at room center.

"The soundings?"

"As you expected, great Mage, the harbor is the only point of entry for capital ships." The Head's voice had the husky quality of vocal cords preserved in brine.

"All right!" John was as satisfied as he could be -- given the fact that he wasn't sure of the competence of the men on whom he must rely. Had any of these officers actually been in a war? Though they sometimes spoke of wars as if they'd been personally involved, John couldn't be sure. And hated to show his ignorance by asking.

Looking at each man in turn, John was determined to start the meeting with some straight answers. "From what I've been able to gather, "heavy band" Malachites being stronger than the men of Stil-de-grain, we need overwhelming odds on our side to have a chance of defeating them. Fighting man to man, won't do it."

"Regrettably, that is true, sir," said the Navy Head, absentmindedly combing the fingers of one hand through his gray-patched beard. Just another old man -- and they were legion in both worlds -- who, when hair deserted his head, had decided to grow some on his face.

"How do we match up ship-for-ship?"

"We have more ships, sir."

"Enough to overwhelm the strength of their men?"

"Ah ....." To be interpreted: doubtful, at best.

"Has anyone thought about sinking their ships instead of fighting over the decks from ship to ship?" Blank stares all around.

"But ... how could that be done ....?" From the horrified look on the Head's shriveled face, Vancu's question was not really how to sink a ship but why anyone would want to "commit that kind of murder"? Even the thought of deliberately damaging a ship was heresy to Vancu.

John had to agree, of course, that in anything but a mad, mad world, keeping ships afloat should be the first concern of sailors. But this was war, in wartime, people encouraged to be insane. In battle, the willful destruction of property: pillaging, maiming, raping, slaughter -- were normal human activities, those most skilled in these villainous pursuits considered to be the most valuable and virtuous of citizens.

"The best way ..." (John almost said given your lack of technology) "... is ramming." To demonstrate, John motioned for a piece of paper to be brought to him from a filigreed end table against the wall, Golden, always to John's right and behind him, bringing a sheet of paper (vellum), a quill pen, and an ink pot. "Here's what you do." Dipping the pen, John quickly scratched the side view of a cruiser, adding a ram to its bow, a stout pole mounted just below the water line, preceding the ship by several yards.

For his part, the Head leaned over to watch John sketch. "The ram is to be of bronze, sharply pointed so it can pierce a ship's side. You've got to shore up the bow behind the ram, of course." John drew in some reinforcing timbers. Triangles of them. "The ram is for punching an underwater hole in the side of the enemy's ship. After doing that, you back oars to pull out the ram; the enemy ship fills with water and sinks. No boarding. No hand-to-hand fighting -- nullifying the individual strength of their marines."

John put down the pen and leaned back in his chair, the navy man watching him with rapt attention but with no expression on his face. "Since ramming's never been done before, it should take them by complete surprise." The finisher!

The Navy Head was nodding now -- but without enthusiasm. "Rams like these," John said, pressing, "could be added to the cruisers before the Malachites arrive, don't you think?"

"Yes. There would be time. But ...." Showing his anxiety at having to say "but" to a Mage, wanting to do something with his hands, Vancu began the nervous smoothing of his long departed hair.

"But?" John tried to keep irritation from his voice. God, these people were ... slow!

"But you are our Mage. Will you not simply repel their ships with your power?" ............

Of course! That was why this world had so little in the way of technical innovation! Not because people were stupid but because magic was supposed to do all the hard work. Just call on your Mage to blast them.

"I don't know if you realize this," John said, using the Head's question to make a point that might save John embarrassment at some later date, "but the powers of a Mage are strictly limited." Vancu (as did the other two military men at the table) looked shocked. "I must conserve as much of my potency as possible to use against any magic the enemy might throw against us." Far from convinced, Etexin was pinching in the corners of his lips, Vancu touching his beard -- here -- there -- as if to assure himself that it had not departed.

What could John use to convince them. Xenophobia? Paranoia? Ah! Fear of the unknown was always good! "You have heard the rumor that Malachite is in league with the Dark Mage? If this is true, I may have to use all my magic to block the evil Wizard's power."

At that, they nodded. Were impressed by the argument of how much magical force would be needed to thwart "evil."

"During the war -- my powers engaged elsewhere -- you may be on your own. Is that clear?" Nods all around, the final decision: that rams were to be added to the cruisers, making them "ship killers." To put it another way, all the latest in seventh century weaponry was soon to "anger up" the Stil-de-grain fleet. Seventh century B . C . , that is!

"For now, I'll continue Yarro's policy of buttoning up the harbor. No ships to leave. We have real security interests to protect, now." Nods all around.

"In case these new tactics go wrong -- our enemies may have some surprises of their own -- our fall back position is to scuttle some junker ships in the mouth of Xanthin harbor, clogging the harbor entrance so their ships can't get into our bay. Secure the port, and there is no way for them to land their marines on Xanthin island." The others seemed to understand. "Share this last bit of strategy with everyone. If all else is lost, we might have to rely on the individual initiative of the common sailor to scuttle ships in the harbor's mouth."

John looked at Vancu -- hard. "I can leave these preparations to you?"

"Yes, great Mage."

"Good. Then you have my permission to withdraw. Time may be an even a greater enemy than the Malachites."

With that, the Navy Head rose from his chair and made his short-waisted bow before "rolling" across the room and out the door, headed, John hoped, for the harbor to get these plans for ship "modernization" under way.

Leaving only the army to be "brought up to date," John turning to the Army Head. "There will also need to be some modifications of our land forces."

"Sir...?" While Etexin had borne up splendidly as the navy was being modernized, tampering with Etexin's branch of the service was quite something else. Flebb was also frowning.

"My understanding is that, while Stil-de-grain outnumbers Malachite in population, the number of troops in our respective armies is about the same."

"I would say that is correct," agreed the Army Head. As he certainly should, since it was from him that John had gotten this information in an earlier briefing.

"A fact, which, since the individual Malachite soldier is stronger than the typical Stil-de-grain combatant, is a recipe for disaster!" The Head looked down at the table, his goatee point blunting itself on his neck.

"Sadly ..."

"And the advantage they have over us physically goes beyond swordplay," John interrupted, determined to build the strongest possible case for the change he planned to implement. "For instance, their archers can pull a heavier bow, giving their arrows both range and penetrating power over ours." Etexin didn't deny it. "And that brings me to the key question. How did we manage to defeat the Malachite army in the Great Mage war?"

"We didn't actually defeat their army, great Mage. In fact, the armies of the two bands did not fight."

"No? Then how was the war won?"

"As a new Mage, you would not know, of course." The Head gave John a tolerant, if somewhat self satisfied, smile. (One of the benefits of being John Lyon, the novice Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain, was that, unlike being taken for Pfnaravin, John wasn't expected to know everything.) "The great Mage war was exclusively a war of magic. Not that the armies did not participate in it. It was more the case, however, that an army would occupy a territory after it had first been ... neutralized ... by magical means."

"And why is it that this Auro seems to be on the loose again?"

"It is possible that the Mage restraints are failing, that light returns over Azare, that the evil Mage-King's power grows with the light."

"And how could that be?"

"I do not know, great Mage. Unless ..."

"Unless?"

"Unless the other Mages have not kept the agreement to use sufficient power to blacken the Azare band."

That was something to think about. If, indeed, there was magic in this land, and if a fraction of a Mage's magic must go to keeping evil "bottled up" in the black band, then John had a pretty good idea how the "dark" Mage had "gotten loose." Assuming that Melcor had been responsible for a percentage of the magic restraining "evil," then Melcor's death had changed the "formula." John certainly hadn't done anything about "evil control." Wouldn't know how to do it even if he'd been told he should be contributing to the common cause.

For now, the only hope John had was in his military reforms.

"Thank you ... ah ... Head. For the present, as you've pointed out, we're at a disadvantage man for man."

Knowing about the "strength differences" between men from different bands, John had already spent considerable time figuring out how to counteract the physical weakness of Stil-de-grain troops.

"Both armies are of similar size and made up of professional soldiers?"

"That is certainly true."

"Then we must change the system!"

"Change ... the system ... great Mage?" Lip tugging. A sure sign of doubt in Etexin. A sign of confusion. Of hostility? How little John knew about any of the people of this world. Flebb, of course, reflected Etexin's concern.

"I propose that we put out a call for all men of military age to serve in the army of Stil-de-grain."

"But all men of military age are already in the army, sir."

"Who does the farming, then?"

"Why ... farmers, sir."

"What I suggest is that we draft farmers of military age into the army. Shopkeepers, too."

"But they are ineligible for military service."

"Why?" John could feel his temper rising. He had always thought of himself as a patient man, but ....

"Because their fathers were never in the Stil-de-grain army."

"You mean to tell me that someone has to have a father who served in the military for the son to be eligible for military service!?"

"But great Mage, that is the way. A son will be a farmer like his father and grandfather before him -- for generations -- all farmers. Tradesmens' sons are always tradesmen. Merchants produce merchants. Oh, there is sometimes the case of a younger son of a farmer becoming a trader ..." Stubby fingers wiggling nervously, Etexin waved off these possible exceptions to the rule. "But never has there been a soldier in the army or a sailor in the navy whose ancestors had not also been in service. Never! The military .... is a noble calling."

So -- in addition to its other medieval qualities, this world had a "caste system" of professional soldiers. John could have guessed that (if he'd had any time for guessing lately.) The question of the moment was, how this tradition could be broken. If ever John needed magic ........... Yes!

"In matters so grave," John said, his voice as sober as he could make it, even I cannot be the final judge." John let a dramatic pause pound in that assertion. "We must consult ... the future."

From the Head, a scum-eyed stare that said: consult the future? Is the new Mage mad?

John broke the "stand off" by motioning to Golden, the youth rising with acrobatic grace, to stand beside John at the table. "I need Zwicia."

Though Golden didn't like to be anywhere near the Weird, he bowed soberly before walking the length of the table to exit the room; as usual, with the fluid motion of gears in oil.

So began a tension filled wait ... in silence ... the Head's short fingers drumming soundlessly in air, the walnut smell of the newly-polished, half-paneled walls noticeable for the first time. Silence, not sound, was the diocese of smell.

Seconds, moments, minutes, hours -- the door finally opening, Golden issuing in the Weird, the old woman dressed in flowing, violet finery to match her new station as magical consultant to the Mage of Stil-de-grain.

"Have you your crystal?" John asked regally, raising his voice more than was necessary to carry across the smallish room.

"Got," muttered the Weird as she tottered slowly forward, Golden coming, also, but keeping the table between himself and Zwicia.

The Weird arriving to sway beside John, John motioned her to retrieve the out-sized Crystal from beneath her loose, old-flesh-covering, purple gown.

"I must look into it."

Under orders, Zwicia "fetched up" the Crystal, stretching up her scrawny neck as she did so, careful that her wattles didn't catch as she pulled the Crystal's chain over her head.

Hesitantly, regretfully, she did as commanded: put the crystal in front of John, face up on the table.

Wanting to make his "magic" look good -- meaningless ritual the cornerstone of religion as practiced in both worlds -- John began to pass his hands over the Crystal as he had seen the old woman do so often, pleased, when rubbing the crystal's glassy surface, to feel that "dry sensation" build, the tingly "thrill" of static electricity clinging to his body, his hair feeling "light" on his scalp. It was good to have this remembrance of the kind of power he hoped would take him home!

For now, all John wanted was to impress the Head. Pretending to consult the Crystal, John would announce to Etexin that the Crystal foretold a battle lost for want of a healthy dose of new recruits.

As John continued to finger the translucent stone, however ... something else ... began to happen.

Rubbing harder, faster, John saw the glass change from violet to grey to almost clear, as he kept it up, an image forming in the glass, a picture that grew steadily stronger. Brighter. A scene ... in depth. Color. .....

What? Though he couldn't be sure, it looked like some kind of ... airplane ... or ... space ship; a silvery, metal hawk, wings swept back as if to dive. Below the ship, shaped like the strange flying machine itself, was a planet -- another bird shape. A thin ... planet ... seen in cross section ... its disk edges curving down like wing tips, a mountain neck, a rocky head distended at the top. What .....?

The shapes ... melted ... to ... thin men. In strange costumes. Vitreous helmets covering their heads.

They were in space. Working above the "bird" planet, constructing ..... a .... sky dome ... over the planet, like a vast bowl .....

John was suddenly awake, Zwicia shaking him out of his reverie, Flebb, Platinia, Golden, the Weird, no longer at their places but gathered around him, the Army Head trying to force a cup of water into John's hands.

"I saw ...."

"No mo' look 'n Cryst'l," grumbled the Weird, shaking her head, her thin, iron gray hair flipping side to side like a fly whisk gone mad. "Trap in'a Cryst'l."

John could see the outline of Zwicia's Crystal beneath the yoke of the old women's flowing dress. Somehow, she had taken the disk back.

John still wasn't certain what had happened. He was in the war room. The same people there. Yet ... time had ... passed.

The Crystal! It was coming back to him. He'd seen images in the disk! Fantastic images: of a space ship, of a world, of a dome above it ... Elongated men ....!

Not what he'd planned to "find," at all, John intending to see ... nothing, his plan to pretend to look into the Crystal in order to report that he'd seen the future; the Malachite army dealing a death blow to the forces of Stil-de-grain. He would then have another vision of Stil-de-grain, strengthened by John's proposed new forces, in glorious victory over the decimated troops of Malachite. In this way, John had meant to persuade the Head to add non-military recruits to the army -- something the stuffy little man clearly found abhorrent. Numbers. That was what they needed. Multitudes to over-match the stalwart men of Malachite.

But it was not too late. The Head's objections could still be put to rout!

"I saw in the Crystal ...," John began, trying at the same time to clear his mind of the fascinating phantoms he had witnessed, "... the future. A horrifying future! One in which we are destroyed unless we have more soldiers!"

The Head still seemed stricken -- remained as frozen at John's side as a Van Dyke painting in its gild edged frame -- so paralyzed, that John was uncertain Etexin had heard John's warning.

Trying to break the "spell," John paused to wave the little man around the table, gesturing the others to their places, as well.

The bearded Army Head moving at last. To sit down weakly.

"Do you understand me?" John insisted. "We must have more men in the army! It doesn't matter if their ancestors were military or not. We must double the size of the existing army and do it immediately!"

"Yes, great Mage." The Head was at least semi-alert.

"You will tell everyone what you saw. That they are to do as I command!"

"Yes, sir. It shall be done." Ever the military man, Etexin -- like others in this place -- functioned best on direct command.

And that was the end of the meeting, a broad wave of John's hand clearing everyone, even Platinia, from the room.

John yawned. Was exhausted.

A good day's work, both navy and army to be improved.

They had a chance now. At least John thought so. More than a chance if he could carry this off.

And in the process, John had learned something else of interest. Like other talk of "magic" in this place, there seemed to be some truth to what he'd been told about the Weird's Crystal. It certainly showed pictures -- unless John had put himself into a trance while looking in it. .... No. He didn't think so.

He had seen something. But what? Had he seen the past? The future? Had he seen this very world from the perspective of space, astronauts fabricating the planet's sunless sky?

What was certain was that, as soon as possible, John meant to have another look into that fascinating disk of glass!

* * * * *

Chapter 19

John watched scalding water boil up from a jagged cleft on the summit of a black glass mountain, the torrent cascading down barren, heat bleached rocks, steam clouds jetting skyward as far as he could see along its plunging length.

The image melted. A new one formed.

This time of a man in an ornate mantle, lying on a couch, other, younger men about him. The room, a cave and yet not a cave; a cavern carved from solid rock, the man ... sick ... burned ... hideously disfigured as if scorched by radiation! Fluid leaked from angry lesions on his face and neck and arms. Beside him, on a slab were ... Crystals.

Barely able to raise his head, the sick man ... obviously dying ... was indicating the Crystals. Red, Green ... yellow. Five in all.

Solemnly, each of the robed, younger men bowed in turn and picked up a crystal, each man hanging his own colored disk about his neck.

The scene faded.

John saw a temple, marble columns, a broad porch at the top of many rising steps. Bald priests in white robes lined the temple porch, a crowd of worshipers grouped below them at the base of the sanctuary. A ceremony: the priests, hands clasped in prayer. Two priests then carried the body of a young girl through the tall portal of the temple. The girl, dressed in a flowing robe of black ... had no arms or legs ... the priests laying her body on a ... raised platform .......

Followed by an apparition of another mountain, the air alive with flickering purple. In the claws of the peak's crown, was an immense ... eye ... of black, vitreous rock ... turning. And from the blind eye's edge, rotating skyward, came a dazzling light, shining to the heavens, reflecting from the sky. The black eye was revolving, its underside a gleaming Crystal.

As the dazzling Gem turned, it lighted more and more of the sky with its rays. From darkness, there was light. Bands of light. At the edge of the far horizon was an arc of red. Next, was a whorl of orange, then yellow, green and blue, until the whole of the Crystal burned skyward.

Over the mountain, violet rays descended from the center sky, the Crystal like a colossal orb of radiated light, rotating slowly, the dazzle of it reflecting from the sky-dome far above to shine down on the earth in colored rings. As John watched the glittering jewel continue in the slow majesty of its rotation, from the back side of that great, luminous eye, could be seen a rim of darkness. As if the eye ... were slowly closing. Closing ... the bands above it going grey.

When the rotation was complete, the eye was shut and it was night.

From that vision, John was transported to a broad and languid river which flowed upon a flat, cold plain. Moving, gliding, to disappear beneath a rocky chasm.

And John saw the sea's end, its waters frothing into the sea's self, pouring deep within the earth. Going home, was what John thought, the water to be heated at the earth's center, flung up and out as boiling springs from some high mountaintop to start another stream.

A shift.

Squinting, John could make out the interior of a small, dark room: a cylindrical space of shadowed stone. Two people were in the room, side by side, standing in the enclosure's center, one an old man, a Crystal on a chain about his neck, the disk glowing yellow with an inner light. The man was stroking the opalescent Gem and chanting. Beside him was a girl, the man's hair rising, as was the girl's. The room glowed with energy. Then ... the girl was ... gone ... ceiling stones ... plunging ... falling on the man .....

All was blackness. Until John awoke. In a room. A room lighted by guttering torches.

Was it ... night? Where was he? John couldn't remember.

He tried to rise. "Rest, great Mage." Small, soft hands touched his shoulders, their gentle pressure all that was needed to keep him down.

Looking up, he saw it was a girl who was bending over him; saw her dark hair fall forward. Saw her black eyes. Platinia.

John forced himself to lift one hand. Touched his face ... to feel ... a soft growth of beard. Why, when the palace barber shaved him every day? Stiffly, he touched his face again, his hand slipping off to brush his hair.

Though wearing his hair long now, as was the vogue in Stil-de-grain, it had grown longer still.

What had happened to him? He tried to think. To remember. Instead, he was asleep.

Again, John awoke. Stronger now.

With a single motion, he sat up, was dizzy. Recovered.

Seated on an unadorned, wood chair across the room was Platinia, her head fallen forward, her black hair masking her small face. She was asleep. "Platinia?" Though his voice was weak, the girl was instantly awake.

"Pvmyh," she said, rising to come to him, motioning him to rest.

It was night. He would learn nothing from her -- from anyone -- until up-light. So he lay back and went to sleep.

Awake. "Platinia?"

"Yes, great Mage?" John sat up. Swung his legs over the edge of a shelf-like bed. Was well again.

"What am I doing here?"

"You were ... not yourself, great Mage." She was beside him, her cool hand briefly on his forehead.

"Ill?"

"You had the ... Crystal sickness."

"What?"

"It is what Zwicia calls it."

The Weird? He was beginning to remember. After briefing the military, he'd slipped away from everyone, from Golden, from Platinia. Gone to the Weird's apartment. Demanded that she turn her Crystal over to him.

"How long have I been ... out?"

"A length of time, great one."

"Many up-lights?"

"Many. Golden says, a hundred." Three months? He had been here three months? John couldn't remember. He did seem to recall seeing images in the Crystal. And of people interrupting him. Trying to talk to him. Trying to make him understand something. Forcing food into his hands, making him eat. Disturbing him.

"I've been in this room for that long?"

"Not in this room, great one."

"Where?"

"In your own room."

"And I got here ...?"

"Forgive us, great Lord. It is a sickness. Looking into the Crystal. Zwicia said we must force you or you would not stop. That you would be lost forever. Zwicia said she can stop because she is a Weird. But others ...."

"So, I was brought here?"

"We did not want to." The girl's hands, normally motionless in her lap, were waving about, Platinia almost wringing them. "You are a Mage. Who but a Mage can look into a Crystal without harm? But as the up-lights passed ...," she was pleading with him, "you were needed, great one. You were needed!"

Needed?

It was coming back to him. He'd seen visions of this land. Of rivers, people, priests. He could remember the edges of some of what he'd seen. And he longed to see more. But ... Platinia said he was needed.

"Why am I needed?"

"The war ... goes badly, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin." She was quiet again, as if passing a crisis.

"The ... war?" John looked down, down ... at the floor. So far away. Perhaps, he should remain seated awhile longer.

"Against the Malachites."

That war. He had ... forgotten. A hundred days.

But it was coming back. As he remembered, there was a council of war. The Heads of the army and navy were there. It was later in the same day he'd taken the Crystal from the Weird, Zwicia protesting to the end in her muttering way.

At the meeting, he'd ordered reforms. Common people drafted for the army. Rams. "The changes in the navy, the army. They were made?"

"Yes ...." To have his questions answered, he needed anyone but Platinia.

Feeling better, John eased himself off the bed. Felt ... normal. Remembering, he touched his face. He had a short beard.

John glanced around the room. A prison. No windows. This was not the dungeon, but a prison nevertheless, a place to keep someone against his will. No wonder Platinia was nervous in his presence. Clearly, he'd been kept here until he "sobered up" from the "Crystal sickness."

"Where's Golden?"

"He has been trying to ... help. In your absence ..."

"But he's in the palace?"

"Yes."

"I went to see him immediately."

* * * * *

Within an hour, shaved, his hair trimmed, dressed in the most splendid of his ceremonial robes, John was back in the war room, Platinia never leaving his side, John sending for Golden, Golden arriving.

It was then, just as John was about to summon the army and navy Heads, that John learned from Golden that Navy Head Vancu had been killed in a sea battle; the Stil-de-grain navy destroyed. Much had happened since John had "caught" the Crystal "sickness."

Waiting for the army Head, John's mind was spinning -- not from being "sick," but from news of this disaster. John's military reforms should have worked. Perhaps, if he'd been there ...

The door at the end of the room opened, the Head entering, bowing.

Marching to an empty chair, Etexin sat down rigidly, near John but on the opposite side of the table from Golden and Platinia.

Having a rough idea of the situation, John wanted to hear about it directly from the Head; and in more detail. "Can you tell me how, in spite of superior planning, our navy was defeated?"

"The battle was so close to the island that, on a height, I myself witnessed that sorry event, great Mage. It was that the marines of the Malachites are stronger than ours. Being so strong, they overwhelmed our navy." The Head tapped his fingers on the table, the only indication of his agitation.

"That wasn't supposed to happen. What about the rams?" John found that he was suddenly weary. Had a headache. Began rubbing his temples ... but stopped when he realized it was an activity undignified in a Mage. In the face of defeat what was needed was confidence. "Well, go on." John had thought about apologizing for John's three month "absence" -- but decided against that strategy. Better to take the position that, by consulting the Crystal for that length of time, he was doing something valuable for the "cause." These people were used to forceful rulers. Better not to admit to any weakness.

"In the excitement of the naval battle, great one, I fear that the captains did not use the rams as you had indicated. Instead, they reverted to ... more traditional methods." The faddish little man tapped his small lips with one finger.

"Boarding?"

"That is correct."

"I thought we'd agreed that boarding would give the enemy the advantage. The rams were designed to keep us from having to board." John could feel his voice rising. Checked it.

"That is true. But when the navy rowed out to face the Malachites, in the excitement ... no matter what the Navy Head had said to them .... It is difficult to change ingrained methods, sir." The Army Head dropped his goatee to his neck, his feeble chin disappearing. While looking distressed, there was a trace of smugness in the Head's voice that it had not been his branch of the service found wanting.

The rams would have worked, John knew, if they'd been tried.

The question was, if John had been "awake" during the battle, could he have found some way to prevent this disaster? Perhaps, by threatening the captains with magic, John could have controlled them. "After the naval crews had been killed, our cruisers were captured? Sunk?"

"Towed off to be beached, sir."

"Towed off?"

"The Malachites did not have crewmen enough to row them."

"What will happen to them eventually." John could still be morbid on occasion.

"After the war, the Malachites will use their lumber."

Scrap the navy -- literally. "The Malachite navy is now ...?"

"Blockading the island, mighty Mage." No surprise there.

"Our Navy Head was killed?"

"Regrettably."

What John was thinking was small loss!

"His ship was boarded?"

"That is true." So, even the Head hadn't used his ram. Stupid. But, then, John should have taken into account the possibility of fumbled execution, the people here as narrow minded as many in his own world.

This was no time for self recrimination, however, to say nothing of self pity. "What happened next?"

"You will be pleased to learn that ships were scuttled in the harbor mouth, as you had decreed." Finally. One thing had gone right.

"Did you order that?"

"It was done by a merchant captain. Named Coluth. He sank his ship and then others did the same until the harbor neck was blocked." Coluth! Sunk the Roamer . How Coluth had loved that boat! And yet he'd sunk her.

"Has anyone else been appointed Navy Head to replace Vancu?"

"No sir. It hardly seemed necessary, since the navy ..." The sentence needed no conclusion.

"I will appoint Coluth as the new Head."

As John had expected, that declaration drew a strange look from the army Head. In Etexin's mind, transferring civilians to the military was a certain recipe for disaster. "Are we building more war ships?"

"Yes sir. To the extent of our capacity."

"With rams on them?"

"I ... since the rams did not work ..." The Head shrugged. John let that pass.

"And the army?"

"I have done what you ordered." Blunt fingers wiggling again, the Head settled a hand on his face, his fingers nervously twisting the man's mouth into a lower-case O before fluttering back to the table. "Before the harbor was sealed, the army collected young men from the band. All that we could. And we have been trying to train them. But ...."

John could imagine what was happening. Inexperienced men who didn't want to become soldiers; taught by officers who didn't believe they could be.

"I will review the troops this afternoon. All is not lost. My magic will save Stil-de-grain."

"Ah ... there is one more difficulty, great Mage. Though I am sure that you can overcome it."

"Yes?"

"It is about the magic, sir."

"Yes?"

"It is the light, sir. Through I cannot detect it myself, some say that the light ... dims."

And with the failure of the light, came a failure of the magic. Not John's kind of magic, fortunately.

It was time -- past time -- for John-Lyon, Mage of Stil-de-grain, to be functioning again! So ended the meeting.

The Head sent away, John dispatched Golden to summon Coluth and to set up the afternoon schedule.

Golden leaving, there was a timid knock on the door.

Ordered to enter, a slavey ushered in a "birdie" little man who was introduced as Gagar, Head of messenger birds, a parrot-like bird perched on one, gloved hand. Ah! Now that John was "awake," messages were being brought directly to him as he had ordered. At least, some reforms seemed to be working.

The slavey bowing herself out of the room, John motioned the "bird man" forward, at the same time signaling Platinia-against-the-wall to get a good grip on her cat.

"No one else has heard this bird?"

"No, great Mage." Seen up close, no canine fancier looked more like his dog than this man resembled his bird!

"And you will tell no one else what it says. On pain of death."

"Never, sir." The way the man took offense at the gag order did more to convince John than the man's promise. In a land where every man was a "professional," secrecy apparently went with the messenger-bird business.

"Make it talk," John said.

"The girl?"

"She can hear."

Taking a step nearer, the bird looking like a golden macaw, the handler encouraged the bird to hop from the Gagar's thick glove to the back of a chair near John.

"It is necessary to listen carefully," the trainer warned, cocking his head on one shoulder, his thin nose almost a beak, "for a messenger bird forgets each word as it speaks it."

John nodded.

That understood, Gagar made a complex hand pass at the bird, the bird beginning to speak in the nonsense rhythm of all "talking" birds.

"The . Mage . of . Realgar . Helianthin . demands . an . audience . with . the . Mage . of . Stil-de-grain . Melcor . to . meet . with . Cryo . Mage . of . Cinnabar . at . Hellebore . in . thirty . up . lights . the . light . fails . there . is . treason . of . Mages."

Quoth the Raven.

Still, even without inflection or punctuation, the message made a number of things clear. In the first place, Helanthin, Mage of Realgar, wanted a meeting at some place called Hellebore.

Before continuing his analysis, John rose to consult Golden's map, the map on a tripod in one corner of the war room.

In the meantime, the trainer got the bird to hop back onto his hand, the man waiting.

Hellebore turned out to be a place on the far border of Realgar, just within the band of Cinnabar. Strange territory, Cinnabar. Little explored, if what everyone said about it proved to be correct.

Back to the table and to the message.

Like Etexin had indicated was happening over Stil-de-grain, Helianthin also thought there was a loss of light. Now that John thought about it, the outside light (after a three month "absence") might be a shade duller than he remembered. Possibly shifting to the brown side of the spectrum? Rather like the bright green sky-band over Malachite appeared to be edging toward olive when John was in Malachite?

A meeting of Mages? A good idea except it was impossible at the moment. Cut off by the Malachite navy, how could John attend? "Can you send a message to the Mage of Realgar?"

"Of course."

"How long before a messenger bird could be taught the message and the message delivered?"

"That would depend, great one, on the length of the dispatch," the little man piped. "For short reports like the one this bird brought, two days."

"What about just attaching a note to the bird's leg?"

"Oh, no, great one. A messenger bird would peck off such a foreign object." The man actually mimed pecking, an action that, on him, looked completely natural.

So ... that explained why you had to teach the birds the message. Also to be considered, was the probable lack of literacy here. Writing a dispatch did no good if those receiving the report were illiterate. Not that it mattered since John didn't know what message he wanted to send, anyway. "A question, if you please. How do you know the enemy didn't send this bird?" John pointed to the golden parrot perched on the man's gloved hand. "To throw us off?"

"I would know, great one! The bird ... picks up the ... sound ... the cadence of the agent. I know all agents. I would recognize a fraud instantly!" Was that possible? John thought of something he'd read. About how an expert could identify a telegrapher by the "style" of "clicks" the telegraph operator was sending. For now, that would have to do.

The man and his bird dismissed, the rest of Stil-de-grain's military situation came to John in bits and pieces.

First, from Coluth who arrived shortly after the "bird man's" exit, the captain refreshingly unimpressed that John was the new Mage of Stil-de-grain. So much so that, after the standard greeting between old friends, Coluth told John what had happened. That hearing it was John's order to seal the harbor in case of disaster, Coluth had his men position the Roamer just inside the harbor's mouth. Had then plowed the Roamer into the last, retreating warship, more than one submerged boat necessary for a blockade.

Feeling lucky to have escaped prosecution for sinking his nation's man-of-war, Coluth was shocked to have John appoint him Navy Head, saying he knew nothing of sea warfare. A fact that, besides rewarding Coluth for following orders, was a plus in John's book!

So Coluth was added to John's retinue.

Then, there was the army. Surrounded by a squad of palace bodyguards, John marched out, first to observe the professional troops at their barracks near the capital's edge, the military dress of the day featuring short tunics, bare-armed for action, conical, iron helmets and sturdy boots, the army the usual medieval mix of military units: a phalanx with seven foot spears; soldiers armed with throwing axes; a company of short-bow archers.

The army also had "artillery" (which John had first seen outside Hero castle,) a dozen mangonels mounted on wooden wheeled platforms, these stressed-cable "rock throwers" a poor imitation of the old Roman model. Literally, not much force.

John got to see the army line up. And to watch a mock skirmish "fought" to the pounding of tabors and blaring of trombas and oliphants.

What was sad was having to witness the new "citizen soldiers" in "training": no one wearing anything that could pass for a uniform; too few shields for them; one man in ten with what might pass for a sword. They looked like what they were -- a bunch of farmers with the proverbial two left feet. Useless. Worse than useless if they got in the way of the regular army.

Though John hated to admit it, it looked like his idea of a "citizen soldiery" was a bust.

The following morning, John called a much-needed staff meeting. Golden, Platinia, Etexin and Coluth.

When all were seated at John's end of the long table, John broke the despairing silence. "As I see it, we can still rally." Nothing but depressed looks -- making another thing clear. This was not the time to tell them of John's real concern: that the island was ill-equipped to withstand the Malachite naval blockade. "There is to be a meeting of Mages."

At that, a flood of hope. "I have received a communication from the Mage of Realgar. And I want a message sent back to him. Will you see that this is done?"

"Yes, sir," snapped Etexin, though seated, coming to attention.

"The message is to say that Melcor is no longer the Mage here. That Melcor is dead. That I am the Mage, now. Tell him that, new to my responsibilities, I cannot meet him in Hellebore when scheduled. I will let him know when I can." The Head saluted. (Not much of a communique, but one that would give John the time he needed to figure out what he could do.) "I want the same dispatch sent to the Mage of Cinnabar."

"Not possible at this time, sir. Not by messenger bird, certainly. And with ships unable to leave the harbor ..."

"No way to contact Cinnabar? Unbelievable! Wasn't that Band our ally in the Great Mage war?" The Head squirmed uncomfortably before answering.

"It is that no one wishes to contact that Band, sir. That, and the fact that the red messenger birds of Cinnabar are rare.

"Let me get this straight. It is my understanding that messenger birds fly back to their home bands." The army Head nodded. Messenger birds did act like homing pigeons, then, something John had been assuming.

"That, and to their original trainer. To the man hatching them," the Head added.

John thought about that. And something clicked. The messenger bird of the morning, the one that had "talked" to John, had been hatched in Stil-de-grain before being taken to Realgar to be released with a message for the government of Stil-de-grain. The bird had been a bright golden color. Could it be that ...? "To get a message from somewhere, you take one of our birds -- a yellow one -- to that place. When it is released, it flies back here." Etexin nodded. "Let me guess. Messenger birds that are hatched in Stil-de-grain are all yellow. Those hatched in Malachite are Green. Those produced in Realgar are orange. Am I right?" Another nod from Etexin. "And we don't have any red birds from Cinnabar so ..."

"That is correct, great Mage." John shouldn't have been surprised. Everything in this world seemed to be color-coded. Why not the birds?

Something else came into focus. Why the Malachite sailors who boarded the Roamer in the Bay of Bice had confiscated the ship's cargo of messenger birds. other people's birds little more than spies.

"How about slipping a shallow-draft boat off the back side of Xanthin, using that to reach Hellebore?"

"Most difficult." It was Coluth. "You have seen the sea." The weathered captain tapped his flat nose guardedly. "Small boats have great difficulty navigating the whirling rings." It was John's turn to nod.

Then, John thought of his escape from the dungeon, of swimming the strait, of Golden and Platinia rowing after him.

"I have seen it done. In a row boat, no less. Across the narrows from the island to the mainland -- just back of the palace."

"Yes ... in that place. Too narrow for a whirl. But Malachite ships are there, now. Other places, it is too far. The Malachite navy patrols the whole island."

"And at night?"

"At night?" Coluth was as shocked as anyone from here would be that there could be outside activity at night, the slack skin around his mouth taut.

"Where does the Malachite navy go at night?"

"It goes to the tie up places."

"So, if we have to, we could row out at night."

"But we would be blind. The sea creatures ... monsters ..."

"I don't want to do that, but I tell you we could if we have to. For now, I want observers, spaced within line of sight, all around the island, checking on the movement of the Malachite fleet. I want to know anything the Malachites do that even looks suspicious. Is that understood?"

"And will you use your magic against them?" asked Etexin, hopefully.

"At the proper time. And let me assure you. I am with you now. There will be no more Crystal gazing on my part. I have learned everything I need to know."

"Thank you, great Mage," Etexin said, seeming both sincere and relieved.

"That will be all for today. Golden and Platinia to stay, all others to assume your duties."

When the Heads were gone, John was free to ask the question underlying this whole, confusing affair. "Tell me, Golden. When did you hear that the evil Mage was getting loose?"

"A long time ago."

"Would you say before Platinia and I were thrown into the dungeon? Think back."

"Long before that, great Mage."

So -- the "trouble" had not begun with Melcor's death.

"Do you remember an event that marked the beginning of these rumors?" That was how these people remembered everything -- by event instead of by date.

"It was near the time Pfnaravin left for the other world."

"A very long time ago."

"Thousands and thousands of up-lights, I have heard, before I was born."

"But after I came, it seems that the evil advanced more swiftly." Golden managed both to shrug and nod at the same time, the nod more vigorous than the shrug.

The picture was getting clearer. Four Mages had combined during the Great Mage War to beat the fifth -- the evil Mage-King, Auro. Each of the victorious Mages had contributed part of his power, first to black out the band over Azare, then to maintain the blackness. Why Pfnaravin had gone traveling -- apparently getting himself electrified by causing an earthquake -- was an open question.

Thinking about the dangers of such a trip, what seemed likely to John was that Pfnaravin had an early indication the evil was returning; had left to get help in what he thought of as a "magically superior" other world. Whatever the truth of that, when the Mage reached John's world he'd gotten stuck. Why? Because he lacked the static electricity it took to get back. (As a "foreigner" and a believer in magic, he wouldn't know about static electric generators like the one John had used to get across.)

"And am I to understand that Pfnaravin left his Crystal in this world?"

"You would know that, sir ..." Golden checked himself. Clearly, Golden, like Platinia, continued to think that John was Pfnaravin. And just as clearly, had learned that John didn't want him to believe that. "Yes. And Yarro stole it. But he could not use it because Pfnaravin," Golden couldn't help but nod in John's direction, "still lives. Yarro has hidden it somewhere in this palace. I am sure of that."

"And why was the green Crystal left behind?"

"You .... It must be that it is only for this world."

What Golden was saying was that, while Mages were free to "travel," their Crystals must remain behind. Just another magical oddity of the place.

This was fitting together nicely. Pfnaravin had left, leaving his Crystal which no one else could use, a consequence of his journey, that a fourth of the Mage alliance had "dropped out," so to speak. With Melcor's death, a second bulwark had fallen. Now, with the light failing over the other bands, it was a good guess that the evil Mage had found a way to "turn the tables" on his opponents.

Suddenly, John had a memory of a vision in the Weird's crystal, of a man in a circular room being crushed as the ceiling fell on him. Was this a flashback to Melcor's death? Of Melcor being killed as a result of trying to bring Pfnaravin back to help fight the evil, Platinia coming across to John's world by mistake? Was there a girl in the vision that John had seen? He thought so. Platinia?

No matter. Melcor's death took out a second Mage so that the power holding back the forces of evil was further reduced. No wonder everything was coming apart in this place. No wonder the Mage of Realgar wanted another meeting of Mages, to get things straightened out magically!

Such a meeting of Mages was still a possibility, though it would mean a night escape by small boat, getting far enough away before up-light to foil a Malachite pursuit. Dangerous.

For now, a more immediate problem must receive attention. John must check on the capital's food supply; find out how long Xanthin could hold out under siege.

It was getting late. He must eat. Get to his room before down-light canceled his ability to speak or to understand Stil-de-grainese.

John also had to admit to himself that the day's excitement had hidden another of his ... needs. To look in the Weird's Crystal. A ... pull. A compulsion that had overwhelmed him once already.

Though he also felt that with Platinia beside him, he could resist Crystal madness. Platinia. Making everything ... better ... just by her presence. Without her, would he be strong enough to resist the Crystal's fatal lure? No need to find out. Ever! "Platinia."

"Yes, great one?" she said in her tiny voice. Still seated at the table beside a silent Golden, the girl looked up.

"From now on, you will stay with me constantly. You are to be with me at supper tonight. You are to sleep in my room." Did he see a flicker of fear sweep her small face?

"I will have your bed moved in." Was terror still in her dark eyes?

Perhaps.

Fortunately, therapy for Platinia's feelings -- whatever they might be -- was something else he could postpone!

* * * * *

Chapter 20

It took the bureaucrats of the palace two weeks to assess the food supply of the island. Warehouses were visited. The capacity to produce food on the island estimated. Privately stored provisions counted. At the same time, John had the staff take a census to see how many people needed to be fed. And the bottom line was that, with the island's population eating two meager meals per day, Xanthin could withstand the blockade for two more months. (If they ate every dog, pony, and messenger bird, perhaps a week longer.)

Because John could be of no help in these kinds of evaluations, the "counting" was left to others. Then too, after forays to circle the island and review the troops, John had decided to stay in the palace except under the most extraordinary circumstances. In this, he was following the pattern set by the Roman Emperor, Diocletian. Living at a time when emperors were frequently assassinated, Diocletian deliberately cut himself off from his people to make it difficult for assassins to reach him. And this worked, Diocletian living into old age. What was of interest to John, however, was that there had been a curious by-product of Diocletian's isolation; separating himself from his people caused his "importance" to go up in their eyes, being denied access to the emperor making people imagine Diocletian to be greater than he was.

Applying that technique to his own situation, John hoped to become a figure of mystery to the people of Stil-de-grain, a sense of wonder about their Mage increasing John's power over them. (Also to be considered was the example of the Wizard of Oz who lost all credibility as soon as he came out from behind his fearsome mask!)

While Xanthin's defensive situation was being appraised, another, smaller problem got an almost "magical" solution. The difficulty? What to do about the child king, Yarro II. John didn't have time for him, and yet the boy was the titular head of the country, everything that John commanded, done in the king's name.

What made John's position (vis-a-vis the child) less difficult was ... Coluth. With little to do after Coluth had counted Stil-de-grain's remaining ships (46 merchant vessels, 5 cruisers in fighting trim, another war ship that would be ready when repairs were completed to its rudder) Stil-de-grain's new navy Head took charge of the king. It was almost as if the weathered sea captain had found, in young Yarro, the son he never had.

Instead of the frightened, petulant child John had found when John first became Mage, John would see a happy, giggling Yarro being carried about the palace on Coluth's raw-boned shoulders. Or find the captain and the boy tucked into a quiet corner, both Coluth and the child delighting in tall tales of the sea.

In short, the "taming" of young Yarro let John get on with the defense of the realm, John's immediate problem: to find a way to drive off those Malachite cruisers.

Remembering the song, "Luck be a Lady Tonight," it was shortly after the final tallies were in that John lucked into a solution to the cruiser conundrum, John in the dado-paneled war room as usual, needing to "fix himself" in a single location where he could be reached with important information. Golden and Platinia were there, too, of course, Golden, because John wanted to know where the Malachite was at all times, Platinia, because the "pull" of Zwicia's Crystal on John was still strong enough that he felt better having Platinia beside him.

Was the Crystal's power over him like that of a magnet on iron; the closer you were to the disk, the stronger the "pull?" If so, John should send Zwicia as far away as possible. It was just that, John still thought that the Weird and her Crystal were his means of escaping this "other reality." (Either option was moot, of course, as long as he and Zwicia were trapped on the island.)

It was while John was thinking dark thoughts like these that a slavey ushered in Gagar with another bird-on-glove.

"Where does this one come from?" John asked as the "bird man" hippety-hopped forward to give his bobbing little bow.

"I cannot tell, great Mage," chirped Gagar. "I have not, of course, ordered it to deliver its message. And until I hear the speaking pattern of the bird, I will not know the source." Far from the lowly bird-tender John had taken Gagar to be, it was increasingly apparent that Gagar was central to Stil-de-grain's spy system. He was the man who "hatched" the birds, for instance (which meant in the language of John's world, that the birds were "imprinted" on Gagar,) Gagar, the man to whom the spy-birds returned. He was also in charge of sending intelligence men to other bands and of eliminating enemy spies on Xanthin island. (No more spies on Xanthin, was Gagar's claim. Said in such a way that John believed him.)

"All right then, fire it up."

"Fire it up ....??"

"Just an expression. Make it deliver its message."

At that, Gagar turned a sharp eye on Golden, Golden looking out a window, glumly. (Gagar already knew that the diminutive Platinia, cat in hand and "lost" in a chair designed for a person of normal size, was "safe.")

"It's all right. I have no secrets from my staff."

Satisfied, Gagar hopped a step closer and waved his hand, the bird cocking its head to one side, his (both Gagar and the bird's) beady yellow eyes on John.

"Help . we . are . under . attack . at . Carotene . by . the . army . of . Malachite . the . walls . hold . but . we . cannot . withstand . siege . for . more . then . one . hundred . fifty . up-lights . Realgar . army . too . few . to . defeat . massive . Malachite . forces."

"What!?" John shouted. Impossible! How could the Malachites be in two places at once, in ships off Xanthin and at the same time attacking this place called Carotene? ... Carotene. ... John knew it was a location that had been pointed out to him on Golden's map, but .... "Golden, where's Carotene?"

Though John was already up and on his way to the chart, Golden arrived before him, Golden pointing to the right, down-light side of the map.

"I see it, but what is it?"

"It is a city in Realgar."

"That's right. I remember. So, what's its military position? Have you ever been there?"

"Some years ago, sir. It is located on a steep hilltop behind double thick walls. Impregnable to attack."

"What about a siege?" Golden shrugged. "Apparently, they have a lot more food inside than we do, at least."

"Though landlocked," Golden added, "a branch of the Carotene river flows into the city through an iron-barred opening in the wall, great Mage. They will have water to drink, whatever happens." Fresh water wasn't Xanthin's problem either, situated as it was, on a fresh water port. From what John had seen, all water in this place was fresh. And what did that mean? That these Band-countries were so "new" that salt from the land had not yet leached into the sea? Or, thinking of something he remembered seeing in the Weird's Crystal, could the water system of this place be self-purifying: the sea constantly draining into the center of the world to be heated, boiling up from mountaintops as condensed steam, the rivers renewed as "distilled" water in that way? John's mind was wandering. Too many problems. Too few answers. It had been that way since he'd arrived in this strange place.

The mystery of the moment was, how the Malachite military could be attacking Carotine when the enemy, on Malachite cruisers, was keeping John et al bottled up on Xanthin island? John couldn't believe the Malachites had enough military strength both to hold down Xanthin and also to encircle Carotene.

So, what did it mean that Malachite was besieging the Realgar city?

The realization struck John like a revelation! Only one thing! That, no matter how it looked, the Malachites did not have their troops on those cruisers rowing about Xanthin island!

Now that John had begun to think along these lines, just how many war ships were patrolling Xanthin? He -- and everyone else -- had assumed that the whole Malachite navy, its army on board, lay just off the coast, but .... John looked over at Golden who had gone back to "window gazing."

"Golden. Find Etexin. I want to know how many Malachite cruisers are currently surrounding Xanthin. I think he's set up a signal system of some kind -- flags, smoke, runners; I don't trouble myself with the details. But it's my understanding he can communicate with the observers. One way or the other, I want to know how many Malachite ships are actually on patrol and I want to know today!"

"Yes, sir." And with his fluid motion, Golden "flowed" from of the room.

"You're sure this bird came from Realgar?" John asked, John still at the map trying to gauge the distance to Carotene from his experience of shipping out to Bice.

"I can be certain that it came from Carotene, sir. The agent, Uzze, taught it the message. I can tell by the pauses between the words as well as by ..."

"I'll take your word for it," John said, leaving the map, crossing the room to sit down again. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, it was all John could do to keep from smiling at the bird-like, pecking movements Gagar made when talking. Gagar even smelled like John's memory of the chicken coop he'd visited on his fourth grade's "Trip to a Farm."

A wave had Gagar packing up his bird, Gagar hopping from the room.

Nothing to do now but wait, waiting, something John did poorly.

Wait. Throughout the rest of the day, lunch brought to the war room, John then having to suffer a visit from his barber before spending the afternoon resolving minor problems of palace intrigue.

It was just before down-light when the Army Head reported in.

Twelve patrol ships.

The following day, the count taken this time in the morning: twelve Malachite cruisers.

In the afternoon, the same twelve war ships.

And that was the answer. While it seemed like more because they were constantly on the move, there were only twelve Malachite cruisers "holding down" Xanthin island, the rest of the Malachite fleet slipping away to cover the assault on Carotene! A bluff? Or was it that the Malachites thought twelve war ships were more than enough to defeat the remaining five or six Stil-de-grain cruisers?

It didn't matter. What did, was that the remaining Xanthin cruisers were equipped with their "virgin" rams.

The next two weeks seethed with activity! Using ropes and specially constructed, underwater grapples, Stil-de-grain tugs were used to drag the two sunken ships from the harbor mouth; shagging them back within the harbor and to one side so the entrance was clear once more. This was done at night to keep the Malachites -- at their tie-ups on the main coast -- from learning that the harbor was no longer obstructed. (As John had anticipated, it had taken all his "magic" to force men to work out of doors after dark. Even though everyone admitted there was little chance of the feared, nighttime animals entering a city!

At the same time, John saw to it that ten merchant ships were equipped with makeshift rams.

When all was ready, just at up-light, clothed in his complete Mage regalia including his sparkly, pointed hat, John had gone to the dock to threaten captains and crews with the most terrible magical punishments if they failed to follow orders to ram the enemy ships. That done, Coluth led the cruisers and converted merchant vessels out of the harbor.

Any nervousness John felt about his orders not being followed was relieved that afternoon when all Stil-de-grain ships returned to port, all twelve enemy ships, outnumbered and out "gunned" by the "modernized" ships of Stil-de-grain, sunk.

Wild rejoicing by the populous!

Medals conferred on one and all!

Following a day and a half of effusive compliments and congratulations from Etexin, as well as from Bachur, the palace Plenipotentiary, from Heimig, vice legate, from the paranymph, the kingly internuncio, from Aber, the prolocutor, and from various other palace functionaries -- including a little, memorized speech of thanks from the boy king himself (Coluth beaming in the background like any proud father) -- and John was finally free to carry out his overall strategy. Which was to use his merchant fleet to transport the Stil-de-grain army as close to Carotene as possible (without running the risk of alerting the Malachites) landing troops at that point, then marching them to Carotene. Done carefully, the arrival of the Stil-de-grain army should be a total surprise to the Malachites outside the Realgar city.

To complete the plan, the "bird man" was to accompany the army, at the last minute to release a messenger bird to the defenders of Carotene, the message telling them to be ready to march out of their city when Stil-de-grain struck. In this way, the Malachites would be crushed between the Realgar and Stil-de-grain armies.

As a diplomatic bonus, coming to the relief of the Realgar capital should forge stronger relations with Realgar, the two countries moving as one to thwart the machinations of the evil Mage of Azare.

At least that was the plan.

But plans ... change, this one having to be altered drastically as a result of the arrival of yet another messenger bird.

To make a long message short, the latest bird told a tale of devastation to the "top" side of Stil-de-grain's band. According to Gagar, the message came from an agent sent to watch the pass through the mountains separating Malachite from Stil-de-grain, the defile through the mountains that Golden had called The Gap, the passage denied to John and his little band when they were on the run from Malachite.

When the flat lingo of the bird had been digested, its message had been that men, women, children, and even animals from Azare were crossing the Malachite band to the up-light side of Bice, the enemy flooding through The Gap into the far side of Stil-de-grain.

Other parts of the rambling message were unclear. There was confused babble about white people and white animals. And about an Azare "army" -- if such an assortment of people and beasts could be called an army -- causing mass destruction.

For some time, John had been hearing rumors about "dangerous" animals coming out of Azare, about the savage way they attacked people -- even in up-light!

Whatever the exact nature of the message (which had all the characteristics of being "programed" into the bird under stressful conditions, said Gagar) it was clear that Stil-de-grain was under assault by a new "army" from a new enemy, and from an unexpected direction.

While John still wished to relieve the Realgar's city, he could no longer do so. From observing the army Head's horrified reaction to this latest threat, from watching lowly Platinia's anguished look on hearing that the "white folks" were coming, it was clear to John his first duty was to defend Stil-de-grain.

Looking at the map again, Etexin pondering it as well, John had done the politic thing: concluded that the Stil-de-grain army must be sent to stop this Azare invasion, the first consideration: how best to get to The Gap. Approachable from two directions (one if by land, two if by sea??) the "easiest" way was by sea, the "hook" in the sea passage idea, that they'd have to row past Bice, alerting Malachite that the Stil-de-grain army was no longer stalemated in Xanthin harbor.

The second method of getting to The Gap was by land, the merchant marine ferrying the Stil-de-grain army to Canarin. From there, the troops would cross the Tartrazine river, march along a course that would first skirt Hero castle, then trace the shoreline of the lake of Quince. Entering the Umber forest at the top of the lake, the army would continue past a landmark called temple Fulgur. It was at some point after that, the gravity traps of Malachite guarding the army's right flank, that they would meet the unknown enemy.

A long passage. But one not apt to alert Malachite that the army of Stil-de-grain was on the loose.

So it was decided -- the army would be marched overland -- a determination that forced John to make another choice. While Etexin assured John that Stil-de-grain's professional troops could march that distance, that the supply wagons could traverse all terrain they were apt to encounter, the Army Head's best advice was that John's "citizen soldiers" -- could not. Sound judgment, from what John had seen of John's draftees in "action," John agreeing -- to Etexin's barely disguised delight -- that the assault would be made with the professional army, only.

Just who or what they would be "assaulting" was anybody's guess. Men, women, and children? White, murderous animals?

Whatever the situation, John was about to find out. No longer could the Mage of Stil-de-grain stay out of combat. While the young king must remain in the capital as a focal point for Band patriotism (with Coluth left behind as the child's protector) John himself must go with the army. Though John couldn't work the magic that everyone expected of him, for him not to accompany the troops would be the worst "magic" of all. The black magic of no magic. If for no other purpose than to strengthen Stil-de-grain morale, John had to be there in person to "counter" the evil Mage's conjurations.

The decision made, exhausting days of planning at an end, John found himself sitting alone at the war-room table late one afternoon. (Platinia was with him, of course.) Nearing down-light, John realized there was nothing left for him to do, the army departing later in the week.

Considering again the army's route, he thought once more about how it would take him near Hero Castle.

In spite of the fear John had felt when first "landing" in that Medieval pile, John had come to consider the short time he'd spent in the Hero's citadel as "the good old days." He could see in his mind's eye the wet walls and floor of the turret room, the white, frightened face of Platinia, the broken body of Melcor. Closing his eyes, John could feel himself gliding through the castle's dark halls; smell the damp, tapestried walls. He remembered so many things: the terror he'd known when he'd discovered that darkness "shut down" language translation; how the torches were lit by magic ......

It was then that John remembered something else! Something he'd seen in the castle, the meaning of which he'd failed to grasp until this very instant! Something (this world a place of magic) he must have, if only to raise the spirits of his troops.

And when the army passed close to Hero castle, John meant to have it!

Considering how to affect the transfer, John realized it would be unwise for him to leave the army for a side-trip to the castle, the enemy possibly close at hand. No. He must remain with the troops at all cost.

Could he send Etexin? ... No. Like Mages, Army Heads must attend their forces in dangerous territory.

John didn't want to send Golden.

And because he'd decided to take Zwicia along -- you couldn't have too much magic in this world -- John was afraid to send Platinia for fear that, without Platinia at his side, he would fall under the spell of Zwicia's Crystal.

Send Zwicia? The woman couldn't stagger across a room unaided!

For the moment, it amused John to realize he was faced with a situation much like the old riddle of how to row a fox, a goose, and a bag of grain across a stream, only two of the three items of cargo to be taken in the boat at a time. ...........

And that was the key to his current problem. Not exactly a fox-goose-grain solution, but close enough to allow him to secure the one thing that might give him the "magical edge" so all important in this world!

* * * * *

Chapter 21

Fog at dawn. Up-light and another day of march in a great cloud of dust. (No wind to blow it away, as usual.) Fog. Rain at night. Fog. The dust of day. Fog. Rain. Fog. Dust. ........... For weeks, the army had been on the march, soldiers in their iron caps tramping along both sides of the narrow road, swords and throwing axes squeaking rhythmically in leather harness, wooden shields thudding against the hollows of soldiers' backs where they were slung.

Progress had been slow, first when the army and its wagons had been backed up forever at the Tartrazine, the river's two over-taxed ferries wretchedly inadequate for military use. After getting by that watery bottleneck, there were the mountains, then tangled underbrush, the scrub so thick that soldiers had to draw their swords to slash their way through.

The road itself -- more trail than military highway -- was reserved for the army's drays, all vehicles pulled by teams of nickering ponies. Large wagons with latticed sides carried equipment: tents, uniforms, armor. Smaller carts contained provisions: the army's food -- grain for the ponies. Interspersed were the "artillery pieces:" mangonels mounted on flat, wheeled platforms. Rolling along behind the "guns" were the ammunition wagons, thick nets over them to hold down the pyramided stones that the mangonels used for "cannon balls."

A constant was the sound of tramping boots, the rumble of iron shod wheels, the groan of ungreased axles in distress. The only smell was the dust within which the army toiled -- the powder of it clogging nose and mouth and throat, the grit of it like sand between the teeth.

Bored with riding in his "Wizard" cart, John had insisted on walking like the rest; even found himself marching to the dull thud of the tabor now that the army had been dressed by rank and file. In increasingly dangerous territory (Etexin worried about assassins) John had agreed to camouflage himself in a standard military tunic and march at the protected center of the army.

Two days had passed since the troops had struggled out of the foothills at the base of the Hero mountains; three days since John had dispatched his "emissaries" to Hero castle.

Encountering the usual pack merchants in the uplands, the army found itself increasingly entangled in foot traffic on the plain -- all of it "against" them. Not the usual salesmen, pleasure travelers, or hunters, but throngs of flatland peasants and small village dwellers. Whole families of them -- tired, dirty, parents carrying exhausted children.

Questioned, these sad people turned out to be what they seemed, refugees fleeing the front.

The horde had recently grown so great that it choked the road, the army having to push its way through a human tide.

In the press were the pony carts of the prosperous, piled high with belongings. Boxes, leather containers, furniture, barrels of what was probably merchandise which, when the owner relocated, would again be made available for sale.

The less wealthy pushed hand-carts containing jumbled clothing, lumpy bags, kitchen utensils, and farmer's tools.

The poor, both men and women, packed bundles on their backs, their grubby children straggling after parents or older siblings. Children too spent to walk had to be carried in the arms of distraught and footsore parents. People shouted feebly for elbow room, grumbled at their gods, groaned under burdens. Hungry milk cows, unused to being driven any distance, bawled incessantly to be left alone to graze. Sheep bleated their sad way along. Pigs grunted, squealed, and bolted off on tangents. Dogs trotted happily at their owner's heels.

Behind the eyes of these simple, lowland folk was a single passion -- flight! They had the timeless, haunted look of every refugee: of Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians fleeing the Russian front; of Vietnamese escaping napalmed villages and defoliated forests; of Jews, in eternal exodus from persecution by their Christian neighbors.

So dejected were these current emigres, in fact, that few cheered the army's advance against their common foe, those who did having their brave words betrayed by overtones of fear.

Monotonously, the throng streamed past, a few drivers attempting to weave their way through the lumbering military wagons on the track, most families keeping well off the trail to skirt the solid ranks of marching men.

There was an occasional shout of caution about "white" enemies: of someone seeing an endless line of foreigners laying waste the land.

As odd as were the shouted comments about a "white" foe, stranger still was what the people of the exodus did not say. There was no talk of death at the hands of the aggressor. No mention of confiscation. Or of rape. Or torture. No grieving widows. The enemy, while terrorizing the countryside, was allowing the band's inhabitants to escape. Nor was their talk about assassination squads or Quantrill-style marauders. No terrorists massacring innocents in the name of peace. No revolutionaries murdering children for a just cause.

Needing to find out more about what the army faced, John, under heavy guard, approached a number of the stragglers directly, their separate stories summarized by a bent, old man who said: "Them white people move even slower than me. Crazed is what they is."

The only additional information John learned was about the foe's lack of militarism. They did not march as an organized body. They did not shout battle cries and charge. They had no bows or other missile weapons. Nor did they use tactics of any kind.

Piecing together scraps of information from a dozen or more victims, John came to visualize the enemy approach as more migration than invasion.

What there was universal agreement about was that the enemy was "white" and that they moved slowly but steadily in an interminable line, pausing to dismantle everything along their path. Curious. More than that, surrealistic!

Nothing else to be learned, John returned to his station at the army's center and to other worries, one of which was a growing concern about Platinia. It had been days since he'd dispatched Platinia and Zwicia to Hero castle, the pair of them riding off in the Weird's cart, a squad of men armed with pole-axes serving them as escorts. (Besides guarding the women, John wanted the patrol of soldiers to be there as "convincers" should old Chryses refuse to give up that little "item.")

Easily keeping pace with the dust-covered men packed about him, John had time to consider how Platinia's absence had affected him. Without Platinia constantly beside him, for instance, the urge to look in Zwicia's Crystal was stronger; more at night than when working on the problems of the day. He'd expected that. (Sending Zwicia and her Crystal with Platinia had been John's way of protecting himself from the temptation to Crystal gaze.)

Another consequence of Platinia's absence was that John's power to influence others seemed to deteriorate. Which had its good side. An example was that the army Head Etexin no longer fawned on John, now that the girl was gone; was not as supportive of John's every whim. The Head was also quicker to make decisions without being cajoled, in particular, about military affairs. Freed from John's (Platinia-strengthened?) domination, Etexin had proved himself a competent commander rather than the simpering fool for which John had first taken him. As the army had drawn nearer to the enemy, without being told, Etexin had divided his troops into three parts -- the vanguard comprised of archers, the main body made up of swordsmen, and a rearguard phalanx of spear and shield troops -- a sensible order of march for any army approaching the foe. Ever nearer to the enemy, the Head had increased security and taken extra measures to guard the army's supply wagons.

As of this morning, Etexin had doubled the number of scouts flanking the perimeter of the march, a beefed-up corps of woodsmen sent to flit from tree to tree in advance of the van, there to be an "early warning system" of imminent contact with the enemy.

Etexin was also proving to be more humane than John would have guessed, the army Head setting up relief teams to care for the needs of the fleeing citizens: slaveys assigned to distribute food to the hungry and water to the thirsty. Sound procedures all, not a single one of which John had to initiate.

So passed that day of march, Golden, as he had from the beginning, contributing to the war effort by entertaining the troops at night.

The next day was much the same.

So was the next.

It was on the afternoon of the second day of the third week of the campaign that John heard the high-pitched squeal of rapidly revolving wheels to the rear of John's position. Looking back and to the "road-ward side" of the ranks of marching men, John saw that a wagon was causing the stir, its well-lathered ponies reined down the center of the road, their driver swerving sharply to pass the slower supply wagons.

Zwicia's cart!

And there was Platinia, looking like a forlorn child on the front seat beside the driver, the cart's trotting shelties making the women's escort struggle to keep up.

Seeing the wagon coming, John fell out of line to wait at the edge of the wheel-scarred track.

The rig approaching, John had the officer of the squad guarding him flag down the driver, the driver bringing the rattling cart to a halt beside the trail.

Along with the ponies, the women's guards were glad to stop, taking the opportunity to lean on the wagon or on the stout handles of their bills, breathing hard, muddy sweat trails streaking their muscular bodies.

Amazed to find that the man beside the road was the Mage, the Head of the guards ordered his men to attention, the Head saluting smartly before commanding his soldiers to part so John could approach the wagon.

"You are dismissed with my thanks," John said to the Squad-Head, the young officer grinning to be praised by such an important personage.

"Fall out," the squad leader ordered, his troops revived enough to trot off toward the nearest food wagon.

"Did you get it?" John asked, looking up through the ever present road haze at Platinia's small face sticking out of her child's sized tunic. (Something about the girl made even the dusty air smell like dark perfume!)

For an answer, she pointed back under the cloth top of the wagon.

Looking past Platinia through the front slit in the covering, John saw Zwicia riding on the back board, beside the slatternly weird a cage, inside the cage, what John had hoped to see: the red parrot he'd noticed shortly after "dropping in" on Hero castle. Though he hadn't ascribed any significance to the bird's color at the time, he now knew the bird had to have been bred in the "red band" of Cinnabar -- would fly back to the man who'd hatched it. In all likelihood, Cryo, Cinnabar's Mage. It made sense that, when getting together to fight the forces of evil in the Great Mage War, the Mages of the allied Bands would maintain a means of contacting one another.

John's plan was to show the red messenger bird to his army, telling them he was sending a message to Cryo of Cinnabar -- anything connected with Cinnabar a "stunner" in this world. John would assure the army that, after the bird delivered its message, they could expect to be strengthened not only by John's magic, but also by the magic of Cinnabar. If that didn't build morale, he didn't know what would!

For now, John ordered a passing supply wagon slavey to deliver refreshments to Platinia, Zwicia, and to the women's hulking coachman.

Meanwhile, at John's order, the cart driver tapped the reins, the ponies starting up reluctantly, their heads down, red tongues out, their hairy withers dark with sweat, the driver pulling the cart into the line of march, John walking by the side of the wagon.

While the women were being fed, stable hands came up to hold water buckets under the ponies' muzzles, the hostlers walking backward in front of the ponies so the small beasts could drink. After that, slaveys tied feed bags so the little horses could munch grain as they walked along.

After a quick meal himself, wanting to be closer to Platinia as much as anything, John decided to ride in the cart a ways.

"I'll drive for a little while," John said to the stolid driver, John stepping on the wagon's "running board" then clambering up on the seat, the man handing over the reigns, the wagoner jumping down. "Walk ahead of us. I'll need you later."

Trying to look like he knew what he was doing, John gathered the sweat stained leather strips in both hands like he'd seen drivers do in "stage coach" movies. Never touching any kind of reins -- pony or plug -- John had to hope the tricky little beasts were too tired to give him trouble.

"Tell me, Platinia," John said to the girl beside him on the high seat. "Did Chryses give you any trouble about your taking the red bird?

"..... No."

Though outwardly all remained the same -- the golden sky band above Stil-de-grain just barely "tarnished," the smells and sounds of the army unchanged, the cart's solid, wooden wheels continuing to rumble and squeak as they jarred their passenger's bones -- something was wrong! Was it Platinia, the way she sounded, the way she looked? True, it was difficult to "read" the girl's feelings. This time, though ... her tone of voice ...."

Turning his head, John stared at the girl, Platinia refusing to meet his eyes. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there Platinia?"

The quick look of distress on her face told him he was right.

"You must tell me."

"It is that ... Chryses is ... dead."

"Dead!? Surely not. How could he ...?"

"He was alive. Now, he is dead."

"You mean he died after your arrival at the castle? Not very likely."

"He was ... old."

"Zwicia ...." John twisted all the way around to look through the wagon cover at the old woman frumped down on the back seat. "Platinia said that Chryses is dead."

"Dead."

"Did you see him die?"

"Not."

Then how do you know he is ...?"

"He dead."

"How did it happen?"

"Fell."

"Down the stairs?" Though John still didn't believe in the reality of Chryses' death, John seemed to be getting closer to some kind of truth.

"Off wall."

"You mean to tell me he fell off the castle wall!?"

"Chryses was old," Platinia said quietly, her fingers weaving in her lap like mating water snakes. "He was old and ... fell."

The possibility that the gentle old man had actually tumbled to his death from the wall of Hero castle, was sinking in.

Accidents did happen. Without a doubt, more frequently to the blind. Though Chryses knew the castle, could shuffle around it like a sighted person, a single mental error, a little slip ..... Though John hadn't known Chryses well, John felt ... sad.

Continuing to "drive" the docile ponies, John asked other questions, gaining the following limited, but collaborative information: neither woman had seen Chryses fall; they had been together in one of the castle's sleeping rooms when a castle slavey reported the accident. Both were certain Chryses had died in the accident. The women swore they had seen the body.

Depressing.

As for that unfeeling insect, the army, it continued to centipede it's way along, the death of any single man to an organization committed to the slaughter of the many, a fact of insignificance.

At the end of the day's advance, Etexin calling the usual halt before down-light, the army prepared to bivouac beside the road, troopers falling in to dig the day's-end-defensive-ditch around the area where the army would pitch its tents, other solders planting sharpened palisade stakes at the ditch's perimeter. Men were posted inside this dirt-and-stake fortification to guard the sleeping army from whatever might be "out there" in the fog and rain and dark of night.

John and his people, as well as the Head and his staff slept -- also under heavy guard -- at the nearest inn. The privileges of rank.

After a bath and supper, John retired to his room to "meditate." (Now that Platinia had returned, John had her with him in his room, the exhausted girl already asleep on a pallet near the door.)

A single, spitting torch served John as a "night light" as he sat on the edge of the shelf bed by the wall.

Except for the always and forever drip of nighttime rain off the inn's thatched roof, there was silence. No army noise; no incessant dust; no pathetic refugees.

This was John's time to reflect on the day's events.

Chryses' death. Sad, though in any "reality," less painful than the death of someone young.

Shifting to thoughts about the coming battle and about the universal belief in the power of Mages, John pulled his useless Crystal from inside his tunic top, dangling it before his eyes to look at its curving yellow glass. Sardonically, he rubbed the crystal with one finger; noticed the build up of a little static -- the only "magic" the crystal had as far as he'd been able to discern. Too little "occult power" to do him any good.

Trying to observe the Crystal closely in order to determine if he'd "missed something" about the gem's nature, John found himself wishing that the room's torch would do more than gutter shadows on the tiny chamber's cubical walls.

More serious by far, was the certainty that the flickering of the torch was caused by the fading of the light over Stil-de-grain, reduced "torch power" a manifestation of Stil-de-grain's weakening magic.

And when the failure of the light got worse? When people began to catch colds -- sickness something this world's people had never known -- how long before his own people demanded he do something magical to help them? To say nothing of what would happen when he failed to produce on that occasion? John had worries above and beyond the coming war against a "creepy" enemy.

With all his heart, John wished he did have magical powers; that he could strengthen the band's light; that he had the sorcery to make that torch across the way burn true again!

The torch in its wall crevice ... steadied.

John blinked. Had he actually seen what he thought he'd seen!? John rubbed the crystal again, at the same time wishing the torch flame would grow brighter still. Wished hard!

To see ... gradually ... but steadily ... the artificial flame of the torch give out more light (almost like an increase in current will brighten a light bulb) the flame changing from red to burnished yellow, finally to light gold "hot."

Excited now, John stood. Stepping across the sleeping girl to approach the torch, he ran his shaky fingers through its "fire." .... Still cold. .... Though the flame was definitely brighter, steadier.

Taking a deep, settling breath, John rubbed his Crystal between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, at the same time concentrating on the flame, wishing it would go out.

And ... like the snapping of a switch, the room was plunged in darkness!

Again, fingers trembling, John thought "light." And the torch was lit.

Though by this time John was breathing fast, was shaky, he was also grinning. At last, he too, could make magic in this place! .....

Calmer now, he felt ... exhilaration!

At the same time (deliberately thinking thoughts that would help to keep him steady) John had to admit that, here, lighting and putting out a torch by magic was a minor feat. A case in point, John the only person he knew in the entire land who could not work this kind of elemental magic. At least until now.

Then, John thought of something else. Anyone else could do as he had done -- think a torch alight, think it out ... but only during up-light.

With amazement, John realized he'd controlled the torch ... after dark, something, to his knowledge, no one else could do.

So -- that was the power of the Crystal! A Mage with a Crystal could work magic in the dark! At least the kind of limited magic that was possible in this world.

As for what benefit he could derive from his unique ability to work night-magic ... he'd have to think about it.

Two more days on the road, and the traffic (which had been so heavy for the last hour it threatened to stop the army's progress altogether) -- thinned. To a father and mother pulling their two, young children in a wagon, the cart "limping" along on a lashed-together wheel, behind them a distraught farmer herding a particularly cantankerous bunch of pigs, after that, at a distance, two old women. Then ... no one ..... The road ahead clear. Why?

A quick look around him told John the soldiers had become uneasy, the men quieter, more alert. They still marched purposefully, but carefully; were loosening their swords in their scabbards; making sure the throwing axes in their belts could be quickly hefted.

It was definitely time for a staff meeting, John trotting forward as Etexin's halt-command was being echoed through the ranks.

The army now at a standstill, seeing Etexin moving back toward him between the stationary files, John ordered slaveys to pitch the command tent in an open spot to the side of the road.

Suspecting that the enemy was just ahead, John and Etexin put out a call for all unit commanders.

Inside fifteen minutes, Etexin, Flebb, and ten Heads of the army's units were seated along both sides of four butted-together folding tables, John at the end, John's people on his right.

The battle group officers all there, John was ready to start the meeting when a slavey interrupted to usher in one of the army's scouts.

Coming but a single step within the tent flap, after a jerky bow, the forward observer announced what John and Etexin had thought, that just over a crest of ground some thousand yards before the van, lay the enemy. The army had reached the front.

"Tell us exactly what you saw," John asked from his position at the head of the table, at the same time motioning to a serving slavey in the tent to pour a cup of wine for the leathery looking reconnoiterer.

Waiting for his drink, taking it, the thin, leather-covered man said in a reedy voice, "I saw ...." Then, as if overwhelmed by thirst, took a long drink, sighed, and wiped his lips with the back of his free hand, "... these ... people. All in a line, a long ways off but coming toward me. The line of them was as far as I could see." He spread his hands, looking first one way, then the other, the scout the kind of long, lean man that Daniel Boone should have been, but probably wasn't -- a man with a weathered, axe-blade face.

"Coming toward you." John prompted.

"That's right. Slow. Crawling."

"And what were they doing?"

"I was a ways off, like I said. But they seemed to be stooped over."

"Stooped over?"

"Looked like they was tear'n out grass and bushes." The scout shrugged, John glancing at Etexin who looked as confused as John felt.

"But ... why ...?"

"Near as I could figure, all they're leavin' behind them is dirt. They got sickles. They got hoes. At least that's what it looked like. As I said, I was quite a ways off." Finishing his wine with a final gulp; he passed the cup to the slavey for a refill. "It's like they're plowin' up the whole country, gettin' ready to sow a crop."

Inadvertently, John shuddered. If what he was hearing proved true, you couldn't match that level of obliteration with an atomic bomb!

Of course the enemy was advancing slowly! A leaf-by-leaf, blade of grass by glass blade kind of devastation, took time.

John found himself standing, pacing, Etexin and the corps Heads seated on folding camp stools behind the flimsy tables.

Though the army Head and his men had also been served, they weren't drinking, their faces as white as the enemy was alleged to be.

John turned to the forward observer who was still standing by the tent flap, nervous at being in the presence of his "betters."

"Did any of the enemy's scouts see you?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't think they got any." The frontiersman paused to take the refilled cup. "It's not like they're an army at all. It's just like they're a bunch of farmers, plowin' up the whole country. From what I could tell, behind them there's nothing but stripped ground, for as far as I could see." He took another drink as if the sight of all that barren land had left him dry.

"White? The enemy has been described as white."

"Oh, yeah." As an afterthought, the scout wiped his lips again with the back of his fist. Clearly, he was making every effort to be on his best behavior. "They're white alright. As white as new born babes."

"Animals?"

"Don't remember. ... Yes. .... Dogs. Ponies, I guess. Now that I come to think about it, they was white, too. Didn't seem to be pulling anything. The ponies, I mean."

"I've got to see this for myself." John shot a look at Etexin, Etexin nodding gravely. John turned to the messenger again. "In your judgment, would the Head and I be at risk if you took us to get a look at the enemy?"

"I don't see how. They don't look dangerous to me. I was at a distance, don't you know, but they looked ... kind of like small folks." With his free hand, the woodsman stroked the stubble of his unkempt beard, thoughtfully. "'Course, I didn't tangle with 'em. But they don't even seem to me to be lookin' out. They're just doin' like I said. Diggin' up the countryside."

"In a long line."

"Well ... to be accurate, more like a long bunch of folks. Not a one person line. But a bunch of little people, all in a string, everybody bent over, tearing everything out of the ground as they go."

An hour later, taking elaborate precautions to keep below a line of low, green, gently rolling hills that lay between themselves and the enemy, John, Etexin, three of Etexin's corps Heads, plus a company of hand-picked phalanx-men, were following the woodsman up a grassy ridge.

Just before the top, the point man indicated the foe was in the valley beyond.

Stopped, the spotter crawled to the summit to take a look, signaling John and Etexin to approach.

Crouched down beside the scout, they eased their heads up to look into the glen.

And there they were.

Short people in a rough line -- men, women, children -- bent over, pulling up grass, sickling down bushes, leveling everything in their path.

From John's position, which was at least two hundred yards away, his overall impression was the same as the lookout's: that the enemy troops?? were small and ... white. Dead white faces, arms. What had to be children, also the color of alabaster.

Beside them were pale animals: dogs, ponies. Were the animals scratching at the land with their paws-hooves, helping the people to root up grass? Outlandish!

Seeing people engaged in this kind of mindless activity was ... bizarre. But ... were these people, whoever they were, dangerous? ...... This, was an army?

For a length of time, John and his party continued to watch, hoping to learn something of military value about the enemy's "troops." But the only other impression John got was that the people below him were behaving like ... trained animals. Acting like they'd been hypnotized. Were under a spell.

John had to admit to himself that he'd lived long enough in this "other reality" to think of "spells" as a potential explanation of the enemy's behavior. In fact, able to work a little magic himself now, he thought it a distinct possibility that these people ripping up the valley were under magical constraint. How else could he explain such mindless activity?

Mindless? Not if the total devastation of Stil-de-grain was the object.

White people, reported to have come from the black band of Azare. White people from a black band. And why not? Their home band in magical darkness for countless years was bound to have an effect on the people. Without light, had they lost skin pigment? The animals, too? Did these people below him on the plane have the colorless eyes of the albino? Was it even possible, living so long in total darkness, that they were blind? Cave fish lost their ability to see after eons of swimming through eternal blackness.

Increasingly, John had to consider the possibility that the enemy below was under the diabolic influence of the evil Mage of Azare, that the iniquitous Wizard, long confined in darkness, was using his people to revenge himself against those who had imprisoned him within his Band.

John could even guess the strategy of the wicked Mage. First, terrify the people of Malachite into attacking Stil-de-grain, Stil-de-grain's forces to be trapped on Xanthin island. After neutralizing the Stil-de-grain army in this way, use mesmeric power to compel Azare's civilians to destroy the undefended countryside of Stil-de-grain.

Nor did Auro's designs stop there. The Stil-de-grain part of his "grand design" under way, Auro had forced the Malachites to attack Realgar. Destroy the Realgar army at Carotene, and Auro could unleash his hypnotized civilians to devastate Realgar as he was presently destroying Stil-de-grain.

Not a sprig of green to be alive when he'd finished. No less than the complete and utter ruination of his enemies was the goal. Revenge incarnate!

John flashed on a story he'd read about the migration of an army of South American ants, the ants stripping everything in their path, before his eyes, was seeing that story lived out on an inhuman scale.

John's only comfort was the certain knowledge that Mages, no matter how malevolent, could miscalculate. Something Auro had done by failing to take into account the possibility of a breakout by the forces of Stil-de-grain.

Auro's "army" of white robots might be anathema to plant life. Could terrorize civilians. But against a properly equipped professional army, they had little chance.

Now that John had come to realize the imbalance in the fighting potential of the two sides, in a strange way, he was disappointed. Had he been looking forward to a cataclysm unseen for centuries, a clash between medieval titans? No time for soul searching at the moment.

For now, his only decision was when to unleash his army on this bloodless rabble, a choice, given the pathetic "army" down below, he could make at his leisure.

Until now, ready to use whatever "magical" tricks he could invent to psych up the Stil-de-grain army for the coming battle, John saw that the situation had been altered. Facing, not an army, but a rabble, he must take a different ethical position. No longer any doubt that the victory would be his, John's moral duty was to be a moderating force, as any man of conscience strives to minimize the shedding of innocent blood.

Now that he'd seen the enemy, observed for himself their unnatural look -- to say nothing of the bizarre way they were rooting up the plain -- John had come to feel ... almost sorry for them. Clearly, they were as trapped into playing the part of destroyer as John had been forced into his role as Mage.

Where was this diabolic Auro? This devil-king of Mages!? At home, no doubt, pulling (from a safe distance) the puppet strings of his suffering people.

The scouting party returning to the army, following a late lunch, John called for a private meeting with Etexin.

First, there was some preliminary discussion of the muscularity of the enemy, the Head saying the men of Azare had the reputation of being even stronger than those of Malachite. On the other hand, neither John nor the Head had seen the foe perform any feats of strength. If anything, the slowness of the foreigner's movements argued for weakness. John's speculation was that the total darkness in which the enemy lived had sapped whatever innate force they might once have had, both John and Etexin feeling that the fighting prowess of the individual Azare "soldier" could be discounted.

They talked about tactics, John suggesting that the Head simply show his forces to the ragtag civilians in the valley, in this way overawing them as a means to affect their surrender, Etexin fighting that idea (as much as his cringing ways would allow) until John -- having doubts himself about just how "terrifying" the sight of the Stil-de-grain army would be -- stopped arguing for a non-lethal show of strength.

After that, the only sticking point was John's plan to be "nice" to the adversary by killing as few of them as possible.

"But, great Mage, they are the enemy!" pleaded the Army Head.

"I'm not arguing that we risk our troops in any way. Just that we defeat these people with as little loss of life as possible." From the shocked look on Etexin's face, saving enemy life was a prospect that failed to "compute."

John finally compromised; the army Head promising to spare a fleeing foe.

After that came John's late afternoon message of encouragement to the troops, carried to them by their officers.

And a good night's sleep for all.

Well before up-light the following morning, John was dressed in his Wizard regalia, he mood matching the usual drizzling rain and fog of dawn. An inglorious beginning to an inglorious day.

A quick staff meeting and the army of Stil-de-grain was mustered, the troops headed out to the beat of muffled drums, John -- with Platinia and Golden behind him -- joining the Army Head in the vanguard.

A thousand, quiet yards and Etexin halted the troops back of the low range of hills that formed this side of the "enemy's valley."

From their position front and center, John and the Head slipped forward to lie on their bellies below the crest of a sheltering rise of ground. Peeking over the ridge, John saw that the enemy had continued to "eat" its destructive way across the valley floor. Up as early as the troops of Stil-de-grain, the "white" forces were back to their dreary, monomaniacal task of uprooting everything along their line of "march."

Seeing no military change, Etexin moved back to take charge of the army, John staying at the ridge line as forward observer.

Other than an occasional, distant scrape of hoes against rock, the valley was as quiet as the pristine day of this world's creation. The people below him did not march to trumpet or to drum. They didn't even speak.

To right and left, the slowly undulating line of stooped, white civilians passed beyond John's line of sight. This army of "worker ants" had to come to an end somewhere, though, Etexin assuring John at that morning's staff meeting that the population of Azare was as limited as the size of the band.

In position at last, the massed forces of Stil-de-grain ... waited. Waited for the last trace of morning mist to leave the valley floor.

Then, it was time!

From his position as observer, John signaled to Etexin at John's back.

Behind John, Etexin held up one hand, that readiness sign passed silently along the Stil-de-grain front, soldiers drawing their swords quietly, bracing their spears under their arms, shields up.

On the army's flanks, archers prepared to rain death from the heights; had arrows notched to strings.

Though it hardly seemed necessary, the mangonels were positioned to cover a possible retreat.

Everyone ready, a sharp command from Etexin brought a penetrating blast from oliphants and trombas! Wild drumming on the tabors followed, the drummers catching each other's beat to pound the cadence of attack!

With a mighty shout, the pride of Stil-de-grain spilled over the ridge and down the hill, making the deafening roar of water plunging through a newly broken dam! An irresistible wave, shoulder to shoulder, rank on rank, file following file.

Still in his position at the hill's crest, John jumped up to see that the enemy in the valley had stopped digging, the "ghost people" straightening to look up at the army topped the hill. Not blind, then.

The surprise was that the riffraff, under imminent attack, did not do what John had expected -- run. Instead ... they ... waited. Waited with a dead calm, hoes in hand, scythes up. Waited in place to offer what feeble resistance they could to the Stil-de-grain juggernaut. The night before, John had argued against this massive charge because he thought all that would be needed to panic the enemy was a sudden show of force. Given the enemy's reaction to a full, frontal assault, however, Etexin had been right to resist that ploy.

John could hear the twang of bowstrings now, see chalky bodies fall as flight arrows from the ridge line found their marks.

Meanwhile, the soldier-torrent continued to surge pass John to either side, as rank upon rank of infantry rolled over the ridge, the foremost lines flowing out on the plain below. If anything, John was surprised to see how orderly the army was, except for "rebel yells," no blood lust in their eyes.

The front ranks closing ground over the flat by this time, the moment came when, with a shout, the troops broke, first into a controlled trot, then into a disciplined run.

A clash! The foremost rank of the army falling upon the white civilians.

Swords flashed, spears pierced chests, heavy shields crushed milky bodies to the ground.

This time, what John had expected to happen ... did. In no more than a minute of combat, the army sliced through the enemy's line along a wide front, leaving in its wake a blood reddened relic of what used to be human. Swept through to turn, to regroup for the next change, this time rolling sharply to the right to strike another segment of the foe's ragged line.

Again, a few minutes of gleaming swordplay against hoe handles and the army flooded through another huge gap in the splattered, albumen line.

Wheeled. Formed up.

It was then, at the far edges of the enemy's line, that John saw a change. The Whites were ... bunching ... that effect caused by the foe to either side coming to the support of their people in the center. Until now looking like a long, white rubber band, stretched thin, the foreigners were thickening as their line contracted toward the center. But slowly, as the foe did ... everything. They fought slowly, died slowly, brought forward more people to support the gaping hole in their center ... slowly.

Again, the Stil-de-grain army charged, the foe not so much fighting back as clinging to the troops, hanging on them. As for the dreaded white beasts, they were as sluggish as the people, dogs chewing feebly at the troops' heels, ponies pawing and trying to bite with their stubby teeth.

The soldiers broke through again, once more leaving a jagged hole clotted with enemy dead, here and there among the fallen enemy, a downed solider.

And still the white civilians came, closing on the center from both sides.

For the first time, John felt a ripple of fear along his spine. While Stil-de-grain's army was winning the battles, the troops could lose the war. Ironically, John was seeing battle tactics worked against his forces that he'd planned to use himself. The reason he'd had "citizen soldiers" drafted into the Stil-de-grain army was to be able to use overwhelming numbers of inductees to turn the tide of battle against the smaller, professional army of Malachite. Now ... that tactic was being used against him. This was not to be a war of total victory, but of attrition, a war that, given the seemingly inexhaustible supply of enemy personnel, John's forces were doomed to lose.

Another regrouping of the troops was underway, this time with Heads shouting at the exhausted soldiers, officers beating laggards, the army slowly pulling together for another charge. For yet another, pyrrhic victory.

Something had to be done, but what? "You see what's happening!?" John called to Etexin, the cacophony of the battle rising from the plain coming exclusively from the hoarse yelling of the Stil-de-grain troopers, the din making it difficult for John to be heard even though Etexin was standing five feet away. For his part, the Head had been commanding his regiments from the heights, using signal flags and trombas.

"They can't stand the pressure for much longer!" Etexin yelled back.

"Them or us?" The Head glanced over at John, Etexin's face as bloodless as the skin of the enemy.

"Perhaps a retreat ....!?" the Army Head called.

Withdrawal would save what was left of the army. Nor, as slowly as the enemy moved, would there be any pursuit of the fleeing troops. But how "running away to win the war another day" would lead to ultimate victory, John couldn't see. True, giving the troops a rest would mean they would be more effective killing machines at some later date. It was just that against those numbers, it made no difference.

Could a retreat buy time for John to counter with his own draftees ....? No. His civilians would never fight like that.

Defeat loomed before John's eyes, failure something John had never taken passively. His mind was awhirl. There had to be something he could do! There was always some way out of any difficulty. He would not be vanquished! John had never lost a prize he'd set out to achieve!

John could feel the blood surge through his veins, his head throb. A cold anger was building in him. Defeat. He would not accept defeat!

Before John realized it, he was shouting at the troops below! He couldn't stand by and see his men dragged down!

Magic! That was what was being used against him. No one with an undrugged mind met death as bravely as the enemy. Magic! Satanic power!

Glancing to the side, looking to the Head for a solution, John saw that Platinia had come forward to gaze at John with her peculiar stare.

At that, John felt his anger change from cold to raging hot! For Platinia! He must win to save Platinia!

Abruptly, as in a seizure, John jerked up the Crystal, clutching it tight in his hands, showing it to the troops below, trying to inspire them.

Frantically, he rubbed the disk, felt the static build, the tingle matching his rising hatred of the enemy.

John willed his troops to win! He willed the enemy to ... die!

Suddenly, from the Crystal, a flash of golden light leaped toward the plain, light that ... struck down numbers of the foe.

Force! Brute power! John felt it build within him. A paroxysm of killing fury he could call down on anyone he liked!

Seeming to grow to majestic heights, extending his right arm, pointing with the outstretched fingers of his hand, John directed xanthic fire to sweep from his fingertips, jagged streams of burnished terror lashing the enemy to the ground.

Continuing to direct the power with his hand, John swept the auric blaze up and down the line of enemy, the foe ... withering like new scythed wheat ... falling where they stood, the shattering force of the blast tearing them apart.

Dropping the Crystal, with his other hand, John sprayed electric flame on the white forces to the other side, blasting them apart along the entire line, as far as he could see.

Then, as if released from a spell, what was left of the enemy ... turned ... were ... running, stumbling back across the devastation they had caused, floundering away across the loose, bare ground. Men, women, children.

The maniacal frenzy still upon him, John rubbed the crystal frantically to summon even greater power, as the god-like force build again, stretched out both hands to blast the retreating foe with seething bolts, withering them to blackness as they tried to run!

Until ... abruptly ... his power had been ... drained.

The electric virulence within the Crystal had been spent.

Enraged, John howled with a fury he had never known! Seethed with a single thought: to rend all who had dared to thwart his will! He must explode them; grind the bloody fragments of their bodies into the earth!

From the edges of his raving mind, John heard ... cheering; paeans of joy drifting up to him from the ranks below. Nearer, he was bombarded with the hurrahs of the officer corps crowding around him on the hill.

Dimly, John realize he had won. That Platinia was ... safe at last. That Stil-de-grain was saved.

The red coals of hatred ... cooled. He could ... see again. Feel again.

Know that the Head and his junior officers were pounding him on the back. Were joyous! Reverential to him! Falling to their knees before him!

He was himself. Himself and yet so much more than he had ever been because of the god-like power he'd caused to be unleashed.

Able to think once more, John began to realize just how he'd used that magic force. And used it. And used it again. In the end, to shatter a fleeing enemy. Hurled it against ... women. .... Children. ... He'd cut them to pieces as they tried to get away.

Sobered by the reality of what he'd done, John wondered dimly how it could have happened? How could he have ... slaughtered ... children ... who were running for their lives? Children whose only "sin" was enslavement by demonic power.

In his mind's eye, John saw, again, the children ... blasted to the ground, exploded from within, body pieces blackened, shriveled ....

Surrounding him, John heard the shouts of victory.

Within his soul, knew the desperation ... of defeat.

* * * * *

Chapter 22

Returning with the army, John was more automaton than man. He no longer heard the sounds of marching men. He did not smell the burgeoning dust of the road. He did not hear the moans and screams of the Stil-de-grain wounded as they jounced along in "ambulance carts."

He ate without tasting, slept without resting.

In spite of the fawning attention of those around him, he was alone.

Alone with self-loathing.

Days passed. How many, he didn't know. He walked with the army, grunted answers to occasional questions.

It was only gradually that he began to realize that the unnatural acts he'd committed could have happened only in this unnatural world. Here, forces were at work that changed him, altered his perceptions, controlled his actions. He came to see that, in such a place, it was irrational to hold himself solely responsible for his actions. The only way that blame could be ascribed to him alone would be to choose to remain in this demon-haunted world a single day longer than he must!

As for the Crystal -- itself, a lawless mind -- its failed power had been restored. John could feel the Crystal "calling to him," pulsing there, below his throat.

So it was that, as the army neared Hero castle -- the "porthole" home -- John left the troops, taking the track to the mountain stronghold. Just John and his immediate party.

Etexin and the Stil-de-grain forces continued the march to Xanthin, the army Head already formulating plans for the relief of Carotene, a task that (though the Head didn't know it) must be accomplished without John's barbaric magic.

John -- if there was any way to do it -- was going home.

The members of John's party were now at supper, the first meal they'd had since their arrival at the castle that afternoon: John, the Weird, Platinia, and Golden.

Around John in the gray, high-ceilinged room were the familiar clerestory windows, buff tapestries, cooking pit with its assorted kettles.

At home here as much as anywhere in this "realm," the only jarring note was Chryses' absence.

The castle slaveys were there to serve. The older ones only, the younger women Yarro had captured, still gone.

To tell the truth, so preoccupied was John with his "exit" problem that he hardly noticed the room or its people. The only question that mattered? Would the static electric power of the Weird's Crystal, aided by what John could generate with Melcor's yellow pendant, be enough to take him home?

He didn't know. But was going to find out.

Down-light coming shortly, they were finishing a mixed-meat stew, fruit, and wine.

With no appetite, thought fragments drifted through John's mind.

Odd how castle slaveys had continued to live their lives, as if the place still had a master.

Like Chryses, they probably had no place to go.

In such ways are the palaces of kings the property of servants as well as potentates.

John's glance falling on his companions, he turned his thoughts to how he could provide for them should he be successful in returning to his own world.

Since the citadel "ran itself," John decided he would install Platinia as the head of Hero castle, the girl able to give what few orders the slaveys needed to keep the bastion in good order. With her quiet, retiring, fearful ways, he thought the girl would like hiding here. The Weird could stay also, mumbling and Crystal gazing to her heart's content.

A more serious question was who would become the next Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain? And there would be one. Whatever the "travel plans" of Mages, their Crystals seemed never to leave this world. (A deeper question was, could the Crystal's power be tapped when its current owner -- John -- was still alive?) Crystal magic or no, John felt responsible for providing Stil-de-grain with as good a Mage as possible.

Not Golden, certainly. John had never trusted him. Too filled with himself. Too ambitious. Too tricky, by far. But who? ....

Thinking about leadership, the stone-cooled shadows of the dining room aiding reflection, John decided the only one completely trustworthy was Coluth.

"May I speak with you, great Mage?" It was Golden, the melodious tone of the young man's voice booming in the "sound chamber" of the nearly-empty room.

"Of course."

"There will be an attack against the Malachite army?"

"That's what I understand. Etexin will use the merchant ships to take the army to Carotene; hope to surprise them there."

Zwicia, at John's right, continued to eat, smacking her lips as she wiped up the last of her meat gravy with a piece of bread. Platinia sat quietly to the left, the girl between John at table-end and Golden, the girl's small hands folded in her lap.

"Must this be?"

"I don't know what you mean. It's the best chance we have, it seems to me."

"But if there were another way to end the war?"

"If there really is another way ...."

A rush of horrifying images flooded John's mind! Reading about wars as an historian had done nothing to immunized him against the grotesqueries of actual combat!

"I ... have another way."

"What?"

"Great Mage. I do not mean this as a criticism, but you have kept me ... busy ... for many up-lights."

"True."

"So occupied I could not find the time to be about my business."

"Which is ...?"

"The discovery of the green Crystal of Pfnaravin."

"The green Crystal that will, somehow, help you to become King of Malachite?"

"Regain the throne of Malachite," Golden corrected with an edgy bite to his voice, a sound John rarely heard ... from anyone.

"And should you succeed ...?"

"I would stop the war. I would have my people join Stil-de-grain and Realgar against the evil one!"

Though John generally mistrusted Golden, this time John believed Golden to be sincere. "But the green Crystal is lost. Either that, or Yarro's hidden it somewhere in the palace," John said, stalling to buy time to sort out his own feelings about this turn of events. "Hidden it so well that even you couldn't find it, as I recall."

"I had not the time to do so. Could look only in the most obvious places." Like around Yarro's neck, John remembered. An action that, somehow, had led to Yarro's death? "I have had no time to search."

John knew that was true, at least. John -- following his own dictates about never taking for granted those closest to him -- had deliberately been keeping his eye on the slippery young man. "What I beg ...," Golden rushed on, a shakiness in his voice making John realize that Golden felt himself to be at risk by asking a favor of the Mage, "... is to be allowed to return to Xanthin palace. To be allowed to search. I know I can find the hiding place. No one knows the palace like I."

Since Yarro's death, that was also probably true.

Everything considered, John was impressed with both the sincerity and truth of what Golden was saying.

"And if I find the Crystal, if I am allowed to return to Malachite -- I will be king." Golden, still seated, came to a soldier's attention. "As king, you have my pledge to stop the war!"

Golden, King of Malachite. A long shot. Still ... when a long shot is the best shot you've got .....

"I'll make this compromise with you," John said slowly, thinking it over as he spoke. "I'll release you to go to Xanthin with instructions that you be allowed complete freedom of the palace. If you find the Crystal, however, either Etexin or I will then determine the next move."

"Of course, sir. I realize that the green Crystal belongs to you. No one can use the crystal but Pfnaravin. Yarro could not use it. I cannot use it. But as a symbol of authority, to show the favor of Pfnaravin, I only thought ...."

The legendary green Crystal no longer "worked" because only the Mage who owned it could use its magic.

A novel idea suddenly struck John! Could the green Crystal's "inoperability" mean that, somewhere in John's world, the real Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite, still lived? Assuming Pfnaravin was still alive, if John abandoned the golden Gem of Stil-de-grain, could the remaining Mages contain the Dark Lord? A non-relevant speculation at such a time.

The question of the moment was, what would happen if Golden did find the green Crystal. As gullible as these people were, Golden might pull off a kingship with it. Flash a Crystal in this land and everything stopped.

All to happen in the uncertain future if John's own plans worked out, Band politics none of his business, in any case.

Even if Golden found the Crystal, Etexin would prevent Golden from leaving the island unless Golden's leaving promised a quick end to the war. What was also true was that, in this world, Etexin was in a better position to make that judgment than John.

"You're free to leave for Xanthin island tomorrow."

"Thank you, great Mage." Though seated across from John, Golden did his best to make a deep, deep bow.

Was Golden sweating? He was! John could see streaks on Golden's face, wet, spider lines that shone like silver in the torch light, the slaveys just now thinking the room's torches "on" in anticipation of down-light. For being so cheeky as to ask a favor, had Golden thought John might slay him were he sat? Perhaps. Though masked by Golden's solemn way of speaking, what John might have just heard was "Give me liberty, or give me death."

What would Golden have done if John had not "given him his walking papers?" Another speculation of no importance.

Golden sweating. Just another indication of what a terrible strain everyone around John must be under to be living in such close proximity to a Crystal-Mage. A Wizard who could, at any time he liked, with no "checks and balances," strike - them - dead!

John had been so busy sorting through his own dilemmas he hadn't considered the implications of his new powers. (New to him. Others in this world seemed to understand Crystal power -- all too well!) Believing John to be a Mage, no wonder everyone took such elaborate care that John be pacified. No wonder the subservient behavior. Living in the company of a Crystal Mage must be like being quartered with a savage beast, having to say at every moment, "Good, tiger. Nice, tiger. Please don't eat me, tiger."

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright

In the forests of the night.

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Blake. Never quite sane. Nor did John think that he, himself, would ever be.

Dinner over, down-light coming soon, a slavey guided John and Platinia to a suite of torch-lit rooms, chambers considerably larger and more luxurious than the bed and bath where Chryses had installed John so long ago. (Melcor's old quarters?) A second bed had been brought in for Platinia as ordered. With Weird-and-Crystal also in the castle, the girl's presence was still necessary. (Discovering how to tap Mage-Magic had done nothing to strengthen John against his addiction to crystal gazing.)

John's plan for making the attempted cross-over to his own world? Rub Zwicia's crystal. Hard! Fast! In this way, build static in sufficient quantity to affect the transfer.

Did this mean that he must rub Zwicia's crystal himself? Do that, and he very much feared that he would fall under the Crystal's spell again, wake up days, months, years later. Wake up ... never?

John had a hopeful thought. Now that he'd discovered how to use the magic of his own, yellow Crystal, could it be that, just by rubbing it, he could generate sufficient power to take him across? He'd certainly seen the Crystal project his own, murderous will with undreamed virulence. By calling on the Crystal's potency in another context and by concentration, could he focus that same energy on himself as a means of "jumping the gap"?

Pacing now (Platinia sitting quietly by the wall at the foot of her bed) John pulled the Crystal from the front of his formal Mage-robe. Holding the Gem by its metal frame, John rubbed the Crystal with his other hand until he felt its static build in his body.

Concentrating, John was unaware of a corresponding build up of euphoria until, before he realized it, he felt himself to be the omnipotent master of mankind! God-like!

Now a Deity, John wished to experiment with his unique power -- as a child is compelled to play with a new and fascinating toy.

Were the twin torches supplementing the room's failing light too dim? Engrossed, holding out his hand, John waved an increase of magic to the torches, at his thought, their flames burning brighter until they were twin balls of dazzling incandescence, the room blazing as if illuminated by a thousand, sputtering arcs!

With a simple twist of his mind, he dimmed them once again.

John heard a noise. Sensed a quick intake of breath, John's increased awareness magnifying the soft sound. Platinia. Cowering against the wall; shielding her dazzled eyes with both arms.

Platinia. The enigma.

But no more.

John now saw it as a high crime for mere mortals to have secrets from him!

Fiercely, he gripped the girl with his mind, Platinia's body immediately as rigid as if encased in transparent chain.

If he wished, he could hurl her to the ceiling; skewer her there as one might pin a chloroform-killed specimen to a board!

But ... exercising mercy ... he did not.

"Girl," he said with soft menace, twisting her body with a wave of his hand so that she was forced to face him, John mentally wrenching her arms away from her eyes. Not satisfied to have her sit in his presence, John induced a spasm that convulsed her to her feet. "You will tell me who you are."

"I ... am ... Platinia." At least she had told him the truth about her name. Others lied to him! He would have the truth or destroy them! "Tell me where you come from."

"I am the sacrifice of Tenebrae." She spoke as a puppet, John the master of her strings.

"Tenebrae?" Hearing that strange word amused him.

"The goddess of the night." True, he had to force the girl's voice from her throat. But it was an easy thing to do.

Tenebrae? A goddess? Ah. This was religion, a topic he had neglected. Somehow, he had not thought of the girl as religious. "And what is your task as sacrifice?"

"I am the Etherial of the goddess Tenebrae," she continued woodenly, as if made to speak by rote. "To be sacrificed by the priests of Fulgur, lord of light."

Forgetting to stroke the Crystal, John's sense of divinity ... faded.

With the diminution of his Crystal power, felt shame. What was he doing? Why was he hurting this defenseless girl?

As a child releases a soap bubble from a blow pipe, a shake of John's mind set the girl free, Platinia slumping heavily to the floor, terror replacing her robot look.

John was flooded with remorse. My God! What kind of man had he become!?

Freed from his control, huddled on the floor again, John saw the girl look up at him with that intensive stare he'd seen from her from time to time.

And in a stroke, John was overwhelmed with lust! Though he'd never been aware of sexual feelings for the girl, the thrill of the thought of copulating with her was overpowering! His body, the blood and bone of him, lusted for her!

John was trembling. It was all he could do to keep from attacking the small girl, her naked flesh the only food to satisfy his unnatural craving!

John tensed, ready to spring, ready to rip up her tunic, to take her violently! He must dominate her! Delight in her helpless suffering!

At the same time, vaguely, he knew these feelings for the girl were ... wrong. Not his feelings ... for anyone. Dimly, John realized that the desire to tear into Platinia's body ... was akin to the terrible joy he'd felt while ... massacring ... children.

Strengthened by his memories of The Horror, with all his remaining will, John fought against these barbarous feelings. Though shaking, stood his ground; refused to become the beast he longed to be. Until .... as a torch could be thought out, John's desire to be a sexual torturer ... vanished.

As John saw past the blood that had raged behind his eyes, almost fearing to do so, he glanced at Platinia, still huddled before him, the girl looking down now, unaware of the terrible wave of lust and fury that John had felt for her.

She was ... sweating, though. Had clearly undergone an emotional transformation of her own.

Unexpectedly, the girl rolled to her knees to put her hands together, fingers interlaced; holding her clasped hands above her head in an attitude of prayer. "Please, great one," she said, her voice a broken sob in the room's vast quiet. "Tell me what I must do to please you. I will do ... anything. You have but to command me, great Pfnaravin."

Pathetic. Particularly after the violent thoughts John had just had about her.

How could John excuse himself? He'd acted like the most rabid spectator at the games of ancient Rome, the kind of "fan" who received a sexual thrill from the violent death of gladiators. John thought of how people throughout history had experienced acute sexual pleasure by tying or by being tied, by dominating or by being dominated, by being whipped, by screaming, scratching, biting. Sex and violence. Too often linked for man to deny his bestial origins!

John was dizzy; could barely stand, his emotions flayed. Too many bizarre and frightening passions. He could no longer cope. He was exhausted. "All I want to do," he said in a voice so thin that even he was shocked to hear it, "is to go ... home."

"Home? To that ... place ...?" A wave of the girl's small hand told John she understood.

He nodded.

"Under the stairs," he said, as if in prayer.

"I can help you do that, great Mage," the girl said, pathetically eager to please the ravening beast that towered over her, fatigue holding the monster in check as much as will. Twice now, John had turned into the fiend the people of this world so feared in Crystal-Mages. "As I helped Melcor."

"Melcor?" A name from long ago.

"If you use your crystal power, I can strengthen it. Help you to go ... there." John remembered, dimly.

"Melcor ... was killed ..."

"An accident, great Mage. Such a thing could not happen to Pfnaravin." She was looking up at him again, pleading with her dark eyes, his sudden pity for her as unnaturally strong as his desire to ravish her but a moment earlier. Dizzy again, staggering, John felt himself out of control, careening helplessly from emotion to emotion.

As from afar, John realized what the girl was offering. Hope. Hope that brought with it an increase of strength. He had to go home. He had to! This place was changing him. Consuming him.

"I am an Etherial," the girl continued, speaking more rapidly, as if pressing an advantage. "When priests torture the sacrifice of Tenebrae ... if the girl has ... the right mind ... she becomes an Etherial. Etherials have the power to ... strengthen ... feelings." What the girl said was true. He'd felt her ... strengthening ... ability. That was why he kept her near him, he remembered ... always.

"You can get me home?"

The girl, still sweating but with a rare smile, nodded. And in that nod, John saw, for the first time in forever, the possibility of his salvation!

* * * * *

Chapter 23

Platinia waited in the tower room. The room was damp from the night rain that always fell through the hole in the ceiling. The room smelled of the moisture. The yellow light of the sky came through the hole at a slant and lit a place on one wall and a little of the floor below. The rest of the curving room was in shadow.

The Mage had told her to come here and to wait.

She had been afraid. But now that she had decided, she was calm again.

After this, she would live here in the castle. Zwicia would live with her. That pleased her.

At last, Platinia would be safe. No one would know that she was an Etherial.

For many up-lights, though she could not find a way to kill the Mage, she had been happy. The Mage had not used his power to hurt her. Instead, she had ... influenced ... the Mage by looking into the Mage's mind and strengthening the feelings she wanted him to have.

There had been many new things to see as they traveled about. She liked flutterbys and birds.

But she loved cats. They would sit in her lap. They were warm. They were furry. She could pet them all day. Everywhere she had been, there had been a cat for her to pet.

Still, she had a worry. That the old man, Chryses, might know she was an Etherial. When men knew that, they hurt her to make her serve them.

Then the Mage had sent her to this castle to get the red bird.

Here, in the mind of the old man, she had sensed that he was tired. Near down-light on the day she and Zwicia came, he was tired -- even of his life. Knowing that, Platinia had reached into the old man's mind to add to that tired feeling.

After that, Chryses had jumped off the castle wall.

Then she was sure no one knew she was an Etherial. So she was safe. Golden did not know. John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had not known.

Later, came the battle. The Mage had used his magic in the battle. She had seen it in his mind, that he was building power to attack the enemy. Like she had helped him strengthen other feelings, she had helped him build his hatred of the enemy.

Staying with him day and night, Platinia had learned to control the Mage's feelings. So much so that she thought she could always make him ... care ... for her.

Until last night! Then, he had hurt her with his dreadful magic! He had forced her! And she could not make him stop!

After the hurting, she had tried to gain power over him again. Had tried to make him rape her. She had done that to the priests. She could reach into their minds, sometimes, and made them want to rape her instead of torture her. But ... she could not make the Mage do that! She had lost control of him!

Worse, he had forced her to tell him she was an Etherial. Now that he knew she was an Etherial, he would hurt her as the others always did.

So, she must kill him.

Long, long ago, she thought a Mage could never die. She thought this until she had found a way to kill the Mage, Melcor. First, she had drawn Melcor's power to herself, then sent it to the ceiling stones, the shaken stones falling on Melcor as she had planned. At the same time, though, drawing the power to herself had sent her to the other world.

This time, she would be so careful she would not go to the other world. As with Melcor, she would build the magic of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin. Instead of gathering it to herself, though, she would guide the magic directly above the Mage's head. That much force would shake the ceiling stones still there and they would fall on Pfnaravin as stones had fallen down on Melcor.

She had killed Melcor. She had killed Chryses. Now, she would kill Pfnaravin.

With John-Lyon-Pfnaravin dead, no one would know she was an Etherial. Then, she would be safe.

Platinia was glad that she was to live here in Hero castle. There were many cats in the castle. She loved to pet them. They were so soft. They mewed to her as she petted them. They would lick her hand with their scratchy tongues. She could feed them and watch them eat. They had dainty mouths and tiny, pink tongues. They had sharp, white teeth but did not bite. And round, round eyes that shone like little torches in the dark. She loved cats.

Once, a cat had been afraid. It had scratched her. But it had not meant to hurt her as a man would hurt, and the pain was but a little one. She could never hurt a cat.

Platinia heard a sound down the rounded curve of the hall which led to the tower room. A moment later, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin entered. He was dressed in the strange clothes he had been wearing in that other place, the clothes he had been wearing when he came here.

"You're sure this will work, Platinia?" he asked, coming to stand beside her, looking down on her with his cruel, green eyes. He smiled at her as he often did.

Once, she had been spell-caught by the Mage's eyes. Once, she had been ... warmed ... by the Mage's smile. But no more.

The Mage was waiting for an answer. "Yes," she said, careful to smile back.

"So, where do I stand? What do I do?"

"Stand here, great Mage," she said, taking his huge hand in hers, leading him to a place where there were ceiling stones above his head.

"After I've gone," he said in a tired voice, "send the Crystal to Coluth. Then send the red messenger bird to Gagar to be trained. The message is to be that Coluth is now Mage. Cryo is to be advised that Coluth may need instruction in the use of the Crystal."

"Yes, great one."

It was ... terrible ... to be talking to a man that she must kill. But John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had a ... something ... that he could use to come back to this world again. She could not let that happen. He knew she was an Etherial. He must be dead!

There was a sound in the room, the sound of a ... cat. A blur of light streaked across the floor.

"Cream!"

The Mage had cried out. Stooping, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin picked up a large, white cat that had come up to him. "Cream," he said again, hugging the cat, burying his face in the cat's long, soft fur. "This is my cat," he said to Platinia, smiling very much. "This is Cream. She came through before me. I was really only looking for her when I -- we -- used the static electric generator to come to this world." The Mage was happy. He had found his cat.

"I can hold Cream and stroke the Crystal at the same time," the Mage said, holding the cat tight to his body with one hand, pulling out the Crystal with the other.

Shifting the cat, cradling it in both arms, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin began to stroke the Crystal to build its power. Platinia could see hair on the Mage's head begin to rise. Hair was standing out on the large, white cat.

It was time to strengthen the Mage's power, to send that power to the ceiling .... but .....

If the ceiling fell, it would kill ... the cat .....

Platinia was afraid! She could not hurt the cat! She could not do that! But what could she do? It was time to strengthen the Mage's power. If she did not do that, he would punish her!

Staring at the Mage, Platinia picked through his mind to strengthen his thoughts of going home. She could feel the power build in him.

Her hope was that he would put down the cat.

No.

He still had his cat, the cat now a round, white ball, its fur standing up all over. The cat's eyes were looking at Platinia. Now was the time to shake the ceiling ... but .... but ....

And then the Mage and his cat ... were gone. Only the yellow Crystal on its chain remained. It was on the floor where the Mage had stood.

Terror stricken, weeping, Platinia sank to the damp floor of the tower room. As long as Pfnaravin lived, as long as he had the ... thing .... he could come back and hurt her any time he liked!

* * * * *

Chapter 24

Paul was still seated on the divan, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. John had sagged back in the straight chair that he'd pulled out from beside the fireplace at the beginning of the evening. All that John had left of his tale of adventure was a ragged throat.

Though only yesterday, it seemed like a year since John had crawled out from under the stairs. Stunned. Disoriented. And much heavier than he should be. ..... Band sickness.

Without conscious thought, John realized he must have adjusted to the lighter gravity of Stil-de-grain, making it seem he'd gained seventy pounds in one day.

He was so exhausted physically and mentally that he'd been barely able to mount the stairs and drop down on his bed where he fell asleep immediately.

Later, when John woke, he'd stumped down to the kitchen; was starved enough to be on his second bowl of Wheaties before it occurred to him that his teaching career -- such as it was -- was finished. At least here in Kansas City. As for finding another job .... He could imagine the recommendation he would receive from Hill Top College, a letter which would begin: "After teaching with us for several months, Dr. Lyon mysteriously disappeared."

John was so glad to be home, though, he couldn't worry about that now.

Feeling better came to an end when he'd thought of something else. The milk on his cereal. Picking up the bowl, he'd smelled it gingerly. Nothing wrong with the smell. Or the taste. He would have noticed the taste first. And yet ....

Performing another test, he swiped his fingers over the white Formica table top, checking his fingertips to find nothing on them but a smear of milk from some drops he'd splashed on the table in his rush to eat. And that wasn't right either.

He'd been gone ... how many months? John didn't know. At least six months, surely. In that time, there should have been dust on ... everything. The milk, even under refrigeration, would have spoiled.

After a long moment of complete disorientation, John had managed to drag himself into the living room where he'd snapped on the TV, five minutes of news telling him what he'd suspected. That no time had elapsed between his "jump" to Hero castle and his return. While he hadn't heard the date, the news men were discussing the same issues that were current when John had left.

To nail it down, John clumped across the hall to his den and fired up his computer, the computer giving him the day and date. Sunday. The Sunday after the Friday he'd "disappeared" under the stairs.

He knew he'd been ... ill. But to have hallucinated the whole experience of the "other reality" ... and in such detail ...?

What he needed was help! -- help in Kansas City meaning Paul.

Paul had come that evening, alone as John asked. And except for seeming shocked to see John when first entering the house, had listened with hardly a comment throughout John's entire, "other reality" monologue.

So much for input. It was now Paul's turn.

"So ...?" John said, waving his hand feebly. Though recovering, he was still feeling much too heavy, his arms aching from the gestures he'd been making.

"I believe you, son," Paul rumbled, settling back on the sofa, the back of the divan squeaking under Paul's bulk, the living room too dark to see Paul's expression. John needed more lamps in the room -- something of an irony since that's the way this whole business started. Paul said he had faith in John's story; but did he really? The trouble with having Paul for a friend was that Paul wanted to believe what John said.

"I know it's fantastic," John admitted, slumping in his chair, dropping his "dead" arms on the chair's wood arm rests. "If there was just some way to prove it. If I'd only brought something back with me ..." John hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, his only desire to get out of the other world ... if he could! "Even I'm unsure I went to Bandworld.

"Have a little faith, my boy," Paul said, a tight smile on his lips, what light there was glinting from Paul's teeth. Paul looked tired also. Washed out. Rather like Paul had looked that night of the "ghost talk."

John had an idea. "Listen! I can prove it! Look!" Getting up as quickly as his too heavy body would allow, John dragged himself across the short distance between them, then thrust out his hands. Palms up. "Calluses. From rowing the Roamer !"

"Ahhhhhh...." Paul leaned forward to look. Then, shrugged, John dragging his hands back to look at his palms. ... No calluses.

"That's proof all right. A different kind than I'd hoped for." John backed up to flop down heavily in the old chair again, defeated.

"That you're crazy?"

"What else? It makes sense. I've been feeling bad. You know that Paul. I've been despondent lately. For no reason." Oddly, John wasn't feeling as "down" at the moment as he thought he should be. Maybe it was like the trendy psych people were always saying. Admitting you needed therapy was you're first step toward "wellness."

"That means I'm crazy too, then," Paul said, dismissing that idea with a grunt. And again, there was that knowing smile, a little broader this time. John had seen that look before; the look that said Paul knew a little joke he wasn't ready to share. "So you did some manual labor when you first got there. How long were you in ... Stil-de-grain ... after that?"

"Assuming that I'm sane you mean, and that your question makes sense?" Paul nodded, leaned back, and clasped his ham-hands behind his head, fingers laced, elbows wide. "It's hard to say. Time didn't seem to count for much in the Bands. But it would have had to be a number of months."

"If I understand you, you rowed a bit, but not recently enough to show on your lily white 'teaching' hands."

"I suppose." John felt so weary it was hard even to think. "I almost wish I knew for certain that I'm non compos. At least that way, I could sign myself into Tri-county Medical; get a little therapy and a lot of rest." John tried to think rationally. "But I guess you're right. The hands don't mean much one way or the other."

"While you're struggling hard to convince yourself you're around the bend -- and let me say again that I know you're not -- let me ask a couple of questions, OK." It was John's turn to nod.

"The girl. You said she had some special powers?"

"I thought so at the time. Now, I'm not so sure." John paused, trying to remember. "I may be crazy-of-the-year, but that other world still seems as real to me as anything that's happened to me in this one."

"So you're not convinced you imagined it?" Again, the boyish grin belying the forties face.

"I guess not. If only I had proof .... Stupid! I could have brought something with me. Not the Crystal. Crystals stay put. I knew that. But I could have worn something from there. Surely, the weave of the cloth would have been different, some kind of chemical analysis on it ..." John shook his head. "I just wanted to get out of there in the worst way. I may be crazy here, but I knew I was going crazy there. I wasn't even sure I could leave. I guess you don't make elaborate plans if you're not sure you're going someplace."

"And another thing," Paul said, pointedly ignoring John's angst. "You blame yourself for what you did in that battle. But it's not your fault. It seems to me that, given the circumstances, you did quite well. A different place. Different rules. You're no more to blame for what happened to you than a bushman fresh from the outback who, by a terrified dash across a city street, causes a traffic accident. Or to put it another way, if you don't know the properties of electricity, it's not your fault if you shock somebody."

"I'd like to believe that." They both thought that over.

"What did she call herself?"

"Who?"

"The girl."

"Platinia."

"No. The title she gave herself."

"... Etherial. I think that's it."

"Had special powers, you said?"

"I thought so at the time. Now, I see it could have been my imagination. If she's real at all, it's more likely that she was just a girl. Nothing special about her."

"Oh, she's real all right."

"Thanks for your faith in me, Paul." John managed a tired smile. "It's only fair to point out, though, that historians are not allowed to have faith. Faith is for religionists and for students who haven't studied for the final. Historians trust evidence, evidence, and nothing but the evidence."

"And so do I," Paul said quietly. "It's just that you're so exhausted you haven't noticed the evidence. It's like Judge Wapner says to the people who pull out in traffic only to have a car 'come out of nowhere' and rear end 'em. The judge always says, 'You looked, but you didn't see.'" Having convinced himself, Paul nodded in agreement. "Just a couple more things I'd like to know."

"Sure."

"No wind?"

"Almost none."

"And what else?"

"What do you mean?"

"What else in the weather department don't they have?"

"I don't know. The weather's all the same. Except that it seemed to grow warmer going to the inner bands, colder when going out."

"I didn't hear you use the word thunder."

"I ..."

"Or lightning."

John thought about that. "Funny, but I don't remember hearing the one or seeing the other."

"Figures."

"But what does that ...?"

"And the rain. Just drips at night, every night?"

"Yes."

"And fog at dawn and dusk?"

"That's right."

"Just one more question. You said that, looking in the big Crystal, you saw ... space men ... building a dome over the planet?"

"A dome over some planet. Maybe that one. That's the way it seemed to me."

"That's what you saw."

"How do you ...?"

"Because I built one, once."

"You built what, once?"

"A terrarium."

"A terrarium?"

"Sure. I used to have one. A big box with dirt in it, glass on the sides and on top. Plants, water inside. Short weeds for trees. Even a couple of little frogs. Tadpoles and guppies in a tiny, artificial lake. Kind of pretty. Made me feel like God to have made my own little world. Fogged up inside at night when it cooled down, moisture collecting on the glass ceiling to drip down as rain. Climate always the same. No wind." Paul grinned. "Somebody with real power set up that place as a terrarium. A self contained ecosystem."

"Maybe." It was something worth thinking about, at least.

"And one more thing. The languages there."

"What about them?"

"The ... Band names. The place names." Paul closed his eyes; wrinkled up his forehead. "Seems to me that even the names reflect the colors of the place. Take that green band -- Malachite. Malachite's a kind of yellowish green. So's bice -- about the same shade as malachite. I think that realgar's orange. I'm sure carotene is. I know a lot of those shade names because of Ellen." Ellen, the artist. "What's the band you were in the most?" Paul continued.

"Stil-de-grain."

"Isn't that French for yellow lake?"

"I tried to forget what little French I learned as soon as possible."

"Not important. 'Cause if I read you right, those are not even the real names of the ... Bands. Of the cities."

"What do you mean?" John was tired.

"I mean, that the names you heard were all in your head. They're the words the daytime magic translated in your mind."

"I ... suppose."

"You said that, at night, the language was completely different. If I understand you, sort of Welsh sounding." John thought a minute.

"Right. A lot of end-of-the-alphabet letters."

"So you don't know any of the real names for locations. Or for people, either."

"Technically, that's true."

"It could be that, seeing the colored sky bands, your mind just translated shades of color for the place names."

"Maybe, but I didn't know that those names were colors."

"I'll bet that, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you did. If you'd just read 'em once, they'd still be in there somewhere. That's what the psychos," -- Paul's name for psychologists -- "say. Once you see something, or hear something, it's in your mind forever."

It was all a blur. Too much. To many questions.

Paul rolled his massive wrist and peered down at his watch; brought the dial near his eyes to see the hands. "I've got to get home to Ellen. It's late." Shifting his weight forward, Paul got to his feet like a linebacker rushing the quarterback.

John struggled up.

He and Paul walked in silence to the hall where John had already lugged the generator over by the door in preparation for taking it back to school. He'd also shoved the boxes under the stairs, a difficult feat in his too-heavy state.

Paul picked up his coat which he'd draped over the bannister post; struggled into it; put on his leather gloves. Turned at the door. "If what's bothering you is the time thing, remember, time isn't a constant. I'd quote Einstein to you on that ... if I could."

"You think I traveled so fast going and coming that time stopped? That I went faster than the speed of light and reversed time?"

"Maybe. But after our little talk of this evening, there's a theory that makes more sense to me now than it did when I first read about it." Paul paused to order his thoughts.

"There's a Ph.D. named Ludlow." Paul always started with background information -- like historians do. "Electrical genius some say -- but just a bit off center -- like Tesla. One of the mavericks. You know. The kind who are always finding fusion in a jar?" John knew. Every profession had them. The non-evolutionary biologist. The "hollow earth" geographer. The geocentric astronomer. "He got into trouble a while back with some God's-gift-to-science physicists by saying that time was connected to the rotation of planets. That the faster a planet rotated, the faster time passed on that planet. That time and magnetism are just different terms for the same phenomena. Something about induced current and the spin of a planet making the planet into an electro-magnetic generator of time.

"I don't know. I couldn't follow it." Paul gave one of his "bear hugging a tree" shrugs. "But, look here. You said this other place was flat?"

"That's what the people there believed. And from what I could tell, that's the way it is. You can see forever on the sea. No horizon line made by the curve of the planet."

"Not spinning?"

"Not to make day and night. Not if the 'vision' I got in the Weird's Crystal meant anything. What I saw was some kind of super Crystal, rotating to make day and night, the Crystal's rays refracting in color bands off the sky dome. No sun.

"If you got no spin -- you got no passage of time. At least according to the theories of this Ludlow chap."

"You mean there really isn't what we would call time in the other world? That when you're there, it's 'time out'? ... Maybe. It'd take some proving."

"You're not going back to try to do that, I hope?" Paul had that better-to-leave-ghosts-alone look.

"Never!"

"Good."

There was a soft sound at John's feet. Cream. "I got Cream back," John said, pointing at the cat winding around his legs. "But that's not proof either. She could have been lost in the woods ... found her way home."

"Oh ye, of little faith!"

"Better than being Oh ye, of too much faith."

Abruptly, Paul's eyebrows went up along with one, gloved, index finger. "I knew there was something I wanted to remember to tell you!" His face brightened. "And thinking of that, I've just had another idea that should interest you!"

"Shoot. One idea is as good as another in the nut house."

"You said everyone 'over there' took you to be some Wizard called Pfnaravin? A big time Mage?"

"Believe me, I did my best to ..."

"And let's say that you're right about 'thin spots' between our world and theirs." Once started, Paul was in no mood for interruptions.

"OK."

"And that getting charged up with static electricity helps a person to jump the gap. If he's in the right place to do it, that is." John nodded. Even leaning on the bannister, it was all John could do to stand up. Band sickness. He'd get over it in time, but ... "And I believe you said that this Mage, this Pfnaravin, left that world in the long ago from the same turret room where you were 'launched' yesterday?"

"So I was told."

"Then it makes sense that when Pfnaravin came to our world, he landed right here." Paul pointed, first at the hall floor then, remembering, toward the space under the stairs."

"I guess that makes sense ... if any of this does."

"And then," Paul said, continuing to bulldoze ahead, "this guy Pfnaravin built this house ... so he could live close to where he came through, hoping to find some way back again!"

"What ...!?"

"Sure. Remember the stories? The strange old man who built this house a hundred years ago? The 'foreigner'?"

"Of course. But that man wasn't the Mage."

"What was the name of the man who built this place? Do you remember?" Clearly, Paul did.

"I've ... forgotten ..."

"Van Robin."

"Yes. That's it."

"How do you pronounce Pfnaravin?"

"Pfnaravin."

"And if you say Van and Robin -- slur them fast ....?"

"Vanrobin."

"Sure. The very same man. The guy told the folks in these parts he was Pfnaravin, the locals thinking he was saying Van Robin. It's the story of the Pennsylvania Dutch all over again!" Paul was his old, expansive, lecturing self as he warmed to the topic. "They were saying they were Deutsch -- the German word for Germans. But their English neighbors thought they were saying Dutch; that they were from Holland."

It ... fit!

More than anything else, connecting Van Robin with Pfnaravin made John think that, just possibly, he wasn't going mad. For he hadn't dreamed this association. It was Paul who'd seen the name-fit.

"Oh yes," Paul said, thumping his forehead with a blow that would have kayoed a welter-weight. "What I was going to remember to tell you is that I was looking through the Saturday paper. I don't know." Paul gave another of his expansive shrugs. "On Saturday, I read the paper from cover to cover. I don't any other morning. No time. But, anyway, in the Obit section, I saw that there was this old guy -- they didn't even know how old -- who'd just died at a local nursing home. A guy named Van Robin. No surviving family."

"My God, Paul! You don't think that was Pfnaravin!? That he lived all this time ...?"

"I didn't even know about this Pfnaravin when I read that. But I thought it was possible the man who died was the same guy who built your house. Now, I think it was Pfnaravin. Something you said -- about no one being able to "work" the green Crystal of Pfnaravin because Pfnaravin was still alive. Anyway, if that's our boy, he isn't alive any longer."

"But to have built this house a hundred years ago. He would have had to be ...."

"Time. Funny stuff. Stranger than Newton thought. Stranger than Einstein thought? .... But I've got to go. We can talk this over later."

"Thanks Paul. For being a friend when I needed one."

"Think nothing of it." Paul had his meaty hand on the door knob, the burst of professorial energy, spent. Paul was wrung out, too. It has been a long night.

"See you at school tomorrow." John's goodbye.

"Ah .... no." Paul turned back. "That's another thing I wanted to say. 'School tomorrow' is not a good idea." Paul smiled a cautious smile. Then winked. "You're not going to tell anyone else about this business, are you, John?"

"As screwed up as I am, I'm not crazy, crazy."

"Good. It's like the possibility of ghosts. I don't talk about that with just anyone." John remembered. "And if you don't plan to share, then take my advice. Don't show up at school tomorrow." Paul's smile grew into a grin.

"Why?"

"Because what you want to do instead is to slip out of here tomorrow morning, maybe in disguise so you're sure no one you know will recognize you. Call a cab instead of flying off in that hell-on-wheels car which all the terrified citizens north of the river know is yours. Tell the cabby to drive clear across the city -- to Lees Summit, maybe. And get yourself a haircut."

"What ...!?"

"You wanted to know why I believed that you've been to this other place? Tell me this. When did I see you last? Friday?"

"Yes."

"And this is Sunday?"

"So it seems."

"Then if you don't want to be asked to 'share your experiences' with anybody else, you've got to get rid of about ..." Paul cocked his big head to one side; gave John an appraising look. "... five inches of hair that you seem to have grown in just two days. ..... 'Nite." And Paul was through the door, the echo of his self-satisfied chuckle left behind.

In bed, it was all real again. Five extra inches of Stil-de-grain styled hair had made it so.

Paul was right. John would call in sick tomorrow; John needed the rest as much as he needed a haircut. It was also true that he'd feel better on Tuesday and every day after that until he wasn't "sick" any more. Band sickness. Like catching a cold. You knew when you first got it. While you had it, you couldn't forget it. But you could never remember the exact time you'd gotten over it.

Mentally, John felt ... good. Good in general and good that there actually was a Stil-de-grain. He had been there ... for better or for worse.

The question was, had what he'd done there been for better or for worse? Loose ends. He'd left a lot of loose ends. If he'd stayed longer ...

Added to the unsavory mix was Van Robin's death. If Golden found the green Crystal and if this Van Robin were the real Pfnaravin ... then the green Crystal would no longer be "inactive," Golden experimenting with a "live" Crystal a little like a child playing with a loaded gun.

Coluth had been an obvious choice for Mage. Platinia was safe in Hero Castle. The Weird could get no weirder.

But what about the war? Would Stil-de-grain win? Would Golden become King of Malachite? Could Auro be stopped?

Too many questions. Too many rough edges.

All that was certain was that John had done his best. And that the problems of the other world were his no longer.

John knew he'd been lucky. Gotten out clean. Was not even suffering withdrawal from being hooked on the Weird's crystal. He'd been right about that, too. There was a "distance" factor to Crystal addiction.

Not his problems. Even if he could go back -- and he could -- he'd never do it! First thing in the morning, John was going to get a hammer and the longest nails he could find ... and pound shut that triangular door ... under the stairs!

###

About the Author

John G. Stockmyer is an individual whose irrepressible creativity has manifested itself in many ways: as a poet, teacher, produced playwright, author, co-owner of an educational materials business, creator of a time-machine simulator, and, more recently, as a podcaster and producer of eBooks. During his career he has received awards for scholarship, numerous teaching awards and, as a writer, was a Thorpe Menn finalist.

He is the co-author of three non-fiction books: Unleashing the Right Side of the Brain - The Stephen Greene Press, Life Trek: The Odyssey of Adult Development - Humanics, and Right Brain Romance - Ginn Press. He is also the author of over 20 works of fiction, including the Crime/Hard-Boiled "Z-Detective" Series, and the Science-Fiction/Fantasy "Under The Stairs" Series. He has also written a quirky vampire novel titled, The Gentleman Vampire .

John G. Stockmyer is now semi-retired from a 40+ year career as an Ancient/European History Professor at Maple Woods Community College, but still teaches and writes part-time. He currently lives in Kansas City, Missouri with his wife Connie.

For more information about the author, and to download or purchase Print Books, eBooks and Audio-Books from the "collection," please visit the John G. Stockmyer "Books" Web site at: www.johnstockmyer.com/books

If you enjoyed Under The Stairs , you'll probably also like Book #2 in the Bandworld Series: Back Under The Stairs . Book #2 (eBook) is currently free to download. . . so why not check it out?

To send questions or comments to the author, send an e-mail to: mail@johnstockmyer.com (all e-mails are screened/forwarded by the author's son: John L. Stockmyer)

Table of Contents

Under The Stairs