Ellen Under The Stairs

Book #3 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

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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About this Smashwords Edition

This version of the book you are reading is a product of the automatic file-conversion process used at Smashwords.com. As a result, much of the original formatting has been stripped out, or simplified. If you want to read a version that looks much more like a traditional printed book (with a table of contents, proper chapter breaks, and text formatted for maximum readability), you may get it (for free) from the author's web site. To download the lovingly hand-coded version of this book in .epub or .mobi format, visit the author's web site at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

NOTE: This is the third of 10+ books in the Bandworld Series. Book #1 is Under The Stairs. Book #2 is Back Under The Stairs. The first three books are free. The other books in the series can be purchased for $5.00 each at the author's web site.

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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.

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

Pfnaravin cursed! Above and ahead of him, echoing along the sweating stone corridor of this crumbling pile called Hero Castle came the shouts of soldiers, the dogs of war Pfnaravin had unleashed on the pretend-Mage of Stil-de-grain, John-Lyon.

John-Lyon with the green eyes and yellow hair of that abominable other land, was headed for the stone turret room, the gateway between worlds.

Pfnaravin allowed himself a pinched-mouth smile.

There could be little doubt that, running with the false Mage were the men who'd freed him. The sailor, Coluth, who John-Lyon had dubbed Admiral. Possibly the girl, Platinia.

As Pfnaravin flogged his old man's bones to limp after the soldiers' shouts, he thought about the girl.

Small. Slender. Dark.

Did she have a kind of sorcery? The marrow of him said so.

Not that it mattered. Pfnaravin, Crystal-Mage of Malachite, would soon have both of them within his power!

Pfnaravin cursed again! Even though the green Crystal at his neck thrummed with dark Wizardry, he felt ... tired.

Age.

A thing to be feared, even by a Crystal-Mage.

The tingle of Crystal force spidering his skin, Pfnaravin clawed his way forward, the ox-hide soles of his boots scraping the rough stone floor. Though lightly robed, the thrill of the chase protected him from the castle's chill.

Up, ever up, he trailed his human hounds. Past silent rooms, his path lighted by the cool flames of the eternally burning torches angled near the stone hallway's ceiling.

Excited shouts ahead; the bark of dogs who'd treed their prey!

The chase near it's end, Pfnaravin allowed himself a hint of smile, deep lines splitting his cheeks into leathered plates.

So near, yet ... so out of breath.

Gasping in the castle's rancid air, brushing his long, grey hair from his faded eyes, he was thankful to be in a lighter pulling place like Stil-de-grain, than in his home Band of Malachite.

Even with less Band sickness, he'd be exhausted after this business was concluded.

Pausing to catch his breath, he smelled old dust and creeping rot in this little used corridor.

Ahead, a cry!

Fingering up the iron chain around his neck, the Mage stroked the smooth circle of his flat green Gem. To build more power.

His beloved Crystal! Newly restored to him!

Since the young Mage ahead had somehow lost the gold Disk of Stil-de-grain, the youth's only power lay in knowledge of the other world, a place replacing magic with machines. While trapped there, great as he was, Pfnaravin could work no wonders -- even simple Wizardry that slaveys could perform. Fire magic. Cooking magic. Nor was there healing in the light of that place, its illumination coming, not from a revolving eye at world center, but from a blazing circle in the sky!

Again! This time, a scream!

Warned, Pfnaravin barely crept ahead, his white robe of Cinnabar silk pooling about his feet, the moist corridor pinching in, its grimy ceiling dipping low.

Rounding a bend, he saw his squad of soldiers up ahead. Found them mysteriously stopped -- a pile of blazing fire stones back-lighting them in the narrow hall.

No. Not fire stones!

Approaching cautiously, the old Mage saw that the tongues of fire ate chairs, tables, dressers. Saw, then smelled, what the other world had taught him was called smoke.

Lying in shadow at the sides of the corridor, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the short, white tunics of the Stil-de-grain military, the men moaning, their skin red, blistered.

In a flash, it came to him! They had confronted otherworldly fire! Flames that spit out a terrible heat --- a threat to man and beast!

Ten. Fifteen soldiers stood as if paralyzed before this unknown magic.

One turned. Whirled back to shout, "It is the Mage!," all looking, their eyes wild with fear.

"Stand at attention!" Pfnaravin commanded, the men straightening, the force of his presence steadying them.

"Great Lord," stammered the troop's white-faced officer, "We can go no farther. The Mage we pursue has built here a great magic!"

"Fools!," cried Pfnaravin "He is a Mage no longer. The hot flames before you are a trick, nothing more."

"But ...."

"Notice that this fire eats only wood and cloth. When the wood is gone, this fire dies with it."

The soldiers' looks told him they were unconvinced, their eyes staring.

"It is unlike the cool fire of magic," Pfnaravin continued, pointing at a torch glowing near the cramped ceiling. "This fire burns with heat, yes. But it is impermanent."

What Pfnaravin kept to himself was that the fire-phenomenon before them could consume the world!, the young Mage dangerous, even without his stolen Crystal.

"You ... and you!" Pfnaravin stabbed a twisted finger at the nearest men. "Search back along the corridor for other furnishing. Bring chairs to use to push this fire from the corridor into a side-room ahead. If you refrain from touching these flames, they cannot harm you."

Eager to retreat from the raging fire, the solders sprang to do the Mage's bidding, returning with chairs and tables.

"Use what you have brought as shields. Push them against the fire ahead. Clear a path!"

Moving forward reluctantly, testing carefully to confirm that, if they avoided the flames they would feel no pain, the squad began to push the burning furniture parts to either side, making a path down the corridor's center.

"Now!" Pfnaravin shouted, ordering the pack to move ahead.

Too frightened of him to disobey, the group's commander edged forward to mince through the hole, the others finding the courage to follow, Pfnaravin trailing.

Past the dying fire, at full run again, rounding a final crimp in the narrow hall, the soldiers thumped into the tower room, Pfnaravin striding after them, the lead soldiers slipping to a stop on the room's wet-moss floor, the circular room more turret than tower, its thick walls incised with wedges, arrow-slits chiseled to the outside.

The room glowed from the golden sky of Stil-de-grain, light shafts streaming through a jagged hole in the room's ceiling.

The yellow color of this band's light still apt to take him unawares, Pfnaravin realized how much he missed the bright green firmament of his home Band. Missed Malachite heat.

As for the heavier pull of the Malachite Band ....

Pfnaravin wrenched his mind from those distant thoughts.

Returning to the present, a glance told him the room was ... empty ... roofing tiles shattered to the floor. Since the room had a single entry point, it was clear the fugitives had vanished through the roof hole.

In a rage at the realization his prey had escaped, Pfnaravin pointed the stiffened fingers of both hands to unleash a Crystal-blast of electro psychic power, the green bolt careening off the walls, cracking out chips of stone, the lightning-stroke striking down a soldier who had strayed from the pack.

No matter. The fighter's dismembered body would remind the others of the deadly force an enraged Crystal-Mage could command.

Quieting, the Mage saw, as in a vision, what had happened. Those who had freed John-Lyon from Pfnaravin's iron cage were Coluth's sailors, sailors never far from ropes, all escaping through the roof-hole.

Yes! On the floor was the rope, a grapnel at one end.

No .....

The Mage stroked his disk to extend his Crystal-enhanced senses.

Though some had climbed the rope, John-Lyon had not, his bag of otherworldly tricks including passage ... home. Even without his golden Crystal, the former Mage had built enough transformation fluid to bridge the gap between the worlds.

For a moment, Pfnaravin thought of using Crystal-generation to follow ..... But only for a moment.

Muttering to himself, he shook his head.

Even such thoughts were dangerous. For in that other place he would be powerless, Mage Crystals unable to leave this world. He would again be trapped there. Subject to aging. And to what were called diseases.

No!

A sobering thought. While Pfnaravin must remain, John-Lyon could journey between worlds if he wished.

To stop the young Mage from returning, Pfnaravin would order slaveys to seal this room's only passage!

And yet .....

A smile creased the hardened face-plates of the wizened sage.

To find his lost Crystal, John-Lyon must return, and to this room, the gateway between worlds.

The youth returning to reclaim his Mage-Gem, Pfnaravin would arrange John-Lyon's death, but in such a way that Pfnaravin would be the first to touch the Stil-de-grain Gem, thereby adding its power to that of the green Crystal of Malachite.

Pfnaravin had been on the wrong scent. His true path must be to befriend this otherworlder, starting with John-Lyon's friends. The sailor Coluth. The youth Golden. The girl Platinia. Do this to let all know that the arrest of the young Mage was the result of lying informers, soon to be executed. That John-Lyon would be welcomed back with song and ceremony.

"Out!" Pfnaravin shouted at the others, once more aware of their presence. "Remove ... that!

With an imperial point, Pfnaravin indicated the Crystal-shattered body of the dead fighter.

Scrambling to follow the Mage's command, soldiers bent to collect the scattered body parts of their unfortunate comrade.

"If John-Lyon returns, he is to be welcomed. A feast to be held in his honor. As a first preparation, a search must be made for the young Mage's friends, Coluth and the others, so that I can appoint them to their former positions of high honor.

Though looking shocked, the soldiers nodded their understanding.

"Spread the world to all, that John-Lyon is to have our every assistance upon his return."

"Yes, high Lord," said the squad Head, fist smartly slanted across the golden crest-ribbon appropriate to his command.

"Go."

And they went, bearing the grisly body parts, supporting their flame-hurt comrades, the squad's tread falling away to silence.

But would John-Lyon return? All depended on it.

Ah! A way to know.

Zwicia. The Weird of Bice. Another friend of John-Lyon, now housed below.

Weirds had their larger Crystals in which they saw the past, present, and at times the future. Coming from Pfnaravin's home band of Malachite, he would make Zwicia predict the return of John-Lyon if he must crack every bone of her disgusting body!

Welcome back, John-Lyon of the other world! Welcome to Bandworld where Pfnaravin's magic reigned supreme!

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Chapter 2

Over the edge! Then whirling, spinning! Having the horrid feeling of inversion, of being sucked dry! And all the while, tumbling beside him, Platinia, the girl falling with him through the static electric throat of the passage between there and ... here.

With a disorienting thud, John Lyon found himself pitched into darkness, the girl sprawled beside him, the hand-cranked static electric generator painful under his twisted body.

Suddenly, everything was quiet.

The smell was of ... dust.

Near him, Platinia moaned.

Forcing an unnaturally heavy hand away from his body, John felt for Platinia to assure himself that the girl was there beside him in that cramped hole.

Where was he?

Disorientation. What he always felt at such a time. At ... such a time as ... what?

John was beginning to have sensation again; his mind tugging at the edges of his memory.

He was ... home. In the tight, black cavity under the front stairs, squeezed into the wedge-shaped storage space, the compartment he'd discovered to be the gateway between here, and what John had come to think of as the "other reality."

Medieval.

Magical.

Though John made an effort, he could barely move, Platinia groaning again in the dark.

Band sickness.

That's what people on the other side called it. For it was becoming clearer that John had just returned from Bandworld, a place where countries were called Bands because each nation circled the planet like rings on an archery target, the inhabitants of Band countries experiencing different gravitational pulls.

Paul ....

John was so debilitated he had to flog his memory

Describing the other world to Paul Hamilton -- John's friend and colleague at Hill-top College -- had Paul speculating that the other "reality" was round, but pancake flat. A planet with a dome over it to contain its atmosphere. An artificial creation.

What had Paul called it? ..... A terrarium world. Constructed by ... God knows who.

John had told Paul about the legend that a "Hero" had found the pathway to their world, the Hero returning to his own time and place with the concepts that formed band worlds' medieval civilization.

No sense of time, those benighted people. According to them, everything happened in the "long ago." Which could be a month. A year. A century.

John wasn't making much sense. But didn't care. As heavy as he felt, he was content, for the moment, to stay where he was.

He felt ... heavy ... because he'd come back from Stil-de-grain: a "light pulling" band. He'd also spent time in Realgar -- a place with even weaker gravity. John coming from a "heavy gravity" planet like earth, he'd enjoyed a "weight lifter's" advantage over those reared in the moon-like "pull" of Bandworld.

But it was murder coming home.

He'd adjust to it. He had before. It was just that the transformation wasn't easy.

Gravitational shifting was why, when traveling from lighter "weight" bands to heavier ones in their own world, the people of the other reality thought of the leaden way they felt as "sickness." Band sickness.

Paul had warned him to stay away from the other world. But John had gone anyway -- why, he couldn't recall just yet. It'd come to him.

All he could remember at the moment, was that he'd once again bluffed his way into being Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain, his celebrity leading to his imprisonment by Pfnaravin, the embittered Mage of Malachite. If Coluth, Golden, and a couple of Coluth's sailors hadn't slipped into Hero Castle and gotten John out of that cage ....

John's mind was wandering ....

Platinia moaned again, John feeling sorry for the tiny, black haired girl. So small, so slender he'd first taken her to be a child, only to discover she was a young woman. From the first time he'd met her, he'd seen it as his duty to protect her. Why, he wasn't sure. In Platinia's presence, he was never certain about what motivated him; had even thought she might have a kind of hold over him; had cast a spell on him.

Not as strange a thing to think as it might seem. For, to his amazement, he'd learned that the other world did have ... magic ... John-the-skeptic eventually having to admit there was no other word to describe the "miraculous" occurrences in that "other place." (Not story-book magic like building castles in the air or turning people into frogs. But magic, nonetheless.)

Time to get out from under the stairs.

John took a mind-clearing breath. Tasted dust from the dirty pine flooring of the confined storage space.

With shaky muscles, John pushed himself up from the plank floor, only to hit his head on the underside of the steeply zigzagged stairs, negotiating the cramped space made difficult because John ... couldn't see. Why? Because the triangular door to the storage area under the stairs was closed?

John stuck out an unsteady hand to find out. ... No. It was just that it was nighttime. The whole house dark.

Straining his fatigued body this way and that, trying not to bruise little Platinia beside him, John was able to torture the generator out from under him.

Panting in much needed oxygen, he pulled himself to his hands and knees, John barely able to trip the inner latch on the door and crawl out on the hall's wood floor before collapsing on his side to rest.

Near him were the shadowy outlines of the stacked boxes he'd dragged out so he could enter the storage space for his trip.

The flashlight he'd used in his preparations had to be close by.

Rolling over painfully, twisting himself into position, sticking out his too-heavy arms, John reached under the stairs to get a grip on the static-electric generator; managed to wrestle it out and slide it to one side.

Struggling up on all fours, weights seemingly strapped to every part of his body, he found the flashlight where he remembered putting it. Picked it up. Switched it on. Squatted back.

The "ten pound" flashlight trembling in his hand, John switched it on to see black robed Platinia, still sprawled under there, her arms seemingly Velcroed to the floor. In obvious pain, she was sweating, her dark eyes open, blinking in the light.

"Here," John said, managing to crawl to the triangular storage space again.

Supporting himself on both elbows for a moment, he bent forward. Reached in. Caught Platinia's hand. Pulled her out.

Wearied from that burst of activity, John sagged back to sit on the hall floor, then lean against the short wall opposite Platinia.

They were home at last. At least, John was home.

"We're at my house, Platinia," John said, waving the light about.

Even talking was difficult in the world's fierce gravity!

"You came here before. Some time ago."

"I am ... weak," the girl said in her tiny voice.

Weak and sweating.

If John could crawl into the living room and get a lamp switched on, he felt he could get a grip on the situation. ... But he couldn't.

"Band sickness. You've had it before." John thought he saw the girl nod, a hefty increase of weight more difficult to overcome for someone reared in light gravity. "You get used to it."

Again, the slight nod of her head.

John was already getting stronger.

"The Mage ... Pfnaravin?" said the girl, Platinia at least feeling well enough to ask a question.

"Don't worry. He won't follow us here. We beat him."

"Beat ...?" Platinia gave a feeble gesture of puzzlement.

"Escaped. By plugging the hallway with furniture and setting the tables and chairs on fire, I bought the time we needed." His memory getting better, John recalled playing fire-bug with his most modern cigarette lighter. "Coluth, Golden, and the others went out the roof," he explained, thinking she might be as disorientated in her thought processes as he; might need a memory jolt. "I got the static-electric generator out of the room's hiding place. Then cranked it up to get the both of us here before Pfnaravin's soldiers could catch us."

"I cannot stay ... here." Said with rising panic.

"You've got nothing to be afraid of. I know how to get back. I'll take you home. Don't worry. But we ought to wait until Pfnaravin stops hunting us."

When was the question. Particularly since there seemed to be a time-warp between worlds, days - months - years spend there equaling not much time passing here, the reverse also seeming to be true.

For now, John and Platinia had to get some sleep.

Climbing the stairs was out. In their condition, the second floor bedrooms were beyond reach, John's plan of the moment to have Platinia sleep on the living room couch, John on the rug, John so tired a bed of bricks would feel soft.

Looking over at the girl, John realized that another odd thing had happened. Reaching the tower room, getting out the generator, he'd turned to see Platinia walking toward him. Solemn looking as usual. Black hair. Darkly pretty face. At that moment, feeling a sudden passion for her! Before realizing it, had her in his arms!

As they'd kissed, John had the overpowering sensation that he loved her like he'd never loved anyone; that he could never leave her; that he had to bring her to his world.

Bizarre ... since looking at Platinia now, John felt no ... love ... for her. Concern, yes. But not love ..........

An inconsistency in his emotions to be considered later.

For now, John was too tired to think about anything -- sleep the first step toward the solution of all future problems. Sleep ... and more sleep.

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Chapter 3

Muttering to herself, Zwicia hunched over the unstable bench as she continued to stroke her Weird-Crystal with her eagle-claw hands. The Crystal's iron chain off her wattled neck, she'd placed the flat Disk on the rough table. Looking down, she saw only herself -- Zwicia, the Weird of Bice -- rotted to an old woman with ice-clear eyes, age reducing her to a wrinkled face and frizzy, iron grey hair.

At first stopped by the reflection of the crone, she began again to stroke the Crystal near its rim, fingering the smooth glass where it curved down slightly to fit into its circular, iron collar.

Caressing the Disk slowly, she could feel Crystal power build: a dry sensation crawling up her fingers, spreading to the backs of her hands and arms.

As the Crystal's force built, her likeness fading in the glass, the disk's surface changed from deep magenta -- to mauve -- to violet. As she rubbed faster, to bleach to a purple amethyst, then to heliotrope, to pale lavender, and light hyacinth. Finally to become clear, madder grey, the surface of the glass shimmering like liquid, the Crystal glowing with an inner light.

Fear swelled her throat! She must be on guard for Crystal-traps!

In spite of the danger, the fading outline of her face had showed a thin lipped smile. Others were afraid of her and of her Crystal -- as well they might be. Her clever avoidance of Crystal-traps gave her a power, reserved to her alone.

She had a different strength than Mages owned, her power coming from the knowledge that others needed her while she did not need them.

And yet that was untrue. While these others could not take her Crystal from her -- would refuse even to glance within the Disk's flickering depths for fear of endangering themselves -- they could make her suffer.

Zwicia's old body could still feel pain.

Though the flow of the Crystal mesmerized her, Zwicia forced herself to be aware of her surroundings.

She was not in her little, castle room, but in another cubical. A cramped chamber with an iron-bound, oak door. A dark room. A damp room. A locked room.

Her bed had been moved in. There was a bowl of water and a floor-hole for her elimination. She had food, though its taste was tainted.

A single fire-torch provided the room's faint light.

The air smelled ... stale. Lifeless. Because there was no window.

Block walls of sweaty stone surrounded her, so cold they sent chills through Zwicia's bones.

Dragging a hand away from Crystal stroking, she clutched her robe about her.

Unlike John-Lyon, Pfnaravin, had put Zwicia into this ... cage. ....

Dungeon.

That was the word for such a cellar room. Dungeon.

Why?

Zwicia did not know. Or, if she did, had forgotten. Though she denied it even to herself, her mind was sometimes Crystal-struck: as dazzled as light on shattered mirrors.

Perhaps the Crystal would reveal the answer.

Her Crystal showing ... pictures of the past. The present. The future.

At her recollection that the Weird-Disk could reveal the future, she felt a chill like the passing of the shadow of a carrion bird circling high above. It was a remembrance of something someone said to her. Something important.

In her confusion, Zwicia stopped caressing the Weird-Disk, the glass darkening, the feel of Crystal-power lessening.

She shook her head in an attempt to roll the loose marbles of her mind into the proper holes, her hair flopping, the wattles on her neck jiggling. Thoughtlessly, she picked at the purple fringe along the sleeve of her long robe.

For some time, she had served the Mage, John-Lyon, few knowing, as her Crystal had revealed to her, that the young Wizard was from another world. In the Crystal's liquid mirror, she had seen him emerge in the tower room. The youth with the strange green eyes.

In the long ago -- which had been the future, then.

But he had gone back to that other place.

In John-Lyon's stead was another Mage, Pfnaravin, also a man of power, an old man.

John-Lyon once had the golden Crystal of Stil-de-grain, which made him Mage. But he had the Crystal no longer. Puzzled, Zwicia wondered how she knew that. .... She just did.

The Mage, Pfnaravin, had the green Crystal of Malachite. It, too, had been lost: hidden in the palace of King Yarro, in the king's capital of Xanthin. But Pfnaravin had found his Mage-Gem, making him again a man of power!

Zwicia did not know how she knew these things. Perhaps, in the past, the Crystal had showed them to her.

But now, there was something she must do. If she could only remember what it was.

She was rocking now, rhythmically. Swaying over her Crystal. Humming to it in her old cracked voice. Crooning to her Weird-Gem.

She had seen men come in the flyers. Great birds settling near the world's rim. She had seen men in ... heavy robes of magic. Seen them high above. Witnessed them build, over the sky, a large, iron bowl.

She had observed the men-in-robes in the bowels of the earth, using machines to heat the innards of the world even father down. Seen the men as they stood on ledges of deep caves. Directing down the fire from their machines to heat the center of the world.

The Crystal had showed to her these same men as they affixed a great Crystal in the top of a central, hollow mountain. Positioned it there like a round jewel in the mounting of a ring, the Crystal like an eye, shining clear on the front side, black on the back.

The crystal that was the eye of the world.

She had seen the men set the great eye-Crystal into a slow rotation, the Gem's bright side throwing glittering light to the dome overhead, the dome shining back to light the world until it was full-light. She had seen the dark half of the Crystal revolving from the mountain that held it; spin slowly skyward, as it turned, shutting off the Crystal's light so that the dome gradually turned dark -- making it the night.

What she had seen was Eyeland. The center of the world. The Crystal eye, when rotated down, absorbing light from the world's hot center. Afterward, spinning slowly up, to shine that light on the dome so the radiance would reflect back as a new day.

Where had these builders of the planet gone? The men in the very long ago in their great iron sky-birds?

She did not know.

Suddenly, Zwicia was afraid! What was she doing here in this terrible room? Where was the girl, Platinia? Where was the Mage, John-Lyon?

The girl, so small and silent, didn't frighten her. Even the young Mage with his terrible green eyes, did not terrify her heart. But the new/old Mage, Pfnaravin ..... did!

There was something she must do. Something she must do for the Mage, Pfnaravin. Something she had been warned to do!

Stroking. Rubbing fast, the Crystal turned clear again.

The glow. Always the glow that showed ... the future!

Zwicia was afraid of the future. Fearful to see in it ... her death!

Drawn to look closer at this future, she saw that the Mage, John-Lyon, was standing in the circular room.

Where had he been?

Zwicia knew. He had been to the other world. Now, he was back.

The Mage seemed ... to be in a Crystal trance ..... No. He was moving, looking all about. Smiling.

Was this the future?

Yes. The ghostly light still glowed around the border of the disk. This was the future that Zwicia saw.

There was movement in that shadowy tower.

Massaging the Crystal faster, leaning even farther forward, she saw one person.

Two people. The Mage and the girl Platinia.

Three people, the third person turned away.

Who the third person was, Zwicia didn't know. Someone tall. Taller than the girl. But shorter than the Mage.

Was this truly the future? If so, in what length of time? Did this third person mean that Pfnaravin had gone to the other world. That the Mages had returned together?

The portent of these pictures was a mystery.

Though they meant little to her, she must tell ... Pfnaravin!

That was what she was to remember. The Mage Pfnaravin had locked her in this room. Would keep her here until she had seen the future.

That was what the Mage demanded of her. He had ordered her to see the future and to reveal what would happen so he could plan for it.

Particularly, he wished to know when John-Lyon would come back.

Suffering the always painful wrench of breaking free of the Crystal's grasp, crying out in pain, Zwicia stopped rubbing the disk, the Crystal's picture fading, the glass disk darkening as the power waned ... until it had returned to magenta.

Zwicia sat on the rough bench, trembling, sweat plastering her thin hair to her old skull. Without the Crystal's light, her eyes were dim, a halo dancing around the flickering light of the torch across the room. She was cold. She was ....

Pfnaravin was a man of power. He would hurt her if she failed to do his bidding!

Hurt her?

What hurt could he do her? She was old. She was weak. If he hurt her very much, she would die.

Knowing that he held little power over her, she could do as she liked. What she liked now -- to hide a secret from Pfnaravin. The secret of when John-Lyon would return.

Zwicia was old. Zwicia was confused. But Zwicia, Weird of Bice, would do as Zwicia wished.

Which was to look into her Crystal every day. To stroke it until it's mesmeric images came, these pictures the joy of Zwicia's near-dead soul!

* * * * *

Chapter 4

It was a struggle to get to his feet from the pallet of chair cushions he'd arranged for himself in front of the fire place. Besides feeling heavy because of Band Sickness, John was sore. Sore, as in blue and purple bruises from landing on the old Van de Graaff.

Platinia was still asleep on the divan. Sometime in the night, John remembered dragging himself up to get an Afghan off the short couch in his den, bringing it back to spread it over the sleeping girl. She had looked small and pathetic huddled on the couch, a divan that, judging by her size, had been made for giants. Then again, there was hardly any other way Platinia could look than small and pathetic.

Without waking the exhausted girl, John made it to the front door, then outside to his Mazda RX-7, driving to the chilly end of the lane to get the morning paper.

Thank God John's old house was so isolated, set as it was in a patch of woods leading to 72nd. No neighbors to see him dressed as he was in his white -- but badly soiled -- robe of Stil-de-grain cotton.

Stepping inside the house, stripping off the paper's small rubber band, John unfolded the Star. Looked at the day and date printed at the top of page one.

Monday.

The Monday after the Friday night John had made his second foray into the other world.

As before, time spent there didn't register as time spent here. Just another mystery in the strange business of trans-world travel.

Shaking his heavy head at how dull he felt, he dragged himself across the hall, instinctively going wide of the space beneath the stairs to enter the living room, finding that the girl hadn't moved on the old davenport.

As usual, entering his own parlor gave John a twinge of grief, the room improved with the better pieces of his deceased parent's furniture.

Circling the coffee table to reach the phone stand at the far end of the green divan, John eased his too-heavy body on the couch below the sleeping girl.

Picking up the receiver, dredging up the number, he dialed.

"Hill Top College."

"Betty," John whispered, not wanting to wake Platinia. "This is John Lyon. I'm not feeling well. Slept through the alarm, in fact. Will you have my classes posted?"

"Certainly," Betty said. "You sound bad. Laryngitis?"

"Maybe," John lied, laryngitis as good an excuse as any for whispering into the phone. "I think it's only a passing bug. I'm sure I'll be there tomorrow."

"Don't come in too soon," she warned.

"Thanks."

"Don't worry. I'll get your classes posted."

"Thanks again."

Hanging up, John rested for a moment, sitting on the couch at the feet of the sleeping girl; panting back his strength.

Floundering up, trudging into the hall again, he began the climb to second, pausing every few steps to catch his breath.

Reaching the top floor, he managed to strip and have a quick bath.

Toweling off, John seemed less ponderous, Band Sickness wearing off as he knew it would.

John brushed his teeth and put on deodorant, neither of which he'd done in the "other reality." Why? Stopping to think about it, he could not recall smelling either bad breath or B.O. in the Bandworld. Probably because bacteria caused both odors. Just another "disease" the other world's light magic killed.

Dressed in this world's clothes, John was almost ready to face what he knew would be a difficult day.

Before leaving the second floor, however, John got his wrist watch from where he'd left it on the dresser only two days ago -- by this world's time. After that, crossed the upstairs hall to have another look at himself in the bathroom mirror. A good look.

Yes. Like the last two times he'd returned from Stil-de-grain, he needed a haircut -- the style of the other place longer than the way he wore his hair here.

He'd have to do what he did before: get in the Mazda and hustle across the breadth of Kansas City to a barber shop where he'd be unlikely to be recognized, in that way prevent questions about how his hair had grown so long over just one weekend.

His plans made, John thumped down the stairs, returning to the living room to find Platinia still curled up where he'd left her, her dark hair spilled about her head.

Asleep, she looked like a pretty ... child.

Suddenly, John was lonely. A feeling he'd had since coming to Kansas City last summer. This time, as lonesome as he'd been at the time of his parents accident.

Somehow, looking down at the sleeping Platinia made him feel even more depressed than usual, the girl serving as a reminder of his insularity.

John had another thought. What was he to do with Platinia once she woke up?

John had changed clothes. Something Platinia couldn't do because she had nothing to wear except what she had on.

The responsibilities John had undertaken by bringing Platinia to his world were beginning to dawn on him. He must have been out of his mind in that tower room in Hero castle, to think he was in love with Platinia! To be convinced that the only thing he could do was bring her to this world!

Nothing was quite "right" about the other place, of course. He'd known that. But nothing quite as wrong as dragging the forlorn Platinia home with him.

No help for that now. He had brought her here and he must do his best by her until he could get her back to her own "reality."

First, he'd need to go clothes shopping for Platinia. Buy her dresses ... sweaters ... blouses ... socks and shoes. To say nothing of underwear ............

Damn! Bringing Platinia here was like a boy dragging a piece of meat at the end of a string so that the "lost puppy" would follow him home, kids never thinking of feeding the dog and taking it for "walks."

John looked at his watch. Eight o'clock.

A half-hour would take him to a barber shop south of the river, forty-five minutes for a haircut, and another half-hour to get back. Plenty of time after that to drive to Metro North Mall in time for its ten o'clock opening.

Platinia was asleep. No sense waking her. He'd leave her a note to tell her where he'd gone ....

Not a note.

Platinia couldn't read.

John shook his head. There was no denying that he was stuck with her for now, needing to let time pass to insure Platinia's safety when she "landed" in that tower room in Hero Castle.

There was nothing else to do, then, but wake the girl and tell her where he was going.

An explanation that wasn't going to be easy. Without the "translation magic" of the other world's light -- Platinia knowing but a few words of English -- it would be even more difficult to communicate with the silent girl here in John's world. On the other hand, since Platinia didn't have much of a vocabulary in her own tongue ..........

Standing, sidling between the coffee table and the divan, John bent down to shake Platinia's shoulder, getting a sleepy grunt from the girl. He shook harder, Platinia opening her dark eyes, fluttered them in an effort to focus.

Awake at last, she tried to sit up -- but failed.

Band Sickness. Affecting Platinia more than "heavy gravity" John.

She tried to sit up again, making it this time, that frightened look telling him she'd figured out where she was.

"I've got to leave now," he said as gently as he could. "To get you some clothes."

No response.

"I must leave, but I'll be back after awhile."

"Lea-ve?" She knew the word; was just having trouble making her tongue work.

"To get you some more clothes to wear. Shoes." John pointed. "Do you have a favorite color?"

She shook her head.

"OK. I'll get you something."

"Home," she said in her tiny voice, looking as sad as she was small.

"I'll get you home. But it will be a few days. To make sure you'll be safe there."

She nodded winsomely. Seemed to accept that she must stay in John's world for some time..

First things first. Helping to get the girl on her feet, half-carrying her up the stairs to second, he showed her the bathroom; drew her a warm bath, the girl pulling back in terror when he'd first turned on the water, then seemingly fascinated to see water gush from the spout. He'd explained how to let the water out after she was through. And with a couple of embarrassing demonstrations, got the purpose of the stool across to her. Also the use of toilet paper, people in her world using sponges attached to a stick, the sponge part washed in a bucket of water inside what passed for outhouses. How did you explain an "in house" to a young girl who'd never seen one?

He'd showed her his bedroom. Told her she could go there after her bath and get some more rest. Got his robe for her to wear.

And that was the best he could do before his shopping trip.

First the barber. Followed by a trip to the vet's boarding place to retrieve one highly indignant Persian cat named Cream.

The last task -- clothes shopping for a girl he hardly knew -- the most daunting of all!

* * * * *

Chapter 5

A sound and Platinia was awake. Lying there, she did not know where she was. Only that it must be up-light because she could see the room. The walls a color. Blue.

Walls should be of stone, or of mud and straw, or of wood. She had never seen colored walls ... except in King Yarro's palace in Stil-de-grain. But this was not the palace.

The air was warm but dry. There were smells of ... she did not know the smells.

She was lying on a wide, deep bed. Lying on fine-woven covers. She had slept ... but was ... so tired.

Then, as if a curtain had been pulled back inside her mind, she knew where she was, her heart racing! She was in bed in the other-world house of the Mage, John-Lyon. On the bed, for she had been too tired after washing to get beneath the blankets.

Suddenly, she knew the sound she had heard! It was the closing of the door. She had heard it once before. When the Mage had left her. The same sound could only mean the Mage, John-Lyon had returned!

Platinia's body felt ... chained down.

Her thoughts ... she did not know her thoughts. And that was the most terrifying thing of all!

Trying to move caused her to remember that she had Band Sickness.

As a test, she strained to lift her hand, an unseen weight pushing her hand down again.

The first time she had Band Sickness, she thought she was dying. But she was not. She had learned that Band Sickness, though terrible, did not kill. With time, got better.

As the door sound faded from her sleepy mind, Platinia thought about all the things she did not know. Starting with her childhood -- Platinia picking flowers under the green sky of Malachite. She did have a sharp remembrance of the robed priests of Stil-de-grain taking her away to be the sacrifice of Tenebrae!

Platinia shuddered. What had always been a terror in the night was being chained in the small, dark room in Fulgur's temple. Locked away because she had been chosen to be the sacrifice of Tenebrae, Lord of the dark. She had been made his princess, to be tortured, eventually to be sacrificed to strengthen Fulgur, Lord of light.

It was in that temple room, in the dark, tortured, raped, chained up, that she had learned a secret -- though at that time she did not know the secret's name. That she could use her mind to pick through another's thoughts to strengthen those she wished. If someone in her presence was happy, she could make them ... glad. If sad, make them feel more bad. Sometimes, she could make a priest who wished to rape and torture her to choose rape only, the lesser of the agonies.

Such a small defense. But all she had against the terror.

Then, wonder of wonders, the soldiers of King Yarro had come to Fulgur's temple to slaughter all the priests and steal Platinia away! This was because King Yarro suspected she was an etherial -- that was the name for her mind's poor power -- Yarro wishing to control her to make her strengthen his pleasures.

He had also raped her -- by herself -- and with others.

But had not hurt her as much as the priests had hurt her.

Later, also learning of her power, the old Mage of Stil-de-grain, Melcor, had come to Yarro's palace on Xanthin island and stolen her away.

But the Mage had been killed by the falling of a ceiling stone at the time of the coming to her world of John-Lyon.

Materializing in the tower room like a ghost that takes on flesh, finding the golden Mage-Crystal of the newly crushed Melcor, putting on the Crystal, John-Lyon had become the new Mage of Stil-de-grain, John-Lyon now owning Platinia.

Platinia hated men! She hated the priests who'd raped and tortured her! She hated King Yarro, the king hurting her to make her serve him! She hated Melcor who broke her to his well. And she hated John-Lyon! Hated any man who knew she had the power of an etherial!

If she, alone, knew her secret, she would be safe.

Lying there, caught between sleep and wakefulness, Platinia heard another noise.

Soon, John-Lyon would climb the steps. Finding her so weak, would this be the time he raped her?

True, John-Lyon had not hurt her -- yet. But because all men of power had hurt her after learning of her secret, she had tried to kill him many times, each time failing. She had learned he could be hurt, though. She had also learned that, if hurt enough, a Mage could die.

Melcor had died from a falling stone. John-Lyon had almost died when she'd slipped into his room at night to stab him!

Though the young Mage had not died, all said he almost did. Golden had said it. Coluth had said it. Everyone had said that.

No one knew she was the one who stabbed John-Lyon.

She had set other traps for the Mage, but he had escaped.

At last, something had happened to her that had never happened before. Instead of fearing such a powerful Mage, she found she felt ... warm ... and safe when he was in the room. Felt sad and cold when he was not. She did not understand these feelings and she did not understand them now. She had never had such feelings for a man. Never! Men were dangerous. Men hurt her to make her do any evil thing they wished!

Was this because she felt that John-Lyon did not know her secret after all, that she was an etherial; that she could make his pleasures strong?

Thinking and thinking, she could not take the chance that John-Lyon did not know her secret, making him dangerous enough for her to kill ... except she no longer wished to kill him.

At the last, John-Lyon losing his golden Crystal, the old Mage, Pfnaravin, had locked John-Lyon in a strong iron cage.

Pfnaravin was an old and powerful Mage who knew many things. For instance, he knew that Zwicia had Crystal power.

Did Pfnaravin know Platinia was an etherial? If so, she was in terrible danger! She could not have two Mages controlling her. The only safe thing to do was kill them both!

Since John-Lyon was in the cage -- helpless without his Crystal -- it was best that she kill him when she could, Platinia bringing a cutting knife from the kitchen to stab the Mage through the iron bars of his cage. But, slipping up in the dark to do that, she had seen Coluth and his men take John-Lyon from the cage.

Then, the men were running, John-Lyon leading, one fire stone torch to show the way. Running to escape Pfnaravin's soldiers.

Platinia knew where the Mage would go. He would go to the tower room. He would go there so he could return to his own world -- the frightening world where she was now!

Knowing the castle better than John-Lyon, she had reached the tower room before he and the other men. Hiding in the shadows, she had seen the young Mage -- who, without his magic Crystal, was a Mage no longer -- order the men to block the hallway. Had seen the sailors hook a rope through the roof so that all could climb.

Now that she was closer, she recognized the men. One was Golden. Another was Coluth, captain of the Roamer, now the admiral. Others were Coluth's sailors from his ship.

After the rest had climbed the rope, John-Lyon had gone to the secret place within the wall. Had taken something out. A strange something Platinia had never seen.

Whatever it was the Mage had taken out, this was her time to kill John-Lyon. Though he was leaving, he could come back to hurt her any time he liked. Even without his golden Crystal, he had great power!

Slipping from the shadows, holding the knife behind her, John-Lyon was very much surprised to find her there, saying he had not seen her in the room's shadows. While he spoke, she was wondering how she could stab her knife into his body so that he would die.

At last, thinking of a way to do that, she had thrown herself in the Mage's arms, in turn, circling him with her arms, ready to plunge the knife into his back when ....

When ... searching in the Mage's mind ... she could tell that the Mage ... cared ... for her. As she had come to ... care ... for him. Surely, if he cared for her, he would not harm her. Those were her thoughts. (To make certain of his caring, she had then strengthened this caring in his mind.)

It was then that John-Lyon kissed her, the kiss making her ... dizzy. It was as if the Mage had reached into her mind to strengthen her caring for the Mage.

Platinia had never felt such a thing. Such a ... hunger ... for the Mage!

After that, she had thought the Mage would carry her up the rope -- the Mage stronger than any other man -- so they could escape from Pfnaravin like the rest. But John-Lyon did not do that. Instead, he talked of the thing he had taken from the secret hiding place. The ... machine. And before Platinia could quiet her mind to think, he was twisting and twisting the machine's ... handle ... at the same time, having Platinia wrap her arms around his waist.

Then she had felt it. The transformation fluid. Running up her arms. Entering her head so that her hair stood on end.

There was a crack! And she found herself lying in silence in that small space, unable to move -- the Mage beside her.

They were in the Mage's frightening world! A world of Band Sickness!

The great weight of her body pinning her to the floor, she was afraid again, like she used to be! Afraid of the power of John-Lyon in his own world! For here, his power was greater; her mind power, weaker.

Exiting the Mage-hole, though she was as tired as death, she had tried to use her etherial power to pick through the Mage's mind. To strengthen those thoughts of ... caring.

But could not do it!

In this foreign world ... there was no ... magic.

Now, she heard footsteps! On the stairs! The Mage was coming!

Should she pretend to be asleep? Would it matter if she could fool him into believing that she was?

She was so weak. Could hardly move. But must be ready. She must not show how weak she had become.

With a great effort, she sat up. By using both arms, dragged each leg over the side of the bed, sitting there, her feet too short to touch the floor. Trembling, she pulled her robe around her, dirty as it was. For she had nothing else to wear.

Had she understood the Mage to say he would bring her another robe? She was not sure.

"You're awake."

He had come though the door, already recovered from Band Sickness. The tall young Mage; his smile gentle on his lips; his strange green eyes flashing through her body like arrows in the heart!

She nodded. A great difficulty.

"I think you'll like what I ... you. Some .... And ...."

She was not understanding everything. Only some words. Little words.

In the Mage's arms were ... bundles wrapped in cloth ... yet not cloth, the non-cloth thin and smooth like she had never seen.

John-Lyon, tearing the cloth, was taking ... things ... from the bundle, things of cloth she did not understand. Cloth in bright colors. Pretty ... like flutterbys.

"First, you put on these," he said, in words small enough for her to understand them all.

Looking up at him, he looked ... she did not know how he looked. He looked ... frightened? Like after a great ... confusion.

"After that, you slip on this ...."

He was holding up what looked like the bottom of a robe.

"And this goes on top."

He took out another piece of cloth.

"I also got you some ...."

By this time, he had put down the cloth and taken out something else.

Yes! She knew what they were. Shoes.

She had been right about the Mage saying he would get her robes to wear, these ... clothes ... this world's robes, strange though they were.

Platinia could breathe again. Could rest her mind. For the Mage had not come to torture her or even rape her. At least, not now.

The trouble of the moment was to understand about the robe-parts.

Later, she would have time to do something to be safe. What, she did not know.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

Pushing his way through student crowded halls after his last class of that Tuesday morning -- the second day after his Band Sickness return -- John was exhausted. All he felt like doing was slipping into his cubical of an office and collapsing, John sharing the narrow space with Paul.

Paul Hamilton. A big voiced, bear of a man. Department chairman to the quintet of Social Scientists featuring Hamilton, Lyon, and the forgettables.

Trying not to stagger down the hall, John keyed himself into the office and slumped into his dark-stained swivel chair.

Leaning back in the old seat, straining up a to-heavy leg to thump his heel on the desk, John sighed. Looked out the dusty office window to see that even the sky had turned to lead.

Colder tonight.

With a chance of snow.

Heavy feet thumping somewhere behind him announced Dr. Paul, the chairman clumping up to squeeze his giant's body through the human-scaled casement.

"How ya' feelin' son?" Reared in Iowa, Paul took delight in butchering Southernisms.

"Tired."

"A cold will do that to you."

Elbowing the door shut, tossing a clutter of yellowed notes on his book piled desk, Paul sagged into his groaning chair.

Dressed conservatively in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and red golf slacks, Paul's "taste" in clothing belied a fine mind.

"Actually," John muttered, wishing to maintain the integrity of the lie he'd told the dean's secretary, "laryngitis."

"One thing I learned from experience is that laryngitis screws up the vocal cords for days."

"Which means ...?"

"That the age of miracles continues, since you're in good voice today."

Paul's stare had been known to shrink larger men than John.

"Another thing, is that a bad throat doesn't make a person's arms hang down like weights on a Grandfather clock. "So," Dr. Paul continued, smugly, "when did you get back?"

"Back?"

"From the other world. And don't try to look innocent. This is your wise old chairman talking. The only other time I saw you this bushed was when I came over to your place to hear your outlandish account of this other place, the night after you'd returned."

"Yeah," John said, defeated.

"I won't ask why you defied reason to risk another trip -- because it's none of my business -- but I would like to know you're all right."

"Just ... tired," John said, flashing a guilty smile in Paul's direction. "I do have a little problem, though."

"So ...?"

"So, could you come over this evening?"

"Yep."

"And bring Ellen, of course."

Paul scowled, worry lines gouging their way across his increasingly high forehead.

"Possibly," he muttered darkly. "Possibly. Ellen's doing a little better now."

Paul was talking about Ellen's pregnancy.

His mind made up, he smiled. "You paying for the baby sitter?"

"Sure."

"Not necessary. The question is, how would it affect Ellen to hear about your jaunt to someplace else? Hell! How would it affect anyone to hear there is another place?"

"I don't know. This is your call."

The last thing John wanted was to upset Paul's wife. If Ellen belonged to John, he'd protect her with attack dogs -- John quickly stopping that unprofitable line of thought.

"It's just that I'd like her opinion about something."

"The woman's touch," Paul said beatifically.

"I wouldn't ask you to bring your wife except there's another person involved."

"Oh?"

"Someone I ... brought back."

"Brought back? As in brought back from the other world? From ... Stil-de-grain?"

Hawaiian shirted Paul might look like a beach comber from hell, but he had a never-fail memory. Though he and John had hardly talked about the other world, Paul had remembered the name of the band that contained Hero Castle.

"Afraid so."

"Who?"

"Platinia."

"Platinia," Paul mumbled, running the big fingers of both hands through what as left of his hair. "The girl."

"The girl."

"And here I was thinking that -- living like a monk -- you didn't like girls all that much."

"I like girls," John said, careful not to sound defensive, Paul partial to humorously lewd suggestions about how John might improve John's love life.

"Platinia," the big man said to himself, using the name to trigger memory. "She the waif of a girl you looked after?"

John nodded.

"The one you thought might have magical control over you?"

John nodded again, at the same time waving a heavy hand to show doubt about Platinia's alleged powers.

Paul swivelled his protesting chair in John's direction. Grinned. "So what you're telling your department chairman is that you've got a little chickie stashed away at home."

"I wouldn't put it that way ..."

"I'll just bet you wouldn't!" Said with a good natured snort.

John shrugged. As stupidly as he'd handled things, he deserved to be kidded.

Grunting, Paul made up his mind. "Unless I call to say otherwise, we'll be at your place at 7:00."

"You sure?"

"If Ellen ever found out I'd kept something this juicy from her, I'd be sleeping in the streets."

Vintage Paul. Enjoying himself.

So it was settled. Paul and Ellen -- at 7:00.

* * * * *

The three of them, plus Cream who was allowing Ellen to hold her, were in the living room, the Hamilton's sitting side by side on the near end of the divan, John in a pulled-up "face" chair opposite them, the coffee table in between. Paul was at his wrinkled best in a bilious green, Western style shirt, tucked into the same bright red pants he'd had on that morning. The way he looked, a distant drunk was apt to report him as a traffic-light-gone-wrong.

Decidedly pregnant, Ellen looked lovely as always, a touch of lipstick glossing her full lips, her golden hair brushed into a gamin's helmet. She was wearing a dark, baby-hiding dress with a white, school-girl collar.

Platinia?

At least for now, John was letting the girl hide upstairs.

The Hamilton's were seated where they'd been at John's house-warming, the night John learned from Paul that the house was haunted.

My God, Ellen was gorgeous! In spite of the baby-bulge, had the fashion model look you didn't see on "real" women.

Everyone settled, Ellen asked the critical question. "What's the big mystery?"

Low, lush voice.

"Mystery," John replied, not ready to confess just yet.

"The reason for this evening's pow-wow. And don't tell me this is just another night of old folks' fun." Ellen smiled her sleepy smile. "I know my man," she continued, reaching out to touch Paul. "A woman can tell when something's up."

"You going to tell her, or must I," Paul growled, pretending to be unaffected by his wife's agonizing nearness.

"I will," John said, still unsettled about how to begin."

Before Paul and Ellen had arrived, John had laid a fire. Had brought in the bundle he'd carefully prepared.

"This will sound strange," he started slowly. You remember the last time you and Paul were here? The house warming party? Just the three of us?"

"And Cream," Ellen added, nodding, running her fingers through Cream's white coat, the cat's purr audible above the crackling of the fire.

"And we got it out of Paul why he was so nervous? That he'd heard I'd bought a haunted house, and didn't know how to tell me?"

She nodded.

"It wasn't long after that that I found the house wasn't so much haunted, as ... noisy."

"Noisy?"

"I discovered that ... the 'ghost' sounds ... were coming from a storage area under the hall stairs." John paused. Found the going easier now that he'd begun. "Heard rain. ... chanting."

"Chanting?" Said with interest, Ellen's eyebrows arching, her blue eyes wide.

"It was just about that time that I lost Cream."

"Lost ... this kitty?" Ellen looked concerned, even though Cream was clearly fine.

"That's right. I lost her ... under the stairs.

"When I bought this old house, it was unbelievable dry. No one had lived here for decades, probably because of the house's evil reputation. Just walking around, Cream charged herself with static electricity.

"One day when I had the storage door open, Cream darted in there ... and disappeared." John stopped. Started again. "And here's the strange part. I couldn't see her ... but I could hear her mew.

"Crazy as it sounds, that gave me the idea there was another 'reality' that could be entered by getting charged up with static electricity and going under the stairs, that space a kind of passageway between here and there.

The hard part over, the rest of the tale tumbled out. The van de Graaff. The dead Mage, Melcor. The crystal. The bands, each with different gravity. Eyeland. Golden -- singer, gymnast, rope walker, knife thrower, burglar, and pretender to the Malachite throne. Zwicia -- though who could explain her?

John's rambling coming to an exhausted close, Ellen looked at Paul.

"Not a joke?" she asked, the rich timber of her voice sounding small, even in the quiet room.

Neither of the men spoke.

"Not a joke," Ellen whispered. "Not a joke ... and something more?"

Without further explanation, John stood. Walked to the package by the fire. Brought it back.

Unwrapping the paper, he took out Platinia's black robe. Spread it on the coffee table.

Paul bent to look at it. Shrugged. "Woven. Looks like its been made by hand."

Settling back, he grinned. "Could have been woven by some Indian tribe in South America."

"How about these?"

John took out both his and Platinia's hand-made shoes, putting them on top Platinia's robe.

"Impressive, but ...." Paul waved them away, as well.

Like any good showman, John had saved the best for last. "And ... this?"

With a flourish, John took out Platinia's under-robe of Cinnabar silk.

Unrolling the robe fully, he floated it on top the clothing pile.

"Ah," Ellen said, bending over as far as her "baby burden" would allow, first to smooth the white cloth with both hands, then to feel it between thumb and forefinger. "Look at this, Paul.

Paul bent down to touch the robe. Shrugged again.

"I've never seen anything like it." Ellen was impressed.

"A robe's a robe."

"But this is finer than silk. And I know silk." She looked up at John, eyes sober. ""You get more of this, and I'll open a boutique that will make us rich."

"It's special there, too. Fit for Mages. Kings. Etherials -- a title that needs explanation. It's called Cinnabar silk. Comes from the band of Cinnabar; unknown territory for the most part. Cinnabar's the outermost ring-country of the other world. Super-light gravity to hear people tell of it. Under a red sky. Most are scared to death to go there; talk in mystic terms about 'The Cinnabar.' Call it the land of the 'flyers.'"

"Wishing to convince us of your travels," Paul interrupted. "Don't I remember that you have another proof of passage?"

He meant Platinia.

And he was right. Time to produce the girl, whether she liked it or not, Platinia the reason for this "war council" after all, John needing all the advice he could get about what to do with her. Quiet advice.

"By accident," John said, aiming that fib at Ellen, "I brought someone back with me. A girl. A girl named Platinia. Only to find that I don't know what to do about her. And to make things worse, she barely understands me with I try to tell her something. It's a matter of the lack of magic here, magic automatically translating foreign language there. You should have heard me try to explain to her how to wear the clothes I bought her. She had no concept of what goes on ... first." John felt himself blushing. Hoped Ellen and Paul wouldn't notice in the semi-dark room.

Ellen was nodding. A hint of smile on her lips that John hoped was sympathy.

With a quick move to end his embarrassment, John excused himself to go up stairs.

And there she was on the bed, Platinia seeming not to have twitched since he'd left her to let in Paul and Ellen.

"I want you to meet these people," John said, Platinia still as stiff as a cadaver, legs together, arms rigidly at her sides. Lying there in the colorful blouse and pair of jeans he'd brought her, she looked like a sulky twelve year old. "Friends of mine. Only two of them. A man and his wife."

"A ... woman?" Platinia turned her head to look up at John.

"Ellen. That's her name. You'll like her. She's here to give me some advice about what clothes to buy for you. What you might like to eat."

And finally, responding like she did to direct commands, slowly, as if he'd used a whip to break her will, Platinia struggled to sit up; made it; her arms trembling with the effort. Weak, but also playing the martyr.

John felt sorry for her, though. Sorry she was suffering so much from what, to her, must seem to be crushing gravity. Sorry, because she was pathetic Platinia.

Relenting, John walked over to the bed to take her hands, to help her stand.

Arm around Platinia's waist, he supported her down the single flight of stairs, then into the living room.

Ignoring the Hamiltons for the moment, John scooted up one of the big chairs and backed Platinia into it, helping her to settle herself, Platinia drawing up her child's legs beside her.

In silence, John crossed to sit in his own chair.

"Hello," Ellen said softly, trying to avoid staring at the frightened girl, but managing to get a good look at her all the same.

Paul just ... sat. Though he'd been convinced before that John had been to Stil-de-grain, seeing this strange girl had stunned him. You didn't brush Platinia aside like hand-woven cloth, something too undeniable ... alien ... about her.

"This is Ellen," John said, indicating Paul's wife. "And Paul."

Platinia sat, arms wrapped around her legs, knees pulled to her chest.

Ellen took a breath. Held it. Then continued. "If you could have anything you wanted, what would you like?"

She doesn't speak much English," John put in. "And there's no magic ...."

"Home."

"You want to go home," Ellen repeated, getting a barely perceptible nod from the small girl.

"So?" Ellen was looking at John.

"That's the plan as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately, we were run out of Stil-de-grain. So it's best to let the other world cool off a bit. Maybe a week." John held up his hand as Paul was about to protest. "I have no intention of going back for any length of time. But I just can't charge up Platinia and push her under the stairs. It's a matter of ... honor, if you like. Like taking the same girl home you've invited to the prom.

"Seriously, I want to make sure its safe to leave Platinia in Hero castle." He hurried on. "I don't see that as a problem. Just to go back with her. Get in. Get out."

"About clothing for Platinia, I could do a little shopping," Ellen volunteered. "I'd like that. I've never gotten to shop for an older girl. It'd be fun."

"That great!"

"Look," Ellen put in softly, pointing.

Platinia.

Asleep in the great chair. Tousled hair above her pretty-child face.

"I know," John whispered sympathetically. "Imagine how tired she gets. Weighted down as she must feel."

"Though it'll be a stretch," said pregnant Ellen, dryly, "I'll do my best to imagine how 'weighted down' she feels."

* * * * *

Chapter 7

Home from school, the first thing John did was call, "Platinia?"

He took off his coat, hanging it on a wall hook in the short entrance way. Draped his scarf over the same hook. "Platinia?"

Probably upstairs. Asleep.

Climbing to second, a quick peek in his bedroom showed him she wasn't asleep on the bed.

He crossed the hall to assure himself she wasn't in the spare bedroom -- though what she'd be doing in that room, he couldn't guess. He used it for storage space. Had shoved some boxes of junk in there, plus a couple of pieces of his parents' furniture he hadn't been able to use.

In the up stairs hall again, looking past the bedrooms, John saw that the door to the antique bathroom was open. No Platinia in there.

All possibilities checked off on second, John trotted down the stairs, feeling good physically but beginning to worry. If Platinia wasn't sleeping on the living room couch ....

And she wasn't. Nor was she in the kitchen. Or in John's den.

Entering the front hall again, John had a wild thought. Was it possible Platinia had found some way to use the static electric generator he'd left under the stairs?

No.

The triangular door under the hall stairs was closed and the catch in its keeper. Since the door could be fastened from both inside and out, she could be back there.

Just to be certain, getting down on his knees on the hall floor John unlatched the door and looked inside. .... No tiny girl to be seen.

Meaning ... no Platinia!

Latching the wedge-shaped door, standing, John out of places to look, he felt his heart begin to skip beats. No need to panic, he told himself. At least, not yet.

To settle himself down, John forced himself to cross the hall. To go into his den. Made himself sit in his familiar chair. At his familiar desk.

Something had happened to Platinia.

Someone?

No. He didn't believe anybody had kidnapped little Platinia. If a stranger had been in the house, something would be out of place. And nothing was.

No.

Platinia had wandered off.

Wandered off and gotten lost?

John couldn't make himself believe that. There was no way she could lose her way in the scraggly patch of woods surrounding the house.

Slowly, deliberately, head in his hands, elbows on his desk, John reviewed the possible explanations of Platinia's disappearance. Could come to no other conclusion than that Platinia had ... run away.

Run away became she was terrified of being here!

But to leave the house knowing she would enter a world where she lacked the most basic of survival skills?

John had only one thought. Phone Paul.

And John was up and striding across the front hall into the living room.

Sitting quickly on the far end of the divan, he picked up the phone and dialed his office. If only Paul .....

Five rings. ... Six. ... And the receiver at the other end was picked up. "Paul Hamilton."

"Paul, it's John.

"How 'ya doin'?"

"Listen Paul, I need to talk to you."

"Any time, my son," rumbled Paul, being fatherly. "But I'm on my way to a meeting with the Dean. I was already out of the office when I heard the phone. Had a devil of a time getting my key out and the door unlocked. Figured I'd get to the receiver just as the other party hung up."

"It's about Platinia."

"Platinia?" Paul sounded less harried; and more interested.

"She's ... missing."

"What does that mean?

"It means what it says. She's run off."

"Where?"

"I don't know. And the worst of it is, she wouldn't know, either. She's scared. Scared of this world. Scared in general."

"Right."

"And I don't know what to do. I have no idea how to go about finding her. I can't even call the police. What would I tell them? Officially, she doesn't exist in our world. She doesn't' have a birth certificate. No security card. No ... past. She might not even have fingerprints, for all I know."

"It's a problem."

"I just found out. So I haven't done anything. Except to call you."

"I've got to go to this meeting. But it won't last long. Or if it does, I can duck out early. I'll use the slumber time to think of something, don't worry. Meanwhile, my advice is to do nothing. Because there's nothing you can do."

"I ... guess."

"You're emotionally involved in this, John. Trust your old chairman on this one."

"I ... OK."

"I've got your word?"

"Yeah."

"All right. I'll go to the meeting. But I'll be thinking about what to do, so sit tight. I'll call you back in half an hour."

"Thanks Paul."

"It'll be all right. Don't worry."

* * * * *

After the longest half-hour John could remember, all of it spent combing the house in hopes of picking up a clue about what happened to Platinia, John's pick up of the receiver cut the first ring short. "Yes?"

"Paul, here." John had never been happier to hear Paul's growl.

"So -- what do I do?"

"Here's my suggestion. First, you can get it out of your head that you can do something yourself. I know you've been sitting there thinking about driving around. Hoping to spot her on the street. That kind of thing."

"I've thought about it."

"Right. But that's what I mean about being emotionally involved. You don't think straight. Kansas City has over a million people if you count the burbs. And she could be anywhere by this time."

"The only new thing I've discovered is that she seems to have taken some money I kept for emergencies."

"How much?"

"A couple hundred. I had it in the top dresser of my bureau in case I needed to buy groceries in the dead of night."

"As I said, she could be anywhere. With a couple of c-notes, farther than anywhere."

"I suppose."

"This is a job for a professional."

"Call the police?"

"No. That little problem about the girl not "existing" in this world makes that a last resort. No. What I'd do is call a private detective."

"Sounds ... good."

"I don't know who's a good P.I. and who isn't. The best you can do is to get the Yellow Pages and look up private detective. If you can, check out the phone numbers and get one located north of the river. A local would have a better chance of knowing where someone might go."

"Good advice."

"I'll get off the line then, and let you do that."

"Thanks Paul. You don't know how much this has helped."

"You'd do the same for me."

"Right."

They hung up.

Digging the Yellow Pages from its hiding place under the phone table, John looked up detectives. A lot of them. After running his finger down the phone numbers, found only one located north of the river, his advertisement saying: "Inexpensive. Results guaranteed."

John dialed.

A click.

"This is the Robert Zapolska Detective agency." An answering machine. In a woman's voice that practically purred. "Mr. Zapolska is on a case at the moment. Please leave your name and number at the sound of the tone and Mr. Zapolska will return your call. .... Beep ...."

"This is John Lyon. I think I need a detective. I'd appreciate a call."

John's mind raced. Should he say something about the nature of the problem? Maybe ... but what?

Still with nothing to add after giving his home and office phone numbers, John could only finished with a whiny plea to call as soon as possible!

* * * * *

Chapter 8

"John Lyon, speaking." John had just returned to his office after somehow finishing his nine-o'clock Western Civ. class. With Platinia missing for two days, it had been difficult to concentrate on the topic of the day: Mercantilist Economic Theory. Like any distraction, guilt made you forgetful. Guilt, because, other than leaving a message on the detective's answering machine, he'd done nothing to locate Platinia, the phone interrupting that disparaging line of thought

"Bob Zapolska." Said with a soft hiss, John unsure of the name.

"Who?" As worried about the missing girl as he was, John tried to concentrate on the caller as John moved the phone to his own desk and sat down in his chair. Though John attempted to learn his student's names, he was never able to remember them all.

"Bob Zapolska. Detective."

Of course! Not a student with a feeble excuse for missing an exam, but the very person John had been hoping would call.

"Right," John said dryly, glad for the call but remembering that a day and a half had gone by without a word from the P.I. "I expected to hear from you yesterday."

"Case."

Why was the man whispering? Could he be phoning from a stakeout?

"I see." There was a long pause, John expecting to be asked what he wanted. On the other hand, the detective knew John had called for some reason or John wouldn't have left a message on the man's machine. Worried, tired, discouraged, John was now arguing with himself. "What I phoned about is a missing person." Silence on the line. "A girl is missing."

"Daughter?"

"Not my daughter." Silence again, the P.I. not making this any easier. "A ... friend."

"Call the police?"

"Ah ... no." What did John say next? Not the truth, certainly. "She's just a friend. Staying with me. She may not even be missing. That's why I haven't notified the police." Another profound silence. "She's been staying with me to escape ... an abusive husband." Pretty lame. "I'm a college instructor at Hill Top College." Maybe that would make it sound like John wasn't hunting down his own girl friend.

"How young?"

An interesting question. John had never decided. While Platinia had the physical look of a child, she had ... experienced eyes. "Early twenties. But she looks younger. Is small."

"Two-hundred a day." That was a lot of money for John.

"That's really more than I can ...."

"Includes expenses." The detective was still using that whisper of a voice -- perhaps the man's normal sound.

"Still ...."

"Results Guaranteed."

John thought of his abused bank account. He could hardly afford one day at those prices. Still, John had to try something. He guessed he could get a loan.

"I can only buy a couple of days of your time. Three, at the outside."

"I don't find her, you don't pay."

"Sounds fair." More than fair, actually.

"1836 Chouteau."

"What?"

"Office. In the Ludlow Building. Need some facts. The number is 16. At 2:00."

"I'll be there."

* * * * *

The phone conversation -- if that's what you could call it -- followed by the interview, had taken place four days ago.

Four days!

Call him Z, the man had said as he began to take John's description of Platinia.

A big man with a limp, was John's first impression when the P.I. answered his office door. Short gray hair. Lined face. A taciturn man with a voice as strangled as his eyes were pale.

Entering, John had found the two room office to be as ratty as the man. But what did P.I.s -- to say nothing of their offices -- look like, anyway?

The phone rang, returning John to his own office.

Paul picked up.

"Hi, hon."

Had to be Ellen.

Another moment of listening before the big man scraped back his chair.

"I'm on my way!"

With that, Paul slammed down the receiver, was up and reaching for his coat on the hook behind the door.

"What?" John asked, alarmed. Paul never moved that fast.

"The baby's coming," Paul barked, his forehead a scowl of wrinkles. "She's taking the other car to the hospital. No danger of it coming yet. Said not to worry."

"You don't look worried." By this time, Paul had his hat on -- backward. Was scrambling into his overcoat."

"What?"

"Never mind. Can I do something?"

"Get my classes posted for tomorrow -- just in case. Call the secretary. Tell her I'm off campus for as long as it takes."

"Right. And listen, Paul. Good luck!"

Paul tried to grin. "Thanks, John. We're due for some with this one."

"I know."

Beautiful Ellen had a difficult pregnancy.

"Everything's going to be all right," John said, Paul already rolling like a bowling ball angry at the pins.

* * * * *

A baby girl. Though, like the pregnancy, the birth hadn't gone well, Ellen with bleeding problems.

John had seen a haggard Paul briefly on Friday when Papa Bear had come to school, cheap cigars in hand, Ellen off the critical list by then.

With permission, John had gone to see Ellen on Saturday, finding her weak, but obviously on the mend.

After a deliberately short visit, Paul took John down the hall to the nursery to see the new baby. Like all new babies, looking like ... bait.

* * * * *

Nothing on Platinia's whereabouts by that Saturday afternoon.

To keep his mind off both Platinia and Ellen, John decided to carry the under-the-stairs storage boxes out of the hall and up to second, John clearing the passage as a way of demonstrating to himself his faith in Platinia's return, both to John's house and to Stil-de-grain.

* * * * *

Another week. No Platinia. No detective. A slower than expected recovery for Ellen, Paul looking increasingly fatigued.

"She's got a fever, " Paul muttered, propping his elbows on his desk, covering his sallow face with both hands. "Low grade. But they don't know what's causing it."

John aware of the dejection in Paul's voice, the ceiling to floor book shelves at the ends of the small office closed in.

John glanced at the department head, now slumped in his chair. "Should she go back to the hospital?" Surely, Paul had thought of ...

"I've had her to St. Lukes," the big man mumbled. "Also K.U. Med. All the specialists say hospitalization wouldn't help. They think she'll wear the fever out, eventually. Even though they don't know what's causing it."

"Is she taking something?"

"A wide spectrum anti-biotic. But it doesn't seem to help."

John had an idea like a light bulb going off! "Listen Paul, in the other world, there's no disease. It's the magic in the light. If I could take Ellen ...."

"No!"

"But."

"Too dangerous."

"But if our drugs ..."

"End of discussion."

And that was the conversation for that day.

* * * * *

Finally, progress! Returning home on a cloudy Friday, John was surprised to find a light blue, "vintage" Cavalier parked in front of his isolated house, no one either in the car or near it.

Unlocking his house door, going inside, still trying to puzzle out the meaning of the abandoned car out front, John went into the living room to find the detective sitting in one of the large oak chairs, little Platinia huddled on the end of the divan, the girl looking lost in some kind of leather getup. A ... cowgirl outfit, complete with boots. Platinia was also wearing something he'd never seen on her before ... make up. Lots of makeup.

John was so relieved to see her after all this time he didn't even ask the detective how he'd managed to find her, to say nothing of the man getting Platinia out of the cold and inside John's locked house. Detectives had their ways, John supposed.

Seeing John, the investigator rose to his six feet plus of bulky weight and pointed at Platinia. A man of few words, this Bob Zapolska.

Where had Platinia been? How had she been supporting herself after the "borrowed" two hundred had run out? Those and other questions tumbled though John's brain.

But first things first. Nodding to the P.I., John said, "I thought you'd given up."

"No.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Two hundred."

"But its been weeks."

"Worked a couple of half-days."

"Amazing." John was certain the detective had intended to hold him up for as much money as possible. But only one day?

"I'll get you a check," John going to the sideboard to do that, the detective taking the money and limping out the door without another word.

John guessed that for only two hundred, he wasn't owed a written report. Or an oral one either.

The front door shut, John returned to the living room, half expecting to find that Platinia had exited by way of the back door. She was still there, though, a little girl playing "dress-up."

"Platinia," John said, the girl lowering her head, refusing to look at him, "why did you run away?"

"Got lost." An outrageous lie.

"How could you have done that?"

Platinia continued to look down. Had nothing to say.

Reconsidering, John decided that if he wished to keep Platinia from getting "lost" again, he'd better not press her for details. She had to have had a rough time out there.

"I think I can take you home, now."

The diminutive girl looked up at him, mascara darkened eyes wide. "Home?"

"To Stil-de-grain."

At that, tears ran down her cheeks.

"Not tonight, but tomorrow night after you've gotten a full day's rest."

* * * * *

That was yesterday, Platinia sleeping the night and most of the day, the girl still upstairs as the winter's first storm chased a pale moon from a thickening sky.

Time to take Platinia home to a considerably warmer Stil-de-grain.

Lost in thought, the doorbell stunned him! Who ...?

Stepping to the door, he opened it to peer into what was now the windy blackness of a cloud-covered night.

"May I come in?"

Who? .... Ellen!

"Sure."

John stepping aside, Ellen Hamilton, bundled in a professor's wife's plain cloth coat, came in.

Waiting for Paul to follow, John stood there with the door open, the air cold and wet, smelling of decomposing leaves. ... Until John realized there was no Paul. That Ellen was alone.

Puzzled, John shut the door, the warm hall air already sucked into the night.

By this time, Ellen had unbuttoned her coat. Had stuffed her large, red wool scarf in her slash pocket.

John helped her off with her coat. Draped the blue coat over the hall banister.

Something was wrong, John not eager to find out what.

Ellen ... didn't look ... right. Her face was flushed, for one thing. For another, John had never seen her looking so sober.

"Come into the living room," he said, taking her arm, then dropping it, Ellen here without Paul. (It felt even worse that John didn't mind Paul's absence.)

In the living room, Paul's wife sat on the end of the divan, John pulling up a chair to sit across from her.

Even in the subdued room's shadowy light, Ellen looked feverish.

"It's Paul's health," Ellen said, no "happy talk" attempted before stabbing into the painful purpose of her visit.

"Paul? You don't look well, yourself."

"I know. I'm not. It's this fever. I can't seem to shake it. I'm running a couple of degrees all the time."

"And the doctors don't know what's wrong?"

She shook her elegant head. "Something about my blood. It doesn't ... look right ... under the microscope. But no one seems to know why or what to do about it."

"I'm so sorry." And he was. For both Ellen and Paul.

"It's not so much that I can't seem to get well, as the way Paul is taking it."

"He hasn't been looking that great," John agreed.

"It's worse than that. He's not eating. Losing weight. He's not sleeping. I hear him in the night. He tries to be quiet, but he's such a big man he shakes the floor when he paces. This evening, I gave him something to knock him out. But I did that last night, too, and he only slept for an hour or so."

"He's worried because you're not completely well?"

She nodded. Then shook her head in confusion. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Involving you."

"No trouble at all."

She looked at John, her face serious. "Paul told me what you suggested. That if you took me to this other world where there's no disease, I might get well."

With Paul as opposed as he was to Bandworld trips, John was surprised he'd mentioned it. Another sign of the chairman's worry.

Perched there, Ellen was as breathtaking as John had seen her. Eyes an intense blue. Gold hair sleek. Now that she'd had the baby, stunning in a long black dress. A Grecian look about her, dress like a flowing robe ....

"There's a history of heart disease in Paul's family. Blocked coronaries. I'm scared, John. Not long before his father's fatal heart attack, Paul's father looked just the way Paul does now. Same shortness of breath. If something isn't done ....

And John had made up his mind.

* * * * *

Chapter 9

John was disorientated. Not so much dizzy as disassociated from reality.

But feeling better than the first time, nothing as bad as the first time.

Platinia had apparently suffered little from the trip, her small, dark, enigmatic self standing to John's right.

Ellen was catatonic. Would be that way for awhile since this was her first journey to Never-Never Land.

He had the static electric generator in hand, the machine feather-light in Stil-de-grain's weak gravity, John not only less disorientated but better prepared. He had the right clothing and shoes, for instance, taking both his and Platinia's robes to the Laundromat earlier in the week.

He had money -- what passed for money in the bands of this world: flat, slugs of silver and gold, no pictures or writing on them. Coins that were still in the pockets he'd had stitched into his robe before the last transfer, pockets not yet a part of Bandworld apparel.

The ceiling soared over him, punctuated by the irregular spot of golden sky lancing through the section of collapsed roof to light a patch of sodden floor. Good! The time of day was what the natives called full light -- daytime -- light-magic the universal translator of tongues.

Somber, stone-block walls circled the room, wedge shaped indentations in them through which arrow slits had been cut to the open air, crosses that allowed the castle's archers a vertical and horizontal field of fire.

While the beginning of the passage to this "other reality" started in the narrow space beneath John's stairs -- and a cramped space it was, packed with three people and a Van de Graaff generator! -- this was the other end: an age-darkened, corner turret soaring above the walls of Hero Castle.

John found himself shivering, his robe warm enough for the moderate climate of Stil-de-grain, but inadequate in the chill of this stony room.

Letting Ellen recover at her own pace, John turned to Platinia. "Scout ahead. Carefully. I want to know if there are soldiers in the castle and from what Band. See if you can find out if Pfnaravin is still here and if he's planned any nasty surprises for my return." The girl nodded. "We also need something local for Ellen to wear. Robe. Shoes. Can you get those items?" She nodded again. "Come back as soon as you can."

And she was off, padding over the slippery floor to disappear down the tunnel that was the room's sole access.

Nothing to do but await Platinia's return. Belonging in this Band more than John ever would, the girl knew the crooks and byways of the castle.

Opposite the chamber's arched exit was the stone table, benches flanking it; also the secret hiding place in the wall, cap stones disguising it. He'd found that secret vault on his last trip; knew where to look because of Platinia's knowledge of the cranny's existence. If no one else had stumbled on to it, the wall safe should contain the book of magic he'd found in there. At least Platinia thought it was a magic book, its writing so "spider fine" as to be undecipherable.

To John's left was the spot where roof stones had crushed the Band's Mage, John picking up Melcor's Crystal, making John -- though he didn't know it at the time -- Stil-de-grain's new Crystal-Mage.

Time to hide the Van de graaff.

Striding to the far wall, feeling strong because freed from most of the pull of his own world, John pried back the stones that concealed the hiding palce, the blocks coming out smoothly, swinging to one side.

With no time to take a second look at the book, John eased the generator into the hole, then swung the stone cover back in place. Above all, he must protect the static electric generator. It was his ticket home.

On his last two trips, he'd traveled to the inner bands of Malachite and Azare. Had felt heavier, and heavier still, because going "inward" in this ringed world gave you more gravitational pull. He'd also been to the band called Realgar, just to the outside of Stil-de-grain, finding Realgar's gravity noticeably lighter. He'd not been to Cinnabar, Cinnabar the outer rim of this "other reality." From the rumors he'd heard about "The Cinnabar," John wondered if there was so little gravity there he'd float off the ground. Had no way of knowing, of course, few claiming to have gone to that mystic place.

Still waiting for Platinia to return and for Ellen to come out of what could best be called a trans-world stupor, John had time to reflect on the frantic half-hour preceding the static electric leap to Bandworld.

First, there was getting Platinia and himself dressed in the costumes of Stil-de-grain. Then the decision to be made about what to take with him.

The first time he'd blundered to the "other side" he'd brought nothing from his own world except his clothes and pocket change -- both handicaps in a place that had never seen the like.

On the second trip, he'd allowed himself a butane lighter. Just a lighter. And had found that, in a world of Magically cool fire, real fire was devastating.

Not this time.

After some thought, he'd made the decision to forgo advanced-world aids, the people of this backward place with no defense against "scientific magic."

Anyway, the plan was to get in. Get Platinia settled. Expose Ellen to the curing influence of the "other reality's" light. And get Ellen out.

There was a sound and the hint of shadow entering the room. Platinia. Her small face drifting in the darkness like a white balloon.

As instructed, she had a robe for Ellen. Shoes.

"See anyone?" John asked, keeping his voice down in the echoey tower.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Slaveys. Some slaveys."

"The regular household staff?"

Platinia nodded.

"Did you talk to any of them?" A shake of her head. "Anyone on this level?"

"No."

"Soldiers? Guards?"

Another head shake.

John breathed easier. He'd hoped this would be the case, that Pfnaravin had gone back to his home band of Malachite.

There was another sound in the room. Ellen. Drawing a deep breath. She was "coming out of it."

"Ellen," John said gently, stepping to her side, taking her hand.

No response, blue eyes showing fear, pupil's wide, her other hand over her mouth to contain her terror.

Not wanting to frighten her further, John put his arm around her. "It's all right, Ellen. I'm here. So is Platinia.

John knew the effect of trans-world travel. The dumbfounded disbelief that such a thing had happened. The shock of finding yourself in an alien environment. Even if you thought it was possible to enter another world, even if you'd been told it would happen, you couldn't get your mind around the reality of the experience.

Looking up, John saw that Platinia had retreated to the shadows, the girl of little help.

"I ...." Ellen was coming out of shock at last. "I'm ... here?"

"Yes"

"Where?"

John had briefed her, of course. Besides the physical manifestations, she was suffering the psychological and mental effects of the trip. "You're at the other end of the "pipeline." You're here with me, high up in one of the corner turrets of what the locals call Hero Castle. In the Band of Stil-de-grain."

All nonsense information to a person as stunned as Ellen.

"I feel ..." She let that thought dangle in the mental confusion of her mind.

"Disoriented?"

She nodded, her gold hair sheened by reflections from the shaft of yellow light pooling the floor to her left.

Ellen was dressed in the same clothing she'd been wearing when she'd come to consult John. Not bad, actually. Rather "robe" looking. When she'd recovered a little more, he'd have Platinia take her into a room off the hall to get her dressed in the genuine Stil-de-grain robe Platinia brought.

"I feel ... airy." Ellen floated her arms over her head, like a dancer in a classical ballet.

"Do you remember me telling you that's the way you'd feel? Because of lighter gravity, you are lighter. Also stronger than you'd be at home. At least for awhile. You get used to gravitational changes in time. That's all it takes. Time.

"Other than weightless, how do you feel?" She just shook her head.

At least Ellen had understood this question, floating a light-weight hand to her forehead. "I ... can't tell. I think I feel ... better ....

Better, but not well, John thought. If the doctors of his own world couldn't cure her, John had to hope that the healing magic in this world's light -- over time -- would eliminate what was causing her fever.

Meanwhile, John would see that Platinia was settled in before John and a healthy Ellen returned to their own world.

With Ellen well again, Paul would also recover.

Leaving the final question: whether John's plan to restore Ellen's health was motivated by altruism or by the desire to win Ellen's gratitude and affection. A question John refused even to consider -- much less try to answer.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

Feeling better that the castle didn't seem to be under the control of Pfnaravin, it was time to move on. "Platinia, will you take Ellen to one of the side rooms," -- he motioned to the corridor -- "and help her into the robe you brought?"

The girl nodded, John suppressing a smile about the difficulty he'd had explaining to little Platinia how to put on his world's clothing.

By this time adjusted to his transfer through the "static electric tunnel," John turned to Ellen, Ellen doing better in light gravity but still looking ... feverish ... her hair damp with sweat. He hadn't known how fast she'd get well in the magic light of Bandworld, but had hoped to see immediate improvement.

"How do you feel?"

"In general?"

"No. How's your fever?"

Ellen paused to think. "With all the other feelings of ... strangeness ... it's hard to sort them out." Again that introspective look, "A little better, maybe."

"Since people here never get sick, I have no idea how long it will take to get you well. I do seem to remember people saying their throat got dry in the night. That they would cough. But at up-light, these symptoms went away."

"I'm ready for my symptoms to go away," Ellen said, her smile just ... off.

"First things first. We need to have you look more like a native. Platinia has brought something for you to wear. Can you walk?"

A nod.

"Follow Platinia, then. Be careful, the floor is slippery. It rains here every night. Fog at down-light, light rain at night, more fog in the early morning. Night time drizzle comes through the hole in the roof," he pointed, "making the floor slippery. Promotes the growth of moss and mold. This room doesn't seem to be in general use, so is never cleaned."

Another nod, Ellen turning to face Platinia, Platinia leading Ellen into the mouth of the twisting corridor, John waiting, Platinia finally back to say they were ready.

John knowing this part of the castle, he took the lead, at the first opportunity removing one of the hall's wide-spaced torches, using that torch to light the women's way through dark patches, taking them down, and ever down, headed for the first floor.

Sooner or later, he'd hook up with a slavey (slaveys "belonging" to the castle) and order up some food. In spite of that hard to remember rule about "feeding either a fever or a cold," it had to be a good strategy to keep up your strength.

Down and twisting down, through irregular shaped corridors, all stone, most dripping with condensed moisture.

At last reaching first, crossing one of the many rooms that John thought of as entrance ways, they were headed for the banquet area with its board trestle table when John put up his hand for quiet.

A noise. The sound of several people, laughter, John unable to get the women behind one of the hanging tapestries or back of a thick column before soldiers strolled into the food area, coming to a surprised stop when seeing John's party.

Stil-de-grain soldiers -- white tunics with gold piping -- one of them an officer, a gold sash angled across his torso.

"Who ...?" said the officer, either a First or a Second, John never able to sort out Stil-de-grain rank.

Peering through the high-window gloom, the officer ... grinned. Turned to his men. "It's him. Just like she predicted!" a cheer going up from the little band, smiles on their faces, the soldiers approaching to stand at attention.

"Welcome great Mage," the leader said, saluting with one arm slanted up across his chest. "We have longed for your arrival. Have done our best without your leadership, but now will follow your every command!"

Excellent! Someone who recognized John, John receiving fawning treatment from anyone realizing he was a Crystal-Mage. Time to run the bluff.

"And you are?"

"I am Pom, Head Second." Again, the salute.

"Thank you for your welcome. First, we are in need of something to eat. Can you arrange that?"

The Head Second snapping his fingers, a soldier with a narrower chest band pulled a cord against one wall -- the way to summon slaveys, John remembered, an old woman appearing silently, head bowed.

"Will you bring some food and drink?" John asked, his wish a command. "We're not particular about what. Speed, would be nice, however."

And she was scurrying off at a frightened pace.

Crystal-Mages. Men to be feared by high and low alike.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. I've been gone awhile."

"Yes, sir. But have now returned at a most fortunate time."

"First, you seemed to know of my coming?"

"Yes sir. It was the old woman who told me."

"Old woman?"

"The Weird of the castle, sir."

"Zwicia?"

"I believe that is correct, sir. Though a Malachite," a disgusted twist of the mouth, "at times, useful."

"She's here ... in the castle?"

"Yes sir. Never leaves her room." He pointed down, as if stabbing into the bowels of the building.

"Are you saying she had a Crystal-prediction that I was to return?"

"I ... don't know. I stay away from those kind of magic people -- pardon me," he finished blushing. "No offense intended."

"None taken."

Zwicia in the castle. Crystal gazing. Able to predict John's return.

This was a sensitive topic. "The last time I was here," -- John didn't want to emphasize that he'd been run out by Pfnaravin -- "there was another Mage and, if I recall, some of his soldiers."

A wide grin. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me what happened?"

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, you and your men can relax. No need to stand at attention."

"Thank you, sir." Deep sighs from the soldiers. They were not going to be roasted alive where they stood, apparently. (Not a stupid worry, given the tricky and violent nature of Crystal Mages.)

Holding up his hand to delay the soldier's story, John motioned for Platinia to take Ellen to the table; to get her seated so she could rest, Platinia understanding, leading Ellen, the soldiers making a path for her to get to the table by the shortest way.

The women seated, John nodded to the Head Second.

"A slavey came to me in the night. Said the old women -- a Weird -- wanted to see me.

"I followed her to this ... room. And there she was. Old. Wild looking, if that is not to give offense. In purple. Before her on a table was a round piece of stone. A foot across. She was ... petting it. It took a long time for her to even know I was in the room, the old lady muttering to herself. But then she looked up. Said that the Mage, John-Lyon, would soon come back. That I was to make the castle safe for his -- your -- return."

"Go on."

"I knew what she meant, being here when the other Mage -- of Malachite -- had ...." The man stuttered to a stop. He didn't want to recall the time Pfnaravin had John in an iron cage, either.

"That was then. This is now," John said, using what cops in the other world would call his "good cop" voice.

The soldier grinned. He had not offended a man of power.

"Well, as you know -- Mages knowing all things -- the other Mage had not that many Malachites here in the castle. Many more Stil-de-grain soldiers, only following his orders because they must. So, by surprise, in the night, we captured the Malachites."

Of course in the night, magic unavailable after dark, taking away a lot of Pfnaravin's power.

"Unfortunately, we were unable to capture the other Mage." Not that they worked that hard at it, would be John's guess, Mages frightening everyone.

"We chained the Malachite soldiers in the dungeon. The castle is entirely yours, great Mage!"

"You have done well. All of you," John said, including the Head Second's men -- high praise coming from the Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain!

Crystal Mage -- without the Crystal that gave him both authority and power. Fortunately, there were few occasions when a Mage had to display his Crystal, allowing John to pretend to be wearing the Gem.

The conversation at a lull, slaveys hurried in, pots of food in their hands, the women of the castle not wanting to offend by interrupting important "doings."

The food brought to the table, dished out on wood trenchers, Platinia and Ellen began to eat.

Good.

"I want to see these Malachite soldiers," John said, needing to be sure they couldn't get loose. He'd done some time in one of this world's dungeons, "strong man" John finding a way to escape.

The women taken care of for the moment, it was down and down again, round and round through the amazing twists of Hero Castle, John allowing himself to be led, at the same time on guard against a possible trap. He had no weapons. Didn't know how to ask for them. Wouldn't know how to use sword and shield if he did. His only protection was his surprising strength -- surprising to the natives -- a strength advantage he could use for fight or flight.

Down.

Down and around, until well below ground, the soldiers halted at a heavy, iron braced door, a guard there at a small, torch-lit table.

Rising, bowing at the introduction of the Mage, the sentry produced a massive key with which he unlocked the door.

Sliding back a metal bar, the man groaned in the door.

Dungeon, all right. The door said as much. The smell said more.

Torch thrust forward, the door guard entered, the Head Second and his men following, John coming in last.

Chained to the dank walls were Malachite soldiers -- light green uniforms with green striping -- fastened hand and foot, Malachites so much stronger than the men of Stil-de-grain, coming as they did from a "heaver pulling" Band.

Torch held high, John "reviewed" the prisoners, the captives standing at the approach of the announced Mage.

Yes! John knew three of them. Iscu. Sassu. Renn -- grossly deformed. Formally bandits of the Realgar Marsh. Enemies, first of Golden, then of John -- Pfnaravin making them officers in the Malachite army. John hadn't liked his stay in one of these medieval dungeons. Felt sorry that even the worse of men must be penned up under such foul conditions.

In addition to Pfnaravin's newly captured guard, the dungeon held what looked like ordinary felons. And ....

Leet!

"That man is to be released at once!" John ordered, pointing at Leet, the door guard jumping to obey.

"Thank you, sir," Leet said, now unchained, bowing, his paralyzed arm flopping forward.

"Though a Malachite," John announced to the others, "this is Leet. Loyal to Stil-de-grain and my personal friend and guard.

"Sir," the old soldier said, bowing his most formal bow, "I am delighted to see that you are well. But am embarrassed to be in your presence in this ... condition."

John turned to the nearest soldier. "Accompany this man, giving him every honor," the young soldier looking startled that a Mage had spoken to him. "See that he is taken somewhere where he can clean himself. See that he is fed. And has a clean uniform to wear. A Stil-de-grain uniform befitting his rank as Head First in the Mage's personal guard," John's "personal guard," as yet, nonexistent.

"At once, sir," the soldier stammered, looking at his officer to make certain he should follow the Mage's command, the officer nodding quickly.

Pivoting smartly, the soldier led Leet from the dungeon, John feeling better to find at least one, reliable friend in this foreign land.

"What time of the day is it?" John had just remembered something more dangerous to him than the men chained to the wall!

The army Second looked puzzled at that question.

"Near down-light, sir."

down-light -- dusk -- followed by night when, without light, John couldn't communicate with the natives of Bandworld. He had to get to a room, and fast, before "his" subjects found he didn't speak Stil-de-grain.

"Quickly, we must get back. One of my party is ...." What did you say when no one here had any experience with physical illness? "... is tired. So tired she must have immediate rest. Take me back."

"At once, great Mage." The bow.

And they were trotting out of the stinking prison, going up and up, John entering the dining room, the women still at the table.

"Platinia, you will stay with Zwicia as before." She nodded. "Ellen, come with me," Ellen looking ... worse.

Of course!

As the light outside began to fail ...."

Grasping her hand, pulling her up, John asked that they be directed to a bedroom close by, a young soldier leading them to a room on first, the soldier bowing, closing the door behind him.

"After down-light," John explained, "I can no longer understand what my own people are saying. I don't know what would happen if they ever discovered that."

"Seems there's a limit, even to the power of the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain," Ellen said wearily.

But with a smile.

* * * * *

Chapter 11

Ellen. Coughing in the night. Night sweats. John staying with her, getting little sleep himself, making certain she had water when she wanted it and that she had help in getting to the small room down the hall called a garderobe, inside, a toilet seat over a straight shot to a dung heap. Showed her the sponge on a stick she would use to clean herself. Embarrassing under other circumstances, but not when tending the sick.

The following morning, to John's unpracticed eye, Ellen seemed better. Less fever. More interest in her surroundings.

The same improvement to be seen the following day. Same for the next day.

With Ellen on the mend, life in Hero Castle fell into a routine. Eating, short walks through the castle to keep up Ellen's strength -- not that either of them needed much strengthening in this "light pulling band."

John had assumed -- wrongly -- that a day or two in the Magical light of this other world would cure Ellen, her progress taking longer than he'd anticipated.

"And to think this was built with the simplest tools," she said, John and Ellen on another jaunt through the castle, Ellen well enough in the daytime to do anything she liked.

"What?"

"Just crude tools," Ellen repeated. "Trowels, hoes, chisels, picks, pit-saws." She was definitely better to take interest in the construction of this old pile, this the second week after their arrival in Hero Castle, the magic of the light continuing to make Ellen stronger. Ellen and John now quartered in elegant accommodations befitting the importance of a Mage, he still had a connecting door to Ellen's suite should she want something during the night.

Today, Ellen was wearing a white tunic, the short, draped garment emphasizing the shapeliness of her legs, the flat, Bandworld slippers just right for her model-tall, five foot eight.

How old was she, anyway? Younger than Paul. Maybe two years older than John, not that age made a difference.

The two of them had been walking along a darkened, flame-lit corridor. Were now descending flagstone stairs, the encompassing walls magnifying the quiet scuffing of their feet on the irregularly shaped risers. The only unpleasantness was the air inside the castle: stale, as always, smelling of dust and moldering rock.

A right turn at the bottom of the staircase took them through an arch into a tapestry bedecked hall.

As they entered, John thought he saw movement at the far end of the gloomy chamber. Probably a slavey, the castle's servants melting into the "wood work" when encountering their "betters," the castle run by gardeners, drudges, chamber maids, cooks, turn-spit, and a soubrette. Generally old. Humble. Shuffling. More than anyone, the true owners of the castle.

On the other hand it wasn't that odd to feel that someone was watching them, the castle a warren of rooms, passageways, and pillars -- perfect hiding places for those who wished to ... hide.

Increasingly, John had the feeling they were not safe here, isolated as Hero Castle was, with so few soldiers to protect them. Anticipating the day when Ellen's health would permit it, he'd had a messenger bird sent to the Palace at Xanthin, (the castle butler able to "imprint" simple messages on this world's "carrier-parrots,") the bird to say the Mage of Stil-de-grain was coming and to be ready for his arrival. Extra guards to be posted. Additional soldiers. Xanthin Palace searched for undesirables.

Back to the tour, John finding little of interest to point out in this somber room, what light there was coming from second floor clerestory windows.

"These tapestries are marvelous." Ellen had stopped to enthuse over what John saw as faded wall hangings.

Giving the "art-lady" time to gush over these time-bleached rags, Ellen expressing delight at their fanciful animals and quaint, spear carrying hunters, John took her hand (as he'd had to do from time to time,) to pull her along, the two of them skirting the fire pit at the end of the dining room.

"And you say cooking is done with fire stones? The fire here a matter of magic?"

"Yes. It's all in the way you think when concentrating. If you 'think' them into fire, they burst out in flames. Cold flames. Producing only light. But if you think heat, they don't sprout fire, but become hot enough for cooking." His speech delivered, John remembered to release Ellen's hand.

Ellen shook her head, John knowing how it felt to be overwhelmed by too much, too soon.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw more movement. Platinia. Trailing -- John often forgetting about little Platinia, the girl always there without seeming to be there.

John felt better that Platinia was back in her world, also less guilty. His hope was that whatever had caused their brief, romantic relationship would soon be forgotten. What he was certain of was that the girl would feel comfortable staying with the old Weird. They got along.

"Have you noticed that most tables have only three legs?

John hadn't, but did now.

"Three legged tables used to be commonplace because of rough floors, a four legged table needing a level floor to be stable. But a three legged table will sit firmly no matter now uneven the floor."

"Interesting." Mildly. For Ellen, the artist, a fascinating bit of architectural trivia.

John had heard about Ellen's career as artist, Ellen awarded a free ride at a local university. After graduation, she'd worked as an illustrator for Hallmark cards. Unfulfilled in the commercial art world, she'd sought inspiration by haunting local galleries -- the Nelson -- others at KU and the U. of Missouri. That's where she'd met Paul, in what she called the "room of fake antiquities" on Missouri's Columbia campus, Paul there for a conference. Bored, he'd wandered off to have a look at the sprawling university, finding his way into the Art Building.

Seeing Ellen there, the rest was history.

Hearing how the couple met had been painful, John needing to accept the fact that Paul, not he, had "gotten the girl."

"You said that, today, we might see the outside?"

"You feel up to it?"

"Every day better."

"If you're sure."

"Try me."

Getting outside wasn't easy, of course, Ellen stopping to examine every chair, portrait, lamp stand, end table, decorative pot, etching, sideboard, mural, hassock, icon, and ornamental molding in each side room on their way.

At long last exiting the ponderous oak door that led to the cobble stoned inner ward -- the open square at the castle's center -- they crossed to enter a dark tunnel beyond, the byway leading to the double towered gatehouse.

"I had to draw a typical castle for my final in medieval architecture," Ellen said, smiling with remembrance, her throaty voice echoing in the rocky defile. "This is typical of late-medieval construction. The double inner doors with their drawbar, for instance," Ellen motioning as they passed through, the flanking wood doors flung open, the solid timber jam pushed back into its recess in the wall. Inside the cave-like arch of the tunnel, she pointed to the passageway's end: a heavy timbered grid faced with iron, cranked up in its raised position. "That's a portcullis."

Ellen looked up at the dusky ceiling of the massive entrenchment between the flanking towers. "And there they are. Above this passage are rooms with holes in the floor." John looked up. "Do you know what they're called?"

"What? The holes?" John understood European history, just not the kind of architectural detail an art major would know.

"Murder holes. The idea is that enemy soldiers get in this tunnel only to find the doors back there shut and barred. That's when you drop the portcullises ahead of them. Unable to go forward or get back out, they're trapped in here to be slaughtered by defenders dropping rocks on them through the holes above."

Just another "fun" fact about life in the Middle Ages.

Continuing, they cleared the portcullis and were into the daylight of the outer ward, soon entering the darkness of the gatehouse.

Traversing that bastion, they had only to cross the castle's heavy timbered drawbridge, currently spanning a deep, dry moat. (A permanently lowered drawbridge not saying much for castle security.)

Crossing the bridge, they were free of the square walled, corner towered fortress.

At last topped by nothing but a width of golden sky, they were at liberty to savor the wonderfully fresh outdoor air.

The only vegetation to be seen at that elevation was random, scraggly bushes clinging to the flinty mountain top, plus scrub trees struggling painfully by ones and twos to survive in patches of dirt clinging precariously to depressions in the rocky crest.

No wind song. John had never felt anything but a light breeze in this world. (The exception, the evil wind caused by Auro before John defeated him.) All they could hear was the occasional chirp and scrape of insects, and the shrill of an invisible bird.

With nothing else to see but distance until they were off that peak -- Hero Mountain the tallest pinnacle in a chain of lesser ridges crooked back like a dragon's spine -- John led them left to flank the castle, following a path that was the approach to the castle gardens, the track winding through violets, pansies, and rose bushes.

Entering the formal plantings through an arboreal arch, they continued through flowering trees, the air scented with multiple fragrances.

The path (now a flagstone walk) meandered through hedges, dwarf conifers, and sheltered nooks, benches of stone and wood inviting the weary wanderer to rest in shaded woodlets.

Further on, frothy, gold, water jets shot up from platinum basins, the water reflecting the saffron sky. Bending over a reflecting pool, they saw bright fish dart through glass-clear water. Most shiny gold. A few orange, red, white.

Eventually dazed by too much beauty, then sat on a slatted bench beside a languidly flowing rivulet, the air laden with the sweet smell of lavender; the turf at their feet jeweled by azaleas, buttercups, and white alyssum.

"I can't get over the sky," Ellen said, looking up for the twentieth time. "So uniform in color and so gold."

"Though you couldn't tell from inside, at a distance, you can just make out the sky over the next "inward" band. Green. That's Malachite." John pointed, Ellen standing on tiptoe to see a little further.

"In the opposite direction, you can see a half-circle of Orange over Realgar. When I was in Realgar, at mid-day when the air was clear of fog, I could make out the barest sliver of a Red crescent. The red of the outermost band -- Cinnabar.

"How wide are the bands?" she asked, settling back on the bench.

"I don't know exactly. Since this world is pancake flat, there's no horizon line, making it possible to see for great distances. At least until the evening fog sets in."

"And you said its foggy every night?

"Every night. And every night it drips rain. Never what you'd call a downpour. Moisture collects on the iron dome above -- say the natives -- and drips down at night.

"No sun."

"Or stars or moon." John shook his head. "Though it's still hard for me to take it all in, I've come to think like the locals: that this is a flat world with an iron dome for a sky. That day and night are produced, not by the planet's rotation like on earth, but by a huge, dazzling Crystal that revolves at the world's center, the Crystal turning slowly, the light from the Gem reflecting off the dome. When the black half of the magic ball rotates up, the dome turns dark and it's nighttime. The Crystal's location in what's called Eyeland."

"Anybody claim to have been there?"

"Eyeland?" She nodded. "No one I've met. There was a young man named Golden, who I got to know. A minstrel with pretensions of being king of Malachite. Anyway, he used to sing sometimes, his songs, like those of Greek minstrels, reflecting the legends of this world. From bits and pieces of the folklore of the place, I gather that something's very wrong about Eyeland. Extremely heavy gravity. Radiation. Something."

"I wish Paul could see this," Ellen said in a hushed voice. "I miss him. and the children." Given the strangeness of the cross-world experience, it would have been difficult for anyone not to feel a little homesick, John told himself. He was missing Cream, for God sake!

"They don't miss you."

"What?" A wary look. The way she used to appear before the light-magic here began to cure her.

"You're forgetting about the time differential. To us, days -- weeks -- have passed. To them, only minutes -- maybe seconds. Paul is still asleep. Your mother is looking after the children, snug in their beds. By the time I get you back, almost no time will have passed. If fact, I've begun to think it works both ways. That time spent in our world doesn't count for much time passing here. Why this should be, I don't know. When you factor in magic, anything's possible."

"And you think I'll stay healthy after I return? I keep thinking of the legend of Shangri-la. About the girl who was young until she tried to leave that mountain kingdom. Only to become her true age -- growing old -- overnight."

"How do you feel? Right now?"

"Fine. Except for being ... so far from home. As for tonight, I don't know. I slip back at night. But I'm better day by day. I guess, when I'm completely well after dark I'll be ready to return."

"And if, for some reason, you to slip back to illness, there's always another trip to this world for renewal."

"A hard way to go at a cure."

"The passage between worlds takes it out of you. But less so, the more you come.

"As for the way you are now, I've never seen you looking better."

A noise! Coming down the path, John on guard against unexpected entrances. He'd had too many nasty surprises in this world to take anything for granted.

A ... slavey. Approaching timidly.

"You want to see me? Come closer."

She did. This, the young soubrette.

"Tell me."

"It is ... a man," the girl whispered, eyes on her shoes in the presence of the Mage.

"Go on."

"Asking to enter."

"Hero castle?"

Nod.

"Do you know who?"

"A soldier said, the Navy Head."

"The Admiral?" Stil-de-grain had lost its navy in the latest war with Malachite. "Admiral Coluth?"

John hardly dared hope it was the old captain of the Roamer, a merchant ship where he'd first met Coluth, the Roamer's captain becoming his friend. Following the naval disaster in which the old Navy Head had been killed, John had appointed Coluth Admiral. Put him in charge of rebuilding the fleet, Coluth a man to trust in a shape-shifting world.

"I think ... that is the name."

Coluth. First Leet. Then Coluth -- if the girl was right. Better and better! Nothing like having friends to guard your back!

"Ask the soldier if it is Coluth. Remember the name?"

Nod.

"If it's Admiral Coluth, have him directed here. We'll wait for him."

"Nod."

"Get going."

Nod.

"Now, please."

Finding she had not been frozen in place by the frightful Mage, the girl turned and fled down the walk.

John wanted to smile, but didn't. Smiling wasn't what was required of Crystal-Mages. Displaying a sunny personality was one of the things that could get you killed in this power-worshiping world!

They waited, Ellen taking in the garden and sky, John eager to see Coluth, one of only a few people he could trust completely.

Footsteps.

Then Coluth, coming down the path, his skin roughened by a life at sea, brown hair fading to gray.

John stood as Coluth stopped to salute, the Navy Head still looking strange to John, dressed as he was in his Admiral's tunic instead of in the brown leather jerkin worn by merchant seamen.

"It's good to see you, old friend," John said, trying his best to add authority to the warmth he felt for the man.

"Yes." With a wide grin. Coluth was also the one person who, knowing John was a Crystal Mage, could still treat him like a regular man. "When the messenger bird came and Gagar made it speak, it was my greatest wish that the message be true. That you had come back."

"You've come from Xanthin?"

"As fast as possible."

"What's the situation there?"

"Same as always. Except that the king is getting older. Stronger." Couth smiled. Ever since the death of Yarro I, Coluth had taken charge of the king's young son, Yarro II.

"May I present Ellen," John said, uncertain about how to explain Ellen's presence. "She's been ... not herself." What an inconvenience to be unable to use words like "ill" to people who knew nothing of these things!

Coluth frowned, unsure of what was expected of him, turning again to John. "I am to announce the king's pleasure that you have returned, great Mage." More reciting than announcing. "He says you are most welcome and asks that you come to Xanthin, to the palace, where you will be honored as befits your status."

John turned to Ellen. "Do you feel up to a trip? We could take our time. Stay as long as necessary at inns along the way if you tire."

"I'm ready. Maybe not quite up to travel in the early morning, but ...." What she meant was that, as soon as the light was strong enough, she was herself again.

"If there is some difficulty," Coluth said, trying to understand, "additional troops are guarding this place, ready to be an escort. Also, members of my crew are with me. Others command the cable boat at the Tartrazine. I have a ship at Canarin, ready to ferry you to Xanthin island. All has been made ready."

"You have done well. After we get off the mountain, Ellen will need the smoothest riding pony cart there is."

"It shall be done. I will send a runner ahead to arrange transport."

"Ellen, you're going to see the island capital of Stil-de-grain."

"About time," she said, pretending to sulk.

Assuming their luck continued to hold, John thought, but didn't say.

* * * * *

Chapter 12

Platinia was awake, her eyes blinking in the light of a single torch. Was she still dreaming that the Mage, John-Lyon had disappeared into the frightening other world?

Reality returning, she realized she was in her room. No ... Zwicia's room, the old woman in the other bed, making the growling sound of angry cats. Snoring, was what that sound was called.

Almost awake, Platinia was clothed in her sleep tunic, the small girl covered by a light cloth against the castle damp. Above her, the wall torch flickered shadows on her narrow bed. She would not sleep without a lighted torch. Ever since she escaped from the torturing priest in Fulgur's temple. As the princess of the dark, the priests had chained her to the wall in the dark torment room. If she had her way, she would never again be in darkness!

Across the small room was a rough wood table and small chair, the room's only furnishings, the table used by Zwicia for crystal gazing.

The young Mage said he and the woman would go back to the other world. But they did not.

Platinia could not think about that since she was so fearful in her mind. It was the other world that made her so afraid. Though she did not have the powers of a Mage in any world, in that strange other place she lost her little control over others. In her own world, she could see into people's minds; could make stronger their feelings. A little. Even the feelings of the green eyed Mage, John-Lyon.

It was not so long ago that she realized -- in spite of her very great fear of him -- that she was in love with John-Lyon. After that, finding concern for her in his mind, she had strengthened that feeling until the Mage had come to love her in return. That was in the tower room, the Mage then taking her to his other world.

A world without magic!

A world of crushing Band Sickness where she had been afraid! Afraid of the strangeness of that world! Fear-struck because she had lost even her little control over the Mage. Was again, afraid of John-Lyon -- that he would hurt her. For she could not make him love her any more. Not in his magic-less world.

So in her fear, in her not knowing what to do, she had run away.

Left alone, first putting on the too big coat the Mage had brought to her, she had gone out the door to run down the lane through the trees, coming to a wide street of hardened stone. On that street were metal carts: racing back and forth at dizzying speed! She had not know what to do Had just stood there like someone struck by a Mage bolt.

It was then that a man had stopped his metal cart beside her, a bald man, leaning out to talk to her. An old man with a short, white beard. He had asked her to enter his cart, Platinia doing that to sit beside him on a padded bench.

The man reaching across her to pull shut the door, looking kind, he had asked where she wished to go. When she said she did not know, he said he was going "down town." Asked if she would like to go there, too. Not knowing what to say, she said yes.

Then they had gone fast. Fast! Platinia had shut her eyes so she would not know how fast.

After a long, noisy time of rushing and swishing and other terrifying noises all around them, the cart-- the man called the cart a car -- had stopped.

Though there was still much noise of passing ... cars ... and other sounds, Platinia opened her eyes to look out, seeing long lines of people walking by. Men. Women. But no children. Old. Younger. All in foreign clothing. A great many people. Of different colors. Most white. Some brown. And beyond them, as she looked out of the glass that went around the car, tall buildings. Tall. Tall!

Like she had never seen before. All with windows you could see through. Up. Up!

The man then said they were down town.

The man had explained to her how to open the car door, Platinia doing that and getting out.

The man and his ... car ... then turned to roll down a long tunnel going under a big building.

And Platinia was standing all alone. Alone, but surrounded by so many others. Old. Young. Crippled. All rich. Many brown men. One, a yellow man! They were walking past. This way. That way. More people than she had ever seen before. More than on the streets of Xanthin!

And cars and cars in the wide, wide road. And people and people on the far side of it. No people sitting. No people standing. All people walking.

So, she walked, too.

There were men and woman everywhere. Going with Platinia. Coming toward her. Dressed in bright colors. Some with hats. There were more people down the crossing streets as far as she could see. And always, looking overhead, buildings. Buildings.

At last, walking this way and that, following crowds of people, waiting with them, crossing streets when, by some magic, the cars going by had stopped, Platinia became tired. And hungry. So hungry that, when she passed certain buildings, she was aware of the smell of food.

She remembered that, in Xanthin and other places she had gone with the Mage, it took money to give for the things you wanted. And she had money. Had watched John-Lyon in his house. Had learned where the money was in that place. In a box. In his bedroom. This money, she had taken just before she ran away.

Money. Like in Stil-de-grain but different. Round circles, some large, some small. Some silver. Little coins she thought were gold, but were not gold in the up-light of outdoors. She thought that metal was called copper. Strange money in a strange place. Always with pictures cut into it on its flat side. On both sides.

She had also heard the Mage say that what looked like strange, green, tree leaves was also money. Paper money. This kind of money with pictures painted on it.

Now, watching others, she had gone into a food-building. Like the other people she had sat down at a little table and explained to the woman who came that Platinia wished food like these others ate.

The women brought a writing skin, but saw that Platinia could not use it. The women asked if Platinia was a foreigner, and Platinia, not knowing the word, nodded. After that, the woman asked if Platinia wanted this food or that, finally saying she would bring something Platinia would like to eat. And the woman did that. Round, flat meat, a thin slice of red fruit, and grass -- with bread on both sides. And something thin to drink, with bubbles in it. A strange kind of milk.

After Platinia had eaten, she had offered the women money, the woman taking some, bringing back smaller coins.

That had gone well.

She was walking again, looking up at the buildings and all around, when another man had begun walking with her. A man with a big, wide hat. He had black eyes and very friendly teeth. He asked her name. He asked if she was from another place and she said yes. He asked if she had friends. She said no. He asked if she wanted work, to make more money.

That was the beginning. He took her to a room and explained that, like money to trade for food, men would come and give her money. After that, they would ... the man had said "make love" to her ... but Platinia knew what he meant. You could not be a princess of the dark without knowing. He meant rape. That was what he meant.

But ... this was different. Though it took much time, she had made him understand. About the torture. She had asked if she was to be tortured. He said no. That for even more money, there were other things she might do .....

So Platinia had learned what to do. Mostly what men told her to do. They gave her money, which she shared with the friendly hat-man, the man getting her pretty clothes to wear so she could make more money.

It was then that the tall man had come and taken her back to John-Lyon's house.

* * * * *

Platinia had fallen asleep again, but was once more awake. She had been having a bad dream that she was back in the temple.

It was in Fulgur's temple that she had learned to pick through the minds of the priests. To change their plans to torture her as the sacrifice of Tenebrae, Goddess of the night. She had found that she could make strong the thoughts of priests. That she could make strong their emotions. That was her only power in that place.

It was only later that she learned the name for someone with strengthening power, a person like that called an etherial, an etherial desired by men wishing her power for the increasing of their pleasures. Eating. Sex.

The air in the bedroom was cold now. Cold on Platinia's sweat-slick skin.

Long, Platinia lay there. Shaking. Sweating. But made less fearful because she was an etherial. With an etherial's powers.

She hated all men! The priests of Fulgur! All men!

Except ... she had come to ... not hate ... the young Mage, John-Lyon.

Now, they had come back to Platinia's world. The young Mage. Platinia. And the woman who was called Ellen.

Did Platinia love the Mage? Making a greater importance, could she make him love her by strengthening his mind's desire for her? And what of the woman, Ellen? Was not the Mage in love with this woman? Could Platinia not see love in the Mage's piercing green eyes?

Platinia must decide. Decide if she loved the Mage. If so, she might have to kill this Ellen. How, Platinia did not know. Only that she would find a way.

* * * * *

Chapter 13

The trip to Xanthin island had been more of a struggle than John had anticipated. First, came the packing, female slaveys of the castle given that task, Ellen taking a hand in the preparations -- women forever insisting on taking too much of everything.

There was getting Zwicia to do the most simple things to get ready for the move, John deciding to take the Weird along. You could never command too much magic when trying for respect in a Wizardly world.

Coluth and his band of sailors did the heavy lifting, Coluth shadowed by his Second, Philelph, the young man quiet as usual. John had know them both from his "hiding out" days as a merchant seaman aboard the Roamer. Old Orig was also with the captain, as was Osago -- fat as ever -- and Falkie. There were other, more recent additions to Coluth's crew, all told, a band of fifteen.

Coluth also commanded a squad of Stil-de-grain soldiers; had thought to bring more, but had decided not to, moving swiftly an impossibility with a large unit. The Admiral had rescued John from Pfnaravin's cage by stealth, after all.

Though Ellen said she felt better day-by-day, her health continued to be a worry. Still with a fever after down-light. Still coughing in the night.

Platinia begged to go with them, John reluctant to take the fragile girl on what was certain to be a punishing journey. In the end, decided that, since she'd made the trip before, she'd be all right, Platinia apt to be safer in the palace at Xanthin than at Hero Castle (John attempting to ignore what he couldn't deny, that when Platinia looked at him in a certain, pleading way, it was easy to give in to her desires, John also hoping to make restitution to Platinia for that time he'd made out-of-line love to the little girl.)

Ready at last, they set out just after up-light, the sailors carrying most of the packaged items -- food, clothing -- the group struggling through the morning fog down a steep, loose-rock trail, hurrying, as best they could, to reach the first valley before down-light.

Making it, but just barely (the women foot-sore and exhausted), the group stayed that night in an inn built to accommodate the occasional merchant or hunter -- the owner and his wife strained to find food for them all, the soldiers and sailors sleeping in an outbuilding.

Two days later had them nearing the foot of the Hero Mountains, John sending a soldier ahead to the next inn, the man instructed to hire the best pony cart he could find, the women to ride the rest of the way.

With six, snorting shelties pulling the women's cart, John made better time, crossing the Tartrazine river by cable boat to find the wider road on the other side clogged with merchant traffic -- men with back packs, others push-pulling three wheeled carts similar to wheelbarrows, wealthy salesmen driving pony wagons piled high with merchandise: metal from Malachite, fruit from Realgar, grain from Stil-de-grain. John spotted a rich trader hiding in the center of the press, the man cradling an extremely light package that had to be cloth from Cinnabar. Silk merchants -- like diamond couriers in John's world -- attempted to slip by unnoticed.

Following the plan, John's group eventually arrived at Canaria harbor, its quays jutting into deep water, merchant ships moored along the jetties, there to take on cargo destined for many bands.

Plus a Stil-de-grain naval vessel -- Admiral Coluth's cutter waiting at the end of the mole, the ship sweeping John's party around the swirling circles of the sea, to enter Xanthin harbor. Their goal: Xanthin palace further on.

News they were coming preceding them, the populace had turned out to welcome the return of the Mage, Xanthin's people in holiday finery, the men wearing colorful jerkins and bright doublets above skin tight hose, short waist-skirts flared to show well rounded buttocks and codpieces -- the women more conservatively dressed in long robes of assorted colors, wimples covering head, neck, and chin. All cheering. Waving. Promising eternal love and support. (John was careful to remember that the same crowd had backed Pfnaravin, the old Mage's soldiers waiting on the same wharf to arrest John for treason -- the driving political force here, as in too many places: support the powerful, whoever they may be.)

The crowd of well-wishers hemming them in, they had difficulty dodging the offal, excrement, and garbage that littered the streets of Xanthin, noxious odors only one of many inconveniences of a medieval society.

The squad of soldiers at last forming a wedge to break trail, they'd made it through the people-packed center of the city, booths to either side offering goods like clothing, knives, iron ware, leather products, and silverware. Further along, they passed the shops of furriers, tailors, spice merchants, and butchers: meat cutters offering every kind of delicacy from pickled sheep's heads to sugared pig-tails.

Ale houses, of course, predominated.

The crowd thinning at the far edge of the city, they took the exclusive access road to the triple walled palace, eventually arriving at what was more fort than royal residence. Recognized immediately, gate guards ushered them inside the surrounding walls, doing that with as much pomp as simple uniforms, courtly bows, and snappy salutes allowed, John's people as safe here from unseen enemies as they would be anywhere in this "other world."

"Honor guarded" across the courtyard and inside the palace proper, they were greeted by lines of functionaries promising the fulfillment of their every wish, which, at the moment, was to be bathed, fed, and put to bed, John praising the loving attention of the Palace staff, the staff loving praise by the Mage.

As for John's major concern, he was glad that Ellen hadn't suffered a set-back through it all. Though still coughing in the night, her robust look in the daytime backed her assertion that she continued to improve. (John would wait until she was asymptomatic throughout the night before he'd even consider taking her ... home.)

With Pfnaravin still missing, John uncertain of his own acceptance here, he'd decreed that four guards accompany him wherever he went, their shields and bucklers clanking, swords swinging at their sides, leather under-armor squeaking in counter-point.

He ordered the same number of sentries to be posted outside his bedroom at night. (Not that guards and more guards assured your safety, John knowing that, in the late Roman Empire, it was usually the Emperors' "protectors" who assassinated them. Who guards the guards?, was a question as old as time.)

Zwicia and Platinia were installed in separate, but connecting quarters, John ordering soldiers for the women's protection.

* * * * *

Donning his white silk Mage robe in the early morning, armed men accompanying him, John breakfasted alone in the stone banquet hall -- had broth, cooked meat, candied eggs, and warm wine -- his guards then having to squeeze him through passageways clotted with mop wielding cleaning women. Also past minor officials: Aber, the prolocutor (whatever that was,) Bachur, Plenipotentiary (whatever that was,) Qrig the barber, Heimg the Vice Legate -- all eager to do him service.

Finally to reach his destination, the "war room" on second, its rectangular table dominating the sizable space, twenty, heavy chairs around it, the Mage-ordered map of Bandworld on its stand at the back.

A flanking table was still laden with charts -- showing sea currents, blowups of harbors and the like -- another, lower table, offering ink and vellum, everything just as he'd left it. After John's victory over the evil Mage, the room had apparently become a kind of shrine, the room's smell backing his "shrine theory." Stale.

Closing the door, as yet undecided about what problem to attack first, he approached the barely translucent window overlooking the island's "Beakward" side. Pulling open the casements, he leaned out to see, at extreme angles, the corner turrets of the palace, Stil-de-grain flags topping the turret spires, the banners limp in the early morning damp, though soon to gleam in gold and silver under a gilded sky.

At a distance, he could see a corner of the cobble stone courtyard, the final wisps of every morning's fog obscuring its gushing fountain, the mist now snaking away from the light as serpents slide for cover at the sight of man.

Farther down the rocky hill on which the palace stood, he could make out the city; fabled Xanthin; capital of Stil-de-grain; sparkling like a jewel in it's island setting, the island out-riggered by the fleet of Stil-de-grain. (At least the island used to have naval protection -- before outright defiance of John's battle plans had lead to disaster.)

Beyond the city lay Xanthin harbor, at that distance a mirrored glint of gold reflecting the egg-yoke sky. Though poorly protected at the moment, peace had produced a harbor crowded with merchantmen.

Later that morning, he must remember to make his customary visit to the child-King Yarro II. Followed by meetings with the king's tutors: the tutor Head, Haelb; Eidiz -- history and geography; Gera -- economics, trade; and Isab -- military.

Shutting the window, turning, he found the room itself to be as he remembered: marble and dark wood, this place the nerve center of the Mage of Stil-de-grain.

But not for long. Only until Ellen was well enough to make the return trip to Hero Castle -- and home.

As for Ellen, art historian that she was, she'd wanted a morning's tour of the palace, John asking around to find her a guide. Guards would accompany her, of course; plus a troop of soldiers should she insist on venturing into the city.

There was a knock on the door. Someone of importance, the guards instructed to keep out the run-of-the-mill flatterers, Mage worshipers, menus preparers, Mage-robe seamstress, and office seekers. John needed his privacy.

Leaving the window, sitting in the large, ornately carved chair at the head of the table, John was ready to impress.

"Enter."

A pause ... the door opening a crack, an eye atop a short body peeking in.

Though half a face was not much to go on, John recognized the man as Gagar, the messenger bird handler.

Gagar -- spy master. Trainer of bird groomers; the man responsible for shipping agents and their birds to all bands, messenger birds the fastest way of long distance communication.

"Come in, Gagar," John called, John coming to have respect for the little man, Gagar far from the mincing, head bobbing, sycophant he appeared to be on first acquaintance. "I'm glad to see you."

And, after a moment -- a golden parrot on his gloved arm -- the birdie man did as John commanded, Gagar tripping along the side of the table on tiny, timid feet.

As for the bird-on-glove, it was much like a parrot, this one yellow, meaning it had been hatched in Stil-de-grain, messenger birds the color of the Band from which they came. Taken to other Bands, when released, they flew back to their home Band, in this case, to the trainer, Gagar. In this way, resembling homing pigeons.

The parrot side of their function was to repeat whatever message they'd been taught to say. (When John had suggested just tying a message to the bird's foot, Gagar had been shocked at that suggestion, explaining that no self-respecting bird would leave the ground until pecking off such an offensive impediment!

Like the bird, Gagar had beady eyes, a long, downward sloping beak of a nose, and head bobbing movements. Talk about dogs resembling their owners!

Gagar and parrot arriving at John's end of the table, pausing for a few eye blinks -- man and bird -- it was time to find out what was up.

"Where is this bird from?"

"I cannot tell, great Mage. Until I hear a bird speak, I will be unable to divine its origin." Even Gagar's voice was bird-shrill, no doubt an asset in the training process.

"And you haven't heard the message, yet?"

"Impossible, sir!" Gagar was taken aback. "The message is for you to hear. Since the bird will forget what it's learned as it speaks it, I know not what it will say."

John had forgotten. The bird spoke, then forgot what it said. Useful in the spy-bird business; no worry about secret messages "shared" later with the wrong people.

"Of course. I knew that. I've been gone, as you know. Long enough to have forgotten a lot of little things."

Gagar again looked offended. How could any detail concerning his beloved birds slip the Mage's mind?

"Now that you've brought it, make it spill its guts."

"What, great Mage!?" Gagar shocked again at even the thought of a bird's "guts" falling out!

"I mean, make it talk," Gagar breathing a sigh of relief at John's explanation.

Taking a hop forward, the man transferred the bird from his wrist to the back of the chair nearest John, the talking parrot close enough for John to smell it. An observation John was careful to keep from Gagar -- who also stunk of bird.

The spy man first waving to attract the bird's attention, the creature's yellow eyes rotating, one eye on the trainer, the other on John, Gagar made a convoluted movement of thumb and forefinger -- the signal for the bird to talk.

"The . Malachite . Navy . In . Sea . throat,"

squawked the parrot in the unaccented patter of all brainless, talking birds.

"Thank you, Gagar. As usual, you have brought me interesting news."

Bowing his pleasure at being useful to the Mage, Gagar motioned to the bird, the fowl (in more ways than one) stepping back on the spy-man's arm, Gagar turning to hippity-hop from the room.

The door closed, John had some thinking to do about what he'd just heard.

Malachite War ships in Sea throat? No reason for them to be there ... unless positioning themselves for an attack on Stil-de-grain!

Jumping up, John hurried to the door, opening it to call to the nearest guard. "I need Admiral Coluth immediately. I don't know where he is at the moment, probably at the harbor. So send runners everywhere he could be."

"Yes, sir!" the guard said, saluting smartly, taking off at a run.

That course of action set in motion, John had to consider the possibility that Malachite agents had already been smuggled into Stil-de-grain.

"I have reason to believe we are under threat. I want my personal bodyguard doubled, similar increases for the rest of my party. My companion, Ellen, is on tour in the building. Under no circumstance is she to leave the palace. I want maximum protection for all important personages."

"Yes, sir."

At that, the other three guards didn't know what to do. To accomplish the multiple tasks they had been assigned, they would have to abandon their post, leaving John open to assault. John could see it in their eyes. "I don't think any of us is under immediate threat. You can leave for now. I'll bar the door and be safe inside."

Still, they hesitated.

"Mage Magic will protect me, if necessary.'

And they were off, magic the answer to any vulnerability.

As for John, he was thankful Golden had "relieved" John of John's Mage-Gem, hiding the dangerous disk in the Palace before John's last return to earth, the Crystal so dangerous to the sanity of its user it must never be activated for any purpose short of a back-against-the-wall emergency.

Turning to enter the room, John bolted the door, thinking that even if the Malachites had failed to penetrated Stil-de-grain security, Pfnaravin was on the loose. No reason to think he was on Xanthin island, however. Also no reason to think he was not.

After that, the day went as John structured it. Coluth arrived, the Admiral agreeing that a Malachite attack was possible, Coluth as much in the dark about why this should be as John. A naval strike conceivable, the two men agreed that the harbor mouth should be blocked, John ordering that to be done under Coluth's supervision, John and Coluth taking a fast cart to the harbor, tugs soon struggling to drag the heavy, blocking stones into position, enemy ships now unable to enter Xanthin harbor without the risk of ripping out their bottoms on the submerged boulders. (Though merchant ships were now trapped in the harbor -- complaints sure to follow -- national security always trumped commerce.)

John was going to have the blocking stones moved after down-light -- in case spies were watching the tugs at work. It would be difficult to get the sailors to work after dark, he knew, everyone here afraid of night monsters: leviathans unleashed by the dark. But as Mage, he could get that job done, people more afraid of Mages-in-the-flesh than of nameless terrors from the deep.

Leaving no "stone unturned," John activated his secondary plan for harbor defense, another innovation he'd put in place on his last cross-world journey. As a secondary approach to harbor security, he'd installed rock throwing catapults on the heights; calibrated to guarantee "can't miss" bombardments on any ship "lucky" enough to get past the underwater rocks.

The harbor secure, John called a war council to meet in the Mage room -- Coluth, Leet, and the new army Head, Yona, the old Head dying during John's absence, Yona looking much like the last military leader -- stocky build, close cut hair, slitted eyes -- all officers in white uniforms, yellow stripping, gold sash of rank angled across their chests.

John thought about inviting Gagar and several Head Seconds ... but decided not to, "the more the merrier" a saying inappropriate to swift action.

Time to start the meeting. "Are we ready at the harbor?"

"Yes, sir." Coluth. Seated to John's left.

"What about the navy? How long until it's up to strength?

"Though progress has been made ...." Coluth need go no further.

"Are rams being built into the new ships?" Rams had been another innovation John had brought to this world, if by "innovation," you meant the introduction of the latest weapon in naval warfare on the Mediterranean Sea -- in 600 BC.

"Yes, though our sailors are ill-practiced in their use."

What Coluth meant was that there was still resistance to any innovation in the service, even one that had proved decisive when it had been tried. Nothing as hide bound as a military man, as John had discovered to his grief.

"What we've got now will hold them. How to break a Malachite blockade -- should there be one -- will be a problem to be tackled later." John hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

"If, great Mage," said the new Army Head, "their ships dare to block our exit, your Crystal-Magic will ...."

Same as always. If all else fails, blast them with magic, much of John's authority here depending on people thinking he possessed his Mage-Gem.

"We'll, see," John said, continuing the fiction that he could use Crystal force any time he choose. "In the meantime, everyone stay sharp." Nods all around.

"Admiral Coluth to remain, the rest of the council, dismissed."

Crisp salutes from everyone, the rest departing to supervise Stil-de-grain defense -- John hoped.

With the chamber door closed, John turned to Coluth, the Admiral stoically awaiting new orders.

"I want you and your men, plus the tug boat crews, back at the harbor just before down-light. We've got a little night work to do."

Coluth didn't flinch. At the same time, was unhappy.

"This is to fool potential spies who might have been watching us plug the harbor this afternoon. I want the blocking stones moved when no one is around to chart their new locations. And don't worry," John added, Coluth continuing to frown, "I'll be there, too. In my Mage rig."

"Rig?"

"Mage clothing. Pointed hat of magic, all that. You don't have to force the crews to work at night. I'll see to it that they do. Anyway, have you ever, in your life at sea, seen what's frightening them -- these so-called monsters of the deep that the darkness is supposed to set loose?"

"Ah ... no."

A hedged answer if ever John heard it. "What do you mean by that?"

"Not seen, them."

"But?"

"In the long ago," -- the way time was measured here -- "at a tie-up dock, a number of ships at the end of their ropes ...."

Coluth paused to see if John understood him, the admiral referring to the practice of sea-going ships rowed to shore at the end of every day, to what were called tie-up stations. Sailors would then tie one end of a long rope to the wharf, row their boat away from land, then fasten the other end of the rope to the boat. Since there was no tide, the boats remained moored that way throughout the night. Far enough from land to prevent attack by the night's land-monsters; close enough to shore that the terrors of the deep couldn't reach them through the shallows.

Every ship.

Every night.

John used to play down this monster business as superstition -- until he'd seen night-activated horror-creatures for himself.

"I've seen the Lxlop." Said to encourage Coluth to continue his tale, the Lxlop a savage combination of wolf and termite, these creatures of the night like owls, with eyes useful for hunting in the dark, but reduced to bat-blindness by the faintest light.

"One boat was not tied securely," Coluth continued, his rough, seaman's voice down to a whisper. "Somehow, drifted out to sea. Perhaps rowed by drunker sailors not knowing what they did. Out there, in the fog, I heard...."

Again, Coluth came to a stop.

"What?"

"A terrible noise! A bellow! Followed by the shattering of timbers, the ship being ... eaten. Screams. Silence."

Coluth, turtle like, drew inside himself, clearly saying all he was going to on that subject.

"But inside the harbor?"

"I agree. Unlikely. Even more so now that the harbor is blocked against ships ...." the underwater stones also serving to fence out the huge horrors. Not what Coluth said. But, clearly, what he meant.

* * * * *

Down-light approaching, John was at the harbor once more, dressed in his pointy-hat Wizard outfit.

John had just finished his speech in which he promised to wither the sailors with crystal conflagration should they fail to obey him when ....

"Ship coming!" all turning to see what the wharf lookout meant.

And sure enough, through the gathering fog, came a boat; rowed at flank speed and aimed at the harbor mouth.

Looking farther, John could make out other ships, their oars flashing at double time, as if chasing the lone ship.

"What's the nationality of those cutters, Coluth?"

The admiral looked. Squinted to see.

"Malachite."

"The entire navy? Shouldn't they be at tie up by now?"

"Three ships only. No more behind them. Risky to be in deep water this near down-light -- unless allowed to enter the harbor."

"It's a chase?"

"They must want that ship more than life itself," Coluth muttered, thinking of the dread sea monsters that down-light would release.

"I want to see what's going on. You know of any reason why letting a single ship in the harbor could be a danger to us?"

Coluth thought about it in his leisurely, seaman's way. "No."

"Then send a tug to guide the first ship past the rocks, but not the others."

Saluting, Coluth pivoted to face the sailors, still lined up along the wharf.

"You! Captain of the lead tug!"

"Sir?"

"Guide that front ship in. But only that ship."

"At once, sir."

Sailors scrambling into the indicated boat, slamming their oar handles in the locks, pushing off, the rowers pulled for the harbor's mouth, the steersman avoiding the under water rocks from his memory of their location.

The tug boat "launched," Coluth made more signs, this time to the catapult crews on promontories above the harbor. To stand down. To let the ship in.

Fifteen minutes later, now near full dark -- John having to get out of there before people found he couldn't speak Stil-de-grain after down-light! -- the quarry ship scraped to a stop along the dock, the sailors backing their outer-oars to avoid crashing into a half-loaded merchantman.

As for the chase-ships, they'd turned back to row off at a fear-inspired pace, no doubt headed for the nearest tie up dock on the mainland before being "eaten" by some after-dark daemon.

The escaped ship's crew -- in the garb of Malachite sailors, some Malachite soldiers intermixed -- cast ropes to dock hands, the hands snubbing the ship tight against the wharf.

Dock workers, sailors, and his own guard surrounding him -- John fast-walked down the splintered planking, dodging loading cranes, barrels, and boxes, to arrive as the ship's gang plank thudded on the wharf, a man walking down the plank, bowing his thanks as he stepped off on the levee.

Even in the half-dark of down-light, John knew him!

Golden!

But far from the elegant young man who'd been part of John's team on both cross-band trips. Now dirty. Disheveled. Defeated.

"Golden. Welcome."

"Great Mage ...."

The emotion of the moment preventing Golden from saying more, he could only make a ragged bow.

"I'm back, at least for a time," John explained.

"Thank you for taking me in, sir," Golden said, in his stiff manner.

"Say no more," John commanded, John having to leave at once to make it back to his palace quarters before full dark! "What you need is food and rest -- also for your men," John motioning to his guard that the foreigners were also to be treated with respect. "Food and sleep, first. Explanations tomorrow!"

* * * * *

Chapter 14

Early afternoon. John again in the Mage room, most of the morning spent in fending off Ellen's reasons for why she should be allowed to explore the city. Why was it that a woman's definition of a crisis was when she didn't get her way? Not that it wasn't fascinating to talk to Ellen about anything on any occasion, beautiful, intelligent, and vivacious as she was. It was just that being a year or two older than John didn't make her worldly-wise in this strange place.

In between Ellen bouts, John had to listen to the "needs" of a bevy of palace officials, John willing to make promises in exchange for assurances that his entourage -- now to include Golden's cohorts -- were being well cared for.

He'd taken time to chat with Platinia, the girl with little to say on any occasion. He'd even tried to converse with befuddled, if not outright crazed, Zwicia.

After that, Qrig, the palace barber, had caught John in the hall, Qrig trying for tact, while at the same time expressing displeasure at John's hair style. Too short for Stil-de-grain fashion, he'd said, Qrig suggesting the Mage wear a wig until John's hair had grown out sufficiently to be in style. Even hinted -- wink, wink -- that the "ladies" would be more attracted to the Mage if he paid more attention to his personal appearance.

The only polite way for John to get rid of the fussy little man was to announce that John had decided to wear his hair short from now on, short hair giving him less trouble and so allowing more time for government business -- a suggestion that had produced a completely unexpected result. A new hair style, what fun! The other men of the band certain to copy the new Mage-look, Orig saw himself as leading this fashion trend, cleaning up financially by franchising his intimate knowledge of Mage haute couture.

Petty politics like this was why John hadn't been ready to see Golden until now. Not a bad thing, really, Golden needing sleep and more sleep by the look of him last night -- nothing promoting rest like being safe in your beddy-by (or reasonable facsimile.) Reviewing Golden's desperate run for the harbor had John thinking Coluth was right -- that if Malachite naval personnel were willing to risk death by chasing Golden to the bitter end of the day, they must really want him.

In the War Room at last, John had made it the first order of the afternoon's business to summon Golden, John passing the waiting time by studying the map of Bandworld he'd gotten Golden to drawn, a world map a novelty in this backward place. The truth was that few natives knew much about surrounding Bands, "traveling for pleasure" an unknown concept here, this insularity attributable to "Band Sickness."

John wondered what this world must be like to produce different gravitational pulls along Band lines. Was the ground more densely packed in some Bands than in others? Was the land under your feet "deeper" where gravity was stronger? Just another unanswerable question in a world of unanswerable questions -- a "curiosity itch" no more likely to be "scratched" than to ask why the light shown from the "iron dome" sky in rainbow colors. (Could the god-like creators of Bandworld have a lot in common with color coordinating decorators? Correction. Color coordinating and gravity shifting decorators?)

Speaking of religion, while each band seemed to have its own beliefs, religion was more a game played by priests than a set of beliefs providing moral instruction to commoners. Rather like in John's world, come to think of it.

A hesitant knock, John returning to his seat at the head of the table, arranging his Cinnabar robe before calling, "Enter."

Golden -- coming in -- bowing with the flourish of Stil-de-grain protocol. Looking ... better ... a bath, sleep, and a clean robe doing much to repair dispirited people in any world.

"Good to see you looking so well," John said, motioning Golden to sit beside John in a seat of honor.

With the grace that marked him as an entertainer -- actor, dancer, rope walker, wall scaler, singer, knife thrower, and who knew what other specialties -- the youth came forward, bowing again before sliding into the indicated chair, at once looking as formal as the most senior of statesman and as fluid as flowing water.

"Again, accept my gratitude."

Could Golden's stilted/stiff lingo be because he'd had to learn several of the Bands' tongues, the young man not "at home" in any one of them? Needing to travel to make his living as a performer, entertaining mostly at night when light magic no longer served as a universal translator, Golden had to learn to speak the various languages of the Bands.

Enough speculation. "Did you know I was back in Bandworld?"

"No, Lord."

"Then you were taking a chance trying to reach the harbor. In a Malachite ship, no less."

"Some chances must be taken, great Mage."

Great Mage? What was Golden? Five years younger than John? Addressed that way -- and by everyone -- John felt ... ancient. There was no help for it, though. As long as John was the power behind the throne of Stil-de-grain, he'd be seen as ten feet tall.

"As you know, I've been gone for some time."

"Yes. After escaping from Hero Castle, we waited for you, but you did not come."

"Because, as I think I hinted, I ... had a change of plans.

"Rather than feel left behind, I was glad you made it up and out -- all of you. Where would I be if you, Coluth, and his sailors hadn't rescued me?

"As it was, I had a way of getting to my world. But now I'm back to find that you, yourself, have been away. And in a bit of trouble, judged by the Malachite cutters that were doing their best to run you down."

"Yes." The down cast look added emphasis to Golden's agreement.

"Why don't you start with when we were parted and finish with last night at the harbor."

"I owe you that, great Mage. Though the story is ... embarrassing."

"There's just the two of us here and anything you say will stop with me."

"Thank you, sir." Golden sighed, whether from fatigue or relief, John couldn't tell.

"In the tower room," Golden began, "you had used the strange fire of your world to keep the men of Pfnaravin back." Golden meant the hot fire of John's world, as compared to the cool flames of this place. "This gave us time to exit the room through the roof, Coluth and the sailors climbing first. When all had left the room, I reminded you that I was Cleadon, son of Cleadon, and that Lithoid, my father's traitorous brother, had killed my father and stolen the throne."

"Yes." With Golden "rolling," it was time for John to keep his answers brief.

"I knew -- as did you -- that I could not work magic with the Crystal. For only you could do that, Mage-Disks loyal to their owners."

"Yes." And Golden was right about the Crystal. No one but its current "owner" could work magic with it. And a lethal magic it was -- seducing whoever possessed it into believing he was god and a self-righteous god at that. John had used the Gem as a weapon in the war against Auro. And used it. And used it. Until its power was exhausted. Only then did John "return to himself," shocked and ashamed at the indiscriminate killing he'd done at the Crystal's insistence. Thank God that Mage-gems had only so much stored power, needing periodic recharging in this world's light! Otherwise, John might have found himself trapped by the Crystal's magic ... forever.

At the same time, John was aware that as long as he lived, the Crystal would serve no one but him. Not Golden. Not anyone.

"Go on," John prompted, Golden at full stop, head in his hands.

With a struggle, the youth sat up. Cleared his throat. "After escaping, we went different ways, Coluth to Xanthin, his sailors with him. Though feeling no loyalty to Pfnaravin, the Admiral was honor bound to oversee this Band's naval reconstruction.

"And I must confess that I took your Crystal from its hiding place," John waving forgiveness before Golden fainted from fear.

"After that, alone, I traveled Beak-ward, avoiding the land of the giants."

No need to take him through that desperate time again, Golden already shivering. "I crossed into Malachite through The Gap, that pass through the mountains open to travelers since the end of the war. From there, I went to Bice, to contact my father's loyal aides, finding that most were dead. Something I should have anticipated. They were old. Lithoid was hunting them down, one by one.

"Some were left who believed in me. But too few. For no sooner than I had declared myself king than I was ... hunted, with only enough loyal men to capture a ship in Bice harbor. Even then, I had to escape after down-light."

Again the shiver, the drawing inward, John knowing the desperation of Golden and his crew to risk being eaten by the "night activated" sea monsters.

When Golden looked up, John nodded to show he understood.

"I thought that all I had to do was to proclaim that I was Cleadon's son and many would rally around me. The tales of Lithoid's brutality ...."

John could have comforted Golden with the story of the U.S. fiasco at the Bay of Pigs, but didn't think it would help.

Instead said: "There'll be another time."

A change of subject was in order. "As for Pfnaravin, he's disappeared. Too much to hope that he's fallen off a cliff. But for the moment, at least, he's out of the picture. I'm 'back in the saddle again' as cowboys used to sing in the old days of B-westerns."

"Cowboys?"

"Never mind. Anyway, for now, you're safe here with me."

It was Golden's turn to nod, then to reach into a fold in his robe, locals carrying coins and the like in robe-folds, the young man taking out something to trail on the table.

"Your Crystal, great Mage. Though it did not impress people when in my hands, it will do your bidding."

And there it was again. The golden Crystal of Stil-de-grain, a gleaming, two-inch-in-diameter Disk, its golden bezel threaded on the neck chain. As for the Crystal's power, Golden was right. Once John put on the Mage-Gem, its power was his to command.

Even now that he knew better, it was a temptation to reach for the Crystal, the Gem calling to him, seeming to thrum with force -- too much power prompting insanity in the potentates of both worlds.

"Thank you, Golden," John said, stalling.

A door knock.

A bad time for John to be interrupted, John still deciding what to do about the Crystal.

The way he'd handled the Mage-Gem before, was to carry it in a pocket of his robe, the Crystal less apt to seduce him there than when around his neck. In those days, he'd also felt Platinia had somehow helped him avoid the Crystal's seduction, believing this so strongly he had the girl by his side, day and night.

For the first time, John was glad he'd brought Platinia along.

Now, though, there was that knock.

"Golden, will you see who that is?"

Bowing again, the young man got up gracefully, turning to glide along the table to do as John asked.

With no other choice at the moment, careful to avoid touching the Gem itself, John fingered up the Crystal by its chain, trailing the Gem into one of the deep pockets he'd had added to the standard Mage robe.

Checking his emotions, it was as he'd feared: John feeling the Crystal's pull. A force he could control as long as he wasn't actually wearing the Gem, but ....

"It is Gagar," Golden called from the door.

Gagar. Now, what? "Have him come in."

Golden backing away from the door, the bird-man entered, another parrot on his arm, this one like the last, but larger.

"Come," John said beckoning, Golden flowing, Gagar mincing forward, Golden standing back so Gagar could approach John directly. "Another message?"

"Yes, great Mage," Gagar shrilled.

"Make it talk."

"Its message is for you, alone," Gagar warned, meaning Golden.

"It's alright if Golden hears. I have no secrets from him." Few secrets, at any rate, one of them the reservations John had about Golden the first time they'd met in Yarro-the-first's dungeon. Later, John had come to believe that if Golden thought John was in the way of Golden becoming king of Malachite, no telling what the ambitious young man might do.

With the return of the Crystal, John's additional worry was that, should he have a fatal "accident," the next person to pick up the golden Crystal would be Mage of Stil-de-grain, the Crystal making John more, rather than less, vulnerable. He'd do well to watch his back when near anyone who might wish to possess the Gem's power.

Back to the moment.

Gagar given permission, he made the motion that set loose the bird's talk.

"Lithoid . to . Pfnaravin . master . of . Stil-de-grain . surrender . the . traitor . or . we . will . be . at . war . furthermore . you . are . commanded . to . return . to . Malachite."

A lot of information for such a short message. First, that Lithoid, king of Malachite -- Golden would say usurper -- thought Pfnaravin still controlled Stil-de-grain. (So much for the fear that Malachite spies were among them.) Second, that Lithoid had already learned that Golden was in Stil-de-grain -- still wanted Golden enough to threaten a war to get him. Additionally, that Lithoid had ordered Pfnaravin back to Malachite, putting Pfnaravin's Mage power at the command of the king.

"How," John said, "did Lithoid find out so soon that Golden was here?"

"Messenger birds are quick on the wing, great Mage. Even I do not know how fast they can fly, given the proper incentive. There is, perhaps, magic in them." Gagar shrugged.

"Or is it possible that King Lithoid is with his navy at Sea Throat?"

"The bird was taught by Dato," Gagar shrilled. "I can tell because ...."

"Dato," John said, cutting the bird man short. "And where is he located?"

"Malachite. Though more than that, I cannot tell. He would travel to put himself in the best position to relay information."

"Then he could also be in Sea Throat with the Malachite navy?" It was quite a ways from that narrowing of the sea to Xanthin island. At least, by ship (boats in this land making their way by circumnavigation of the sea's vast currents.) Considerably shorter as the "parrot" flies.

"That is possible."

A speculation to consider. If Lithoid was with his navy, it meant he had taken personal command of the military -- another indication of how badly the king wanted to capture Golden. Perhaps Cleadon-the-younger had come closer to overthrowing his uncle than Golden thought.

John looked at Golden. Saw what he'd never seen in the young man's face, Golden looking ... stricken. Clearly, the youth thought it possible that John might turn him over to prevent a war that the odds said Malachite would win.

And as leader of "his" people, John had to contemplate surrendering Golden, John knowing of instances where giving in to political pressure had preserved the peace. ... But not often.

A personal reason for "repatriating" young Cleadon, of course, was to have Golden locked up in Malachite where the talented -- another term for slippery -- young man would be far away from John and John's Crystal.

At the same time, John knew he couldn't turn Golden over.

"Don't worry, Golden. You're safe here with me."

"Thank you, Lord," Golden said, obviously relieved, John at least confident of the young man's sincerity on this occasion.

"Gagar. My response is that Cleadon, son of Cleadon has found sanctuary with me. Also warn Lithoid that Stil-de-grain, under my leadership is, again, invincible."

"Yes, Lord."

"How soon can this be done?"

"A short message for the bird to learn. It can fly at tomorrow's up-light."

"Will it go to the Malachite capital or to the pretend-king," a nod in Golden's direction, "wherever he may be?"

"I should think to the impostor's handler," Gagar said, picking up on the sudden change in foreign policy, John referring to Lithoid as pretender to the throne, Gagar's political savvy continuing to surprise John. "If the handler is with the usurper, then the message will arrive late tomorrow."

"Good enough. Gentlemen, that will do it for now."

* * * * *

Two days. Another messenger bird. The Gagar wave.

"Malachite . navy . advances . on . Stil-de-grain."

Short and ... sour.

And the war was on, soon to be a confrontation of siege and starvation. (So much for the impact of John's lie about the renewed strength of Stil-de-grain.) While it was customary for each combatant to blame the other for starting any war, the side with overwhelming force was generally the guilty party.

Viewed that way, Lithoid's first-strike move against Stil-de-grain was a nightmare of things to come!

* * * * *

Chapter 15

Worn down. That was John's excuse. Too much to do. As a consequence, finding himself giving in to people's desires in order to save time for what must be done: plan the defense of Stil-de-grain.

Yes, he loved the new Mage-robe, he assured Uccia, Head seamstress. Was particularly thankful for the pockets he'd ordered to be put in.

The weasel pie he'd had for supper last night? Delicious -- Deninia, the Head cook hiding behind a column in the dining hall to watch him eat every disgusting bite. (He'd managed, but just barely, to stop himself from asking how to get the fur out of his teeth.)

No, he didn't need something warm -- like hot milk -- to help him get to sleep at night, Benza, bed chamber Head, clearly offering her services in quite a different capacity.

A better example of addressing other people's needs to save time, was giving his permission for Ellen to leave the castle, the lady determined to tour Xanthin before going home. When did an artist have the opportunity to poke through a functioning medieval city? A question leaving John cold, but with great meaning for persuasive Ellen Hamilton.

What had swung him around -- besides Ellen's charm -- was the messenger bird revealing that the Malachite king hadn't learned that Pfnaravin had vanished. Something Lithoid would have known if there'd been Malachite spies on the island.

No Malachites; no threat to Ellen's safety, other than the usual: accidents, criminals, and perverts.

What had finally gotten him to agree to her demands was Ellen promising to allow him to use any means he felt necessary to affect her safety.

His terms? First, that she go to Xanthin city in disguise, perhaps as a noble lady on a shopping spree. She'd agreed to that.

Second, that she be surrounded by soldiers, a condition she hadn't liked. What she wanted, she'd maintained, was to be a "mouse in the corner" so she could observe city life undisturbed by her presence. How was she going to take the pulse of the town with soldiers around, a show of force changing everyone behavior?

The compromise was that she would be disguised as an upper class lady, her soldier-guards tricked out as her servants, trailing behind to carry the many purchases she would make while browsing through the city's shops.

Since money was no problem for the Mage of Stil-de-grain, John was able to provide Ellen with enough funds for her to shop through the entire town, her many purchases adding to the illusion she was there, not to observe, but to take home whatever her heart desired -- impulse buying reserved for the rich in both worlds.

A worry of a minor sort was Zwicia. While content to stay in her room, Crystal gazing, John received disturbing reports of agonized screams emanating from her room. The most likely explanation for these Zwicia-yells? That what the old lady was seeing in her larger version of a Mage-Gem was upsetting her.

What was upsetting John, was the knowledge that Zwicia's crystal could be made to show the future, the elderly Weird coming up with fore-knowledge of events that had come to pass later. Not that her mumbled warnings had done any good. For, like the prophecies of Nostradamus, the old lady's "visions" were so vague they could only be recognized as predictions after the prophesied events had happened. What good was precognition if its foretellings were too garbled to warn you away from danger? (Truth to tell, John didn't need Zwicia's screams of anguish to remind him he lived in dangerous times.)

The major problem John faced had no easy solution: the Malachite ships that, every day, were rowed from their tie-up stations on the mainland to block the mouth of Xanthin harbor. And to make a bad situation worse, the imbalance of power was greater than a Malachite advantage in numbers. For according to Admiral Coluth, the Malachites had crafted a new class of warship by adding a second tier of rowers, thereby increasing the new naval vessels' "horse power," the improved ships faster than anything afloat. As yet, Coluth had noticed only one or two of the advanced models beyond the harbor's mouth. But when built in sufficient numbers, this new ship class -- like Dreadnought development before WWI -- would make other navies obsolete.

All background for yet another afternoon strategy session in the war room, John continuing to hope for an inspiration on how to break the Malachite blockade. (Even the American South in the Civil War -- an incredibly advanced culture compared to medieval Stil-de-grain -- had failed to break the Union strangle hold on Southern harbors. In desperation, had tried to build submarines (though with disastrous results), the very concept of a submarine beyond this world's comprehension.

This afternoon, John had called a meeting of second tier people -- what passed in this world for economists and other bean counters -- the problem of the day: how much food was on the island and, of more importance, how long would it last before Xanthin City was starved into submission.

The food problems rehashed, it was time for John to make sense out of it all.

"So, what you're telling me is that, if we eat every messenger bird and cart pony, we can hold out for another four months."

Blank stares all around.

"That is, for 120 more up-lights."

Terms like "months" and "years" had no meaning here. Nor did this world have "seasons," no change in weather possible in this "hot house" world. (At least not in a single Band; the inner Bands somewhat warmer than the outer ones.)

"That is an estimate, only, great Mage," said Papia, Head tax collector.

Did all tax men have to look like ghouls -- shrunken, skull-like heads; yellow, protruding teeth? Still, if you wanted an accurate count of the population, there was no one better for the job.

"Two meager meals a day might stretch the time another 30 up-lights." This, from Udrz, Head economist. "Add to that ten days before starvation ravaged the old and the young ...."

And must all economists be as pessimistic as Malthus?

At the moment, John's only hope was that the Malachite sailors beyond the harbor would starve at the same rate as the people of Xanthin, an outcome that had happened to armies besieging medieval castles, the attackers ....

A robust knock on the door interrupted John's thought process. Had to be someone of importance, to get past the double-guards in the hall.

"Enter," John called, every head at the table swiveling toward the door.

To see Coluth slam in, John rarely finding the Admiral so upset.

"John-Lyon. I have news!"

So agitated was Coluth that he'd reverted to the time they'd first become friends, John taking passage as a common sailor aboard the Roamer.

"Come forward," John said, hoping the others didn't detect the familiarity with which Coluth had addressed him. A bulwark of a Mage's power was maintained, not only by owning a Mage-Gem and by giving crisp commands, but also by keeping a certain distance between himself and the people he "served."

With the rolling gate of the beached sailor, Coluth flanked the table, arriving at John's end, pausing to find out if he should give his information only to John, or so all in the room might hear.

Taking a chance, John indicated the others. "We are all in this together."

Motioning Coluth to an empty chair three places down on John's right, Coluth perched -- a difficult thing for a big man to do, "perching" another sign of the Admiral's unrest.

"Speak."

"John -- great Mage," Coluth corrected himself, remembering his place, "I have come from the harbor. And something amazing has happened!"

"Go on."

"A ship, one of ours, has just been rowed out of the harbor."

"What!? Someone's going to ram the enemy, all by himself?" Until now, the "shiny new" concept of suicide bombing had failed to penetrate this "backwater" world. While the Band of Azare was reputed to have berserker troops ....

"It is not what you think," Coluth countered, waving off that idea. "The Malachite ships let our ship out of the harbor. Pulled back so it could get through."

Though this didn't make sense to John, it must to someone -- John feeling it was important to find out why the ship had been allowed to "escape."

Spies.

Could it be there were Malachite spies in Xanthin, after all. That they'd seized a Stil-de-grain ship, captains of the Malachite cruisers knowing this would happen, letting the captured ship out to become a prize of war?

"Any talk of someone at the harbor who shouldn't have been there?"

"No. The harbor has been under strict watch since the Malachites declared war on us."

"No one could penetrate our security?"

"Unlikely. I would even say impossible. Certainly not after you put everyone on alert."

Meaning ... what? That enemy sailors had boarded the captured ship before Malachite declared war?

"Did anyone report which direction the ship took after getting through the blockade?"

"The wharf lookout said it steered right."

"But to go to Malachite, the ship should have turned left."

"So I would think."

Right. Away from Malachite. A direction that put it on a course to the band of Realgar. To the claws.

The destination of the ship could still be Malachite, of course, the ship first having to be rowed all the way around Xanthin island -- a considerable detour. The boat would still have to travel through sea Minor, after that, navigate Sea throat on its way to Malachite's harbor at Bice.

The only reason John could think of for such a maneuver was to throw off a Stil-de-grain pursuit. Complete nonsense with Stil-de-grain ships trapped in the harbor.

A mystery. One John didn't like, John never a fan of the saying: "What you don't know won't hurt you."

John was surprised to find he'd gotten up and was pacing, the others following him with their eyes.

Since only a single ship had been stolen -- to be sure under unusual circumstances -- why was he so upset? Was it because the "unexplainable" reminded him of Zwicia's screams, her shrieks often a prelude to calamity?

One ship lost. Far from a catastrophe when you came right down to it. What was scary was that this strange happening might be only the first in a row of disastrous "dominoes" on their way to going down.

Nothing he could do about it at the moment. He'd have Coluth talk to the sailors at the dock to see what they knew. See if something turned up.

John sat down. Took a deep breath to calm himself.

"I know this news is disturbing, but we still have work to do. For instance, has the food, soon to be harvested on the island, been counted?"

"Estimated."

"Can we sent a messenger bird to the king of Realgar? What's his name, again?"

"Tauro, great Mage." This from the Head of foreign policy, Khil.

"Can we send a messenger bird to King Tauro; ask him to ship food to us from the back side of the island?"

"No ship ...."

"I know. Its too shallow there for a naval landing. That's why we have only harbor defense to worry about. But, if shallow draft boats -- rafts, even -- could be built to float in food, we'd be glad to pay extra for it. Surely neutrals are allowed to sell food to combatants." At least that was the case in John's world, neutral nations with the right to sell non-military items to both sides. Honored more in law than in practice.

"We'd need an orange Messenger bird, I suppose," John muttered, Realgar the "orange band," its messenger birds no doubt orange, as well. "I'll have a talk with Gagar ...."

Again, a knock on the door! More frantic that Coluth's.

"Enter," John said. Shouted, actually, his nerves about shot. Strange goings on -- to say nothing of the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped on the island -- would do that to you.

The door opened, Golden striding in.

"Golden. Approach," John said, the young man doing that even before John's command, stopping at John's chair, standing there at full attention.

"I bring bad news," Golden said, his face white.

"It's the right day for it," John growled, thinking that a touch of cynicism was in order.

"Some ... soldiers ... have been killed."

Less of a surprise than hearing that a ship had been taken.

"Explain."

"A runner. From the city. Too exhausted and fearful to address the Mage personally." Golden bowed. "I bring his message."

"Go on."

"Soldiers ... underneath."

"What does that mean?"

"Soldiers, but wearing civilian clothing."

"Could they be Malachites in disguise?"

This might be the explanation for how a ship had been stolen. A fight at the harbor, a few Malachites killed but the rest able to overwhelm the harbor's defenders.

"The man said, all Stil-de-grain."

A look at Golden told John that the youth was holding something back.

"Out with it!"

"It is the way ... they were killed."

"How?"

"Withered by Mage-Magic, great Lord."

"How is that possible?"

"How?"

"That's what I said, how?"

"Then, you, yourself did not ... cause their death?"

"That's crazy, Golden. Why would I do that?"

"I thought that, since this is the first time in so long that you have had the use of your ...." Remembering that others were in the room, Golden stopped.

"Take my word for it. This is the first I've heard of it."

Mage-Magic? Surely Golden was mistaken.

To check, John slipped a hand down the side of his robe to make sure the Mage-Disk was tucked within his pocket.

Finding that it was!

Anyway, no one could use the Crystal's magic but him.

Like a dark shade drawn across his mind, came the fearful remembrance that there were other Mage-Disks in the world. One of them belonging to ... Pfnaravin!

"Coluth! Golden! I want to know everything anyone can tell me about that ship and those soldiers. Even people only slightly related to the events to be interviewed. Talk to sailors at the dock, civilians. All who might have seen anything!"

He turned to the others, still seated in stunned silence. "As for the rest of you, spread the word that all people belonging to the palace are to be recalled. The gates locked. No stranger to enter!

Shocked, they just sat there.

"Now!"

Direct orders producing action in this world, there was a frantic scrape of chairs and a scrambling for the exit -- Coluth and Golden also rushing out to do John's bidding -- the room soon as empty as an echo.

For the rest of the afternoon, John sat alone in the war room, receiving the latest information. A shop keeper was brought in to tell of hearing unusual noises in an alley. A peasant, newly arrived in Xanthin to buy seed, said that an unseen force had blocked his progress toward the harbor. A butcher, saying that what he'd assumed to be animal parts behind his shop turned out to be human remains. Two sailors, recalling that they had thought something was "not right" about the crew of a ship. That the sailors seemed ... wooden ... failing to respond to a joke thrown their way. A cargo crane worker reported seeing a woman smuggled onto a ship -- far from unusual as randy as sailors were -- only remarkable because the woman looked ... strange. Lost.

Hour after hour of this until John was confident he'd gained every bit of truth there was to be gotten, John piecing the information together as it came in.

What he now considered "gospel" was the report of an old man standing in the prow of the stolen ship as it cleared the end of the mole, a woman, stiffly upright beside the man.

There could also be no doubt that Malachite ships had let the missing ship escape. And several sailors had said that, after clearing the harbor, the escaping ship had appeared to set out for Realgar.

John had also learned that the dead soldiers had, indeed, been blasted with Crystal Magic, blown to bits, their shattered flesh charred -- Stil-de-grain soldiers in civilian garb.

And the most disturbing news of all -- that Ellen and the soldiers guarding her, were nowhere to be found!

Terrifying, what these bits and pieces came down to! At the same time, simplicity itself.

Pfnaravin had been in Xanthin. Somehow discovering who Ellen was, had killed her guards with the lethal force of his Crystal. The object of his attack? Kidnapping Ellen.

At the harbor, he'd commandeered a ship. Probably before harbor security had been tightened, Malachite sympathizers rowing it. Either that, or Pfnaravin's magic had turned Still-de-grain sailors into robots, forced to obey his commands.

The old man in the escaping boat was Pfnaravin. The woman, Ellen, Pfnaravin's Mage-restraints keeping her at his side.

Fighting through his fear for Ellen, his grief, John's only comfort was in knowing that Ellen was still alive. Pfnaravin had killed her guards, but spared Ellen because she was valuable to him.

Had Pfnaravin divined that she was from John's world, the old Mage planning to use her as a hostage?

The missing piece in the puzzle was why Pfnaravin had turned his ship away from his home Band of Malachite, heading, instead, for the outward band of Realgar, that puzzle piece falling into place when John remembered that King Lithoid had ordered Pfnaravin to return home, an action that would give Lithoid at least partial control of the Malachite Mage.

Rather than subject himself to Lithoid's rule, Pfnaravin was escaping, not only from Stil-de-grain, but also from his own Band's king, Pfnaravin with a goal of his own for world domination.

Whatever was happening, John knew it was his duty to rescue Ellen. First -- though he didn't want to admit it even to himself -- because he'd fallen in love with her. Also because he could never live with himself if he returned without her.

A decision that presented a different set of problems.

In order to desert his duties here to chase after Ellen, he must think up some story about why he was going after one woman, when all of Stil-de-grain was under threat. (My God! This was to be a replay of the Iliad. Of Greeks chasing after Helen of Troy.)

Could he fool the people here into believing that Ellen was, somehow, vital to the defense of Stil-de-grain? It would take some doing, though his prestige as Mage gave him leverage.

Another "small" problem was how he was to get out of the harbor himself, the best chance coming after the Malachites had pulled off for their mainland tie-up docks at down-light. Probably impossible, given the sailor's fear of the dark. And even if he could muster the clout to leave the harbor after down-light, from what Coluth told him about the Malachites new class of ships, they'd catch him the following day.

The only positive was what it had been from the first, that Pfnaravin would protect Ellen as long as she was useful to him. Easing John's despair. Giving him time to make plans.

But first things first: concocting a lie about Ellen's value for the defense of Stil-de-grain. After that, to devise some means for escaping the blockade so he could pursue Pfnaravin.

When to start?

Given the acute slant of light through the window, it would have to be tomorrow, sleep vital if he was to think, to plan, to execute.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

Platinia had to make her little feet go fast to keep up with the others. Being small was not a good thing to be sometimes. Other times, it was helpful. Like a little while ago when she was able to slip out of the palace to follow the woman and the soldiers. The gate guards had not looked so low down as Platinia, to see her as she went out. (She was careful to stretch her legs very wide to step in the footprints of others, so that her feet did not show in the dust, that others might see.)

As she ... trotted ... down the hill, the morning was warm. The dome above glowed with gold. Though she was born in Malachite, she had lived long in Stil-de-grain. Even when in Malachite, she had liked the golden light of Stil-de-grain more than the green light of Malachite. Gold light made everything look alive. Green light made everything look dead. That was the reason.

When they all reached the city -- Platinia following behind the rest -- the woman with the strange name of Ellen went into stores. This store. That store. Many stores. Buying many things. After she got these things, the soldiers -- who were not dressed like soldiers -- carried her many packages.

Everywhere, the store-men were glad to see the woman. They smiled at her very much. What Platinia thought, was that they did not care for the woman but were glad because they could sell so many things to her. That was what Platinia thought.

Platinia did not like the woman, Ellen. Did not like her because she was always in the Mage's thoughts.

Feeling for the thoughts in John-Lyon's mind, she saw only Ellen there. Never did she find Platinia. Not entirely true. For the Mage did think of other things, Platinia one of these other things. Also Zwicia. Also the sailor, Coluth. Also Golden -- though Platinia could not read Golden's thoughts so very well. The Mage could not either. She could see that in the Mage's mind.

Mostly, the Mage was thinking about the war. The war more in his mind that even the woman. This was true about the last war, as well. The Mage was trying to find a way to win the war. As he had done before. Would there always be a war to win? Or the same war to win again? Platinia did not know these kinds of things.

Would the young Mage build another ... machine, that he called a cannon? Would he make light-magic in the sky, the Mage calling this fireworks? Platinia did not know. Knew only that he did not think of her ... like she wished him to.

In and out of stores went the Ellen woman, Platinia staying behind, being tiny making it easy for her to stay out of sight.

The woman was happy. Platinia could tell that. Happy to be going into stores, buying things like cloth, pots, jewelry, lace, (many other things that were wrapped in cloth so that Platinia could not see.) What was strange, was that the things from the stores were not what made the woman, Ellen, happy. It was going into stores and seeing ... everything. She was most happy to talk to people. To ask questions, like the Mage, John-Lyon often asked questions. Questions, sometimes, with no answers. In the long ago, John-Lyon had asked about the sun, and stars, and moon. Why did the world not have those things? And why was it that there were no tides, and what made the great, moving circles in the sea, and about the colors shining down from the sky-dome, and why there was no wind? Why was there fog every up-light and every down-light? Why was the rain so ... gentle? What about storms?? Did it snow? Snow?? Who had made this world? Was the world an ... what were those words the Mage always said? Was it an ... artificial construct??? So many questions. Many that no one could answer. This was when the Mage was here before, more than now. Perhaps he had already learned the answers. Platinia did not know.

The woman and the soldiers, who were not dressed like soldiers, would stop to buy things to eat. And drink. Platinia was hungry. Platinia was even more thirsty. But to eat and drink, she would have to show herself and she did not want to do that.

As they passed stores and more stores, Platinia could smell bread baking. And the making of what men called beer, though Platinia did not drink that.

In one shop there was a miller who ground wheat and barley grain into flour for baking bread. The flour did not smell very much.

Sometimes carts came rumbling over the round stones set into the street. The pony drivers could not see such a small person as Platinia, so she had to look out for them.

There were too many people walking back and fourth. And a very great noise, one man crying: "Fresh Fish," the man selling them from a basket. Another who was yelling "Hot sheep's feet." There was hammering and clanging. Men were yelling at each other. Men were fighting, rolling into the pig-ditch! Platinia saw the kicking of big balls by younger men. Was almost hit by the ball as she hurried past! Swans and geese hissed and pecked! Rich and poor women winked and joked. Bells on the tops of buildings made a great ringing sound. Men with animal heads on their own heads danced for small coins thrown to them. It was a very great confusion!

It did not help Platinia's hunger to pass a shop that sold cheese, sliced in small wedges from a great round wheel of cheese. Another shop had big and little fish, cooked, ready for eating. There were shops for selling wool, wine, gloves, saddles, barrels, wheels, fur, leather boxes, rabbits, pigeons .... Too many shops to learn what they sold.

There were pigs in the street, people shouting at them to get out of the way! And dogs, dodging people's legs. Friendly dogs that wagged their tails and grinned. Bad dogs that barked and bit. Platinia was afraid of dogs.

She looked for cats, but could not find any. Maybe the dogs ate the cats. She did not like to think that, but maybe it was true.

So many things were in the town that Platinia's head began to hurt.

Then it happened. Following the women and the soldiers -- for that is what they were -- Platinia had felt ... a great hatred!

Where was it coming from?

From the mind of someone in the street.

But who?

Thinking hard, thinking only about the hatred, she found it coming from a man. A man in a black cloak. A man with no ... face!! .... No. It was that the man had cloth covering his face. Cloth. A cloth hat. Pulled low in front to cover his face.

Now that Platinia knew who had the hatred, like a great force!, she could pick through that man's mind. A little. First, seeing in his mind that he was hiding. Like she was hiding, but more so.

There was something about the man. Had Platinia met him before? She could not tell by his look, his hat so low over his face. He was all covered up by a too-big robe -- his arms and hands, his neck, his legs -- so that she could not see any part of him.

Something said to her this was important.

To find out more, she must get closer to the man, a thing she was able to do, in time, the man walking along the street in the same direction as the woman and the soldiers.

So much hatred and for so many things, coming from the man. He hated ... everything he saw.

Then, what a shock! In a place where the light was brighter, between two buildings, the man looked up at the sky-dome. And in that moment, Platinia saw enough of his face to know who he was!

He was the old Mage, Pfnaravin!

She was sure. It was Pfnaravin. Full of hate for everyone. And that would mean that he would hate the woman, Ellen. And the soldiers, too.

Platinia had a plan. First, to strengthen the Mage's hatred by picking through his mind, Platinia doing that, making the Mage hate even more!

When she had done that, though she was very much afraid, she crossed the street, dodging pigs who were eating garbage in the center ditch.

Forcing herself, she said the man's name. So softly only he could hear her do that.

At that, he turned. Saw her. Knew who she was, Platinia sensing that about the way his mind worked.

He was ... afraid. Afraid she would tell who he was.

If he was not so frightful, that would be funny. The mighty Mage, Pfnaravin, afraid of little Platinia.

She said, she would not tell.

She could see it now! That he had planned to kill her with his Mage-Magic to keep her from telling. She had said she would not tell just in time!

She asked if she could help him.

He said he needed to know ... things ... about the Palace. That if she found out these things for him, he would do things for her that she would like.

That was what she had hoped he would say.

Knowing he was an enemy of the young Mage, John-Lyon, she told him of the woman -- the woman who was too much in the mind of John-Lyon. Platinia even pointed to the woman and to her soldiers.

The Mage was pleased. Had asked if Platinia liked the woman, Ellen.

She said she did not.

He said not to worry about the woman, that he would take her away.

That was all Platinia had done, point her finger at the women. But it was enough. For the Mage had said he would take her away, his hatred still strong. This meant the Mage would kill the woman. Which was what Platinia wanted.

The Mage, Pfnaravin, then told Platinia to go back to the Palace, Platinia having to do as he commanded. Who could withstand the will of a Mage?

That was all Platinia had seen of the city. She had to go back.

It was later. Much later that night that the young Mage, John-Lyon, had come to her, saying that, as before, she was to be with him all the time. To sit in the Mage's room, in a chair at the back when he was talking to the other men of the Palace. That she was to be with him when he ate. And be with him in his room when he slept. He had ordered those things before. He now ordered those things again.

And so, Platinia was glad. While she could still see the women, Ellen, in the Mage's mind, Platinia was sure that being ordered to stay with him at all times meant she was again important in the Mage's thoughts. Now that Ellen was gone, Platinia would win from John-Lyon what she, herself, felt for the young Mage with the frightening green eyes.

Love.

* * * * *

Chapter 17

John was trying to remain calm. But it was difficult. My God! He'd brought Ellen to this world only to have one of its most powerful and hateful figures spirit her away. And at least so far, there was nothing he could do about it. The only thing keeping him sane was the knowledge that Ellen, herself, had wanted to come here. Why? Because, though she hadn't said it in so many words, she was convinced she was dying, Ellen using her failing strength to keep Paul from discovering how much she was slipping.

Viewed that way, she saw the magic of Bandworld as her best, perhaps her only chance to save her life. So, she'd come to John to ask him to bring her here.

None of that absolving him for his role in her kidnapping. What was he thinking, to let her wander about the city when Stil-de-grain was at war? Yes, he'd insisted she be in disguise. Had ordered soldiers to guard her. It's just that he couldn't escape the fact that the best way to protect her was to have kept her behind the Palace's walls.

In spite of regret that threatened to paralyze him, it was vital that he keep a cool head, John the only real hope Ellen had.

Taking deep breaths to settle himself, making himself straighten his silk Mage-robe, he willed his rational mind to conquer despair.

At least he was where he should be, in the top floor laboratory he'd made for himself on his last trip to this benighted world, floor to ceiling shelves holding pots of as many chemicals as he could find in this place -- his heavy lab table dominating the center of the room.

Here was where he'd made gunpowder -- adding the chemicals needed to turn his sky-experiment to colorful blasts of light and smoke.

In a corner were hunks of iron left over from the metal smiths' work in building a primitive cannon.

All in the past, nothing here to help him break the Malachite blockade as a first step toward rescuing Ellen.

And his dilemma was worse than that. Even if he found a way to run the blockade, it wasn't in him to desert the young king's people -- who, somehow, had become John's people. At the very least, he had to devise a cosmetic weapon they could use against the blockading cruisers, John needing to give hope to the people of the capital until he could figure a way to win the war.

Thinking of the weapons of the previous war, it wasn't forging the cannon that had given him trouble, but "inventing" a way to shoot it, doing that by remembering something even history majors in college knew, that black powder was a combination of sulfur, potassium nitrate, and powdered charcoal. Consulting Tschu, the local alchemist, the man had brought these "rare" ingredients to John's lab.

And the cannon, even the exploding cannon balls, had worked ... after a fashion.

So it was no surprise that John's first thought was for Xanthin's Head blacksmith to make another cannon, Tschu to produce exploding cannon balls powerful enough to scare the be-jabbers out of the Malachite sailors on those ships just beyond the harbor's mouth. (A couple of lucky hits might even terrorize them into giving up the blockade.)

But that scheme had quickly gone off track with Tschu's revelation that the island's supply of potassium nitrate was exhausted. With only a small quantity to start with, John's earlier cannon, plus his fireworks display had used up Tschu's supply, the chemical to be found on the mainland -- certainly in Malachite -- but not on Xanthin island.

The exploding bomb option no longer possible, John would have to think of some other way to fight the Malachites. But what?

* * * * *

Golden had sometimes doubted the power of the Mage. But no longer, John-Lyon possessing other-worldly magic in addition to that of his golden Mage-Disk!

Once more, the Mage was in what he called his laboratory, the old crippled-arm soldier, Leet, guarding the door, John-Lyon fearful that sentries he didn't know might be Malachite spies.

Allowed to accompany the Mage to his place of marvelous inventions, Golden had been told to wait in a small room across the hall, Golden speculating that the Mage was attempting to find a way to rescue the woman, Ellen, John-Lyon bringing that woman with him from the other world.

Golden hoped, like in the last war, the Mage would devise weapons to defeat evil. First Pfnaravin. After that, the usurper, Lithoid of Malachite.

It was in the war against the evil Auro -- curse his name! -- that the Mage had fashioned wire armor to deflect Auro's Mage-bolts.

John-Lyon had then caused to be built a craft called a catamaran, a ship rowed by the movement of the evil wind blowing from Azare, the ship equipped with what the Mage called sails, that worked wind-magic.

With the help of Xanthin's alchemist, Tschu (who supplied secret powders), pops and bangs had soon come from behind the door of the invention-room. Also strange smells. Also hammerings of metal workers.

The result was what the Mage called a cannon, an iron tube that, with a loud bang, threw out metal balls that, with another bang at a distance, blew apart anything in the way, just as a bolt of Mage-Magic would explode whatever it hit.

Now that another war was starting, the first thing the Mage called for was that same Alchemist. Except that, instead of knowing joy, the Mage had been disappointed, saying to Golden that Tachu no longer had potassium nitrate??, one of the powders essential to the Mage's plans.

After the failure of the Alchemist, John-Lyon summoned Golden into that room-of-smells, the Mage beginning again to ask many questions. Odd questions, as was his custom.

"I need to know something about fire stones, Golden," the Mage said.

"Something, Lord?"

"Let me be more specific. Where do they come from?"

"I have never thought about that."

"But you could find out?"

"Someone must know. They are everywhere, Sir."

"See if you can learn where."

Following that command, Golden had bowed himself out and gone on a fire stone search. Not that fire stones were difficult to find, fire stones in every torch, to be thought alight before down-light. For it was the magic in the light that was essential in the lighting of torches.

Fire stones were also used for cooking, drudges thinking a pile of them into heat in preparation for cooks to warm food for morning, mid-day, and evening meals.

If you thought one way, fire stones yielded heat. Thinking a different way, fire stones flamed up to produce light. Everyone in every band knew this.

Fire stones were so common that Golden had never thought about their origin. As few would think of where trees had come from: probably, like vegetables, from seeds? Or where the sea water went when it poured down that dangerous stretch of holes called the Leech -- near Beak Island. Water also spewed out from the tops of mountains, first as hot water, to settle from peaks, cooling as it descended, to become rills, then creeks, streams, and finally rivers that ran, most of them, into the sea. Why all this should be was of no great concern. That was just the way things had always been.

Golden had been ordered to discover the origin of fire stones, however, Golden's duty to find the answer.

So, asking this palace dignitary and that courtier, Golden discovered the answer John-Lyon was seeking. That there were places in every Band where fire stones were mined, little mining underway for the simple reason that fire stones never wore out, so that few additional stones were needed.

The Mage's next question -- there would always be a next question -- was about the size of the stones. "Could you find out for me if fire stones can be broken into smaller stones, and still work?"

"Work?"

"Made to provide flames for light. Or thinking another way, to produce heat?"

"That is certainly true, Lord. Large stones can be made smaller, all pieces making heat or light when called upon to do so."

Golden could answer that question himself because, as a child, he had dropped a torch, its top stones falling out on hard rocks. The result: the porous stones had broken into smaller pieces. After that, each piece could be thought into light or heat. The only difference, was that there was less light and heat to be had from smaller stones, than from larger ones. Grouped back together, however, the collective bits of stone provided the same light/heat as when they had been united in a single stone. Larger stone: more light/heat. Smaller stone: less light/heat.

All this, Golden had told to the Mage.

"Good," said John Lyon, smiling. "What I really want to know is, can fire stones be heated enough to boil water?"

"It is my belief they can; but I will make certain," was Golden's reply, the Mage happy with that answer, also.

So it was down the stairs from the top floor to the underground kitchen, Golden consulting the cooking Head, the old woman annoyed to be interrupted, but paying Golden more attention when he said he came directly from the Mage; that this was the Mage's question.

"How do you think that fish are boiled? Other meats? Vegetables?" She flapped her apron to shoo him away.

Back upstairs, Golden had thought the Mage would be pleased, but was again mistaken. For knowing that fire stones could be heated enough to boil water only served to produce the next question.

"And I need to know something else," said John-Lyon, in such a way that he was almost apologizing for failing to have Golden ask that question while still in the cook room. "Could a fire stone be heated enough to boil water if the stone is submerged in the water, rather than used to heat a pot of water when under the pot? Even if this pot of water was tightly sealed? And can the stone be thought into heat from outside such a pot. Through the pot itself?"

Once more, the trip to the scullery. Again the same answer, Golden lucky this time to escape a pot thrown at his head! Of course a heated stone in the water would cause the water to boil, though it was the custom to heat water from below because of cleanliness. Better to keep foreign materials of all kinds from possible contamination of the food. As for fire stones heated through water, through any substance, drudges had been known to heat fire stones through walls, drudges often too lazy to walk from where they were helping to prepare food, into the cook room.

Golden was growing tired, in part from forcing his way through crowds of palace fools, but mostly from running up and down stairs, and around corners, and down corridors in search of the Mage's answers, Golden breathing hard as he returned to the Mage in the invention room.

Again, John-Lyon was pleased, but ....

And Golden was down the stairs and -- panting -- up again.

"Yes," Golden wheezed after Leet let him into the Mage's special room. "Even if a fire stone was submerged in water, even if the water and fire stone were locked up tightly in a container, someone could "think" the fire stone inside hot enough to boil the water around it."

"Excellent work, Golden," the Mage said, Golden feeling that something good -- though he did not know what -- had come out of these many trips.

What the Mage had learned, Golden didn't know. But realized from experience that the Mage's questions were not as foolish as they often seemed -- not that the Mage was so secretive he would never let others inside his thoughts. It was that, even when the Mage tried to explain why he needed to know things, understanding did not always follow. For John-Lyon used strange words in his explanations.

About the fire stone questions, the Mage said he was seeking to understand what he called "boiling points." He then talked of "steam pressure," saying that the curling vapor coming off the surface of boiling water was called "steam." That the steam made what the Mage called "pressure." That this pressure was a pushing force that could be "harnessed" for many purposes. From what Golden was able to understand, the "pressure" could be used to transport objects, though why the Mage wished to move objects that way, was the mystery. Were there not men to carry burdens on their backs? Were not pony carts for the carrying of greater weights from one place to another? And boats to transport cargo from one band to another? All quite confusing.

Fortunately, the answers Golden had discovered pleased the Mage, Golden glad of that, Mages known to go into rages when displeased, putting all within reach in jeopardy. Of all things desirable, pleasing a man of power was best.

Apparently learning what he wished to know about fire stones, the Mage then asked new questions. Could containers -- pots of clay, metal boxes -- be made "air tight"??

Risking the Mage's wrath, Golden had made so bold as to ask what this "air tight" meant.

"What I want is a container that won't leak water out or air in."

"I have seen pots with lids made to fit," Golden answered.

"I have seen pots like these, also. Cooking pots and the like. What I want is lids that can be fastened down in such a way that no amount of pressure," -- there was that word again -- "could force what is inside the pot to come out, or to force anything -- even air -- to leak inside the sealed pot."

"I do not know, Lord," Golden said, his meaning also that he knew no one who had the answer to that, strange question.

After hearing everything Golden could find out, John-Lyon had Golden bring a great number of Xanthin craftsman to the Mage Room, John-Lyon talking with each seriously about how to make "air tight" vessels. Potters. Blacksmiths.

It was when the Mage learned about what the metal workers called "solder" that the Mage seemed pleased.

The Mage had gone on to ask about "welding??" -- a stronger kind of soldering, was Golden's understanding. But no one had the answer to that question.

* * * * *

It would work!, John said to himself after dismissing the last metal worker, then telling Golden to take a rest, Golden a little green around the gills from following John's commands. (If John had known what to ask, he wouldn't have had to keep sending Golden out for more information. But he hadn't.)

What John had found was an alternate method (to gunpowder) for producing an explosion. All that was needed was an airtight canister of pottery or metal. Put a measured amount of water inside, also an exact weight of fire stone, seal up the container, and you had a steam powered bomb. With water and a piece of fire stone inside a crucible, all someone on the outside had to do was think the fire stone inside to boil the water, rising steam pressure eventually blowing the vessel apart, putting the hurt on anyone or anything near it. Some experimentation was all that was needed to find out how much water and how big a fire stone you needed to put inside.

After that, you just catapulted a steam activated bomb onto a Malachite ship, and boom! (As for timing the explosion, it would be something like pulling the pin on a hand grenade, counting to five, before tossing it. Bang! Before the enemy had time to throw it back.)

Not that John was under the illusion that his steam powered bombs would break the blockade. All the Malachite ships had to do, after all, was stay out of range of Stil-de-grain's land locked catapults. He could get more distance with a steam driven cannon, like the one Leonardo DaVinci had sketched ......

No. On second thought, John realized that the Malachite ships could back out of range of either catapult or cannon, and still stop all merchant ships with supplies bound for Xanthin. The steam bombs were more a matter of Stil-de-grain morale than anything else. (Like the wildly inaccurate anti-aircraft fire gave courage to Britains during World War II.)

The bomb soon to be in the testing stage, John now had to find a way to slip out of the harbor without those super-fast Malachite cruisers running him down.

Once before, when the Mage/King Auro had caused a wind to blow in this windless world, John had made a sail boat, to be specific, a catamaran. Using the wind, he'd first outmaneuvered, then outrun enemy warships. But with the defeat of Auro, the wind had stopped. Forget sail boats in a dead calm.

Thinking of traveling by water, one of the oddities of this world was vast moving currents in the sea, each like a giant, but gentle, whirlpool, one going clockwise, its rim touching the next one, the next swirl rotating counterclockwise. No one seemed to know what caused the sea to revolve in this way; only that that's the way it was. (John doubted that many people in his own world understood elementary forces like why the wind blew, what factor made summer and winter, or the facts behind sun "rise" and sun "set" -- the most basic of knowledge. So he couldn't fault this world's folks for their lack of knowledge about the way their world worked.)

Back to those whirlpools in the sea. What sailors in this world did to go in a given direction was to catch the rim of one of the circles of water, each gyration maybe two miles in diameter. Drifting around the edge of the slow whirlpool, sailors would row/steer to change over to the rim of the next, counter rotating circle, drifting around the edge of that, until "jumping" to the rim of the next swirl. This was much like tacking against the wind in a sailboat, "zigging" left for awhile, then "zagging" right -- but always making way in a given direction in the middle. Or it was like these rotating sea-circles were gears in a gear train, a bug jumping from one gear to the next at the appropriate time, to circle this way and that toward his objective straight head.

John had once thought about creating underwater "sails," moving them like rudders to "tack" across the circles of water, instead of drifting around their rims.

It was just that he hadn't devised a way of doing that.

Rowing to one circle rim, drifting around it until rowing to the next rim was still the best way of getting anywhere -- short of sailing, something you couldn't do without wind.

If the sea was shallow everywhere, he could save time by using steam power to blast an anchor on a rope in the direction he wanted to go. The anchor holding at the bottom of a shallow sea, its rope stretched back to the ship, sailors might winch the ship in a straight line, dredging up the anchor when reaching it, to blast it ahead again. This would be like a kid on roller skates, throwing a weight on the end of a rope, the weight wrapping round a tree ahead, the kid pulling himself on the rope until he reached the tree, unwinding the rope, and hurling it ahead to fasten around another tree.

Impossible, since the sea was shallow only near the shore.

John knew of an ancient Roman drawing of oxen walking round and round the bottom of a boat, pulling a merry-go-round device geared to paddle wheels fitted over the sides of the boat -- much like boats that plied the rivers of the U.S. around the time of the Civil War. Just an idea, the Romans never building an ox powered ship. Why? Because it wouldn't work.

Meanwhile, the Malachites were improving their naval cruisers by adding a second bank of oars, doubling their sailor's pulling power, such a ship in the 600's B.C. called a bireme. In the 500's, warship were improved further by adding a third set of oars, becoming triremes. Finally to reach the quinqureme class -- five banks of oars to the side seeming to be the limit of oar power.

But to build a trireme in the three months before Xanthin's food supply ran out? Impossible.

What about small, paddleboats? The kind tourists played with in warm water resorts? Too little power.

Another way to "drive" a boat (if you didn't mind adding countless miles to your journey by following every inlet and bay of the shore), was to harness a pony-team to the boat, the ponies on the bank pulling the boat along. In the early days of the industrial revolution when iron ore was needed in great quantities at some distant point, horses were used to drag boats along a canal, the Erie Canal only one example.

What had replaced canal traffic, were trains, trains a fast way to haul heavy cargo.

Steam trains!

And he was back to steam again. But could he have this island's craftsmen produce the kind of boiler, plus piston and cylinder engine necessary to make a Fulton powered boat, Fulton building a steam engine putting out enough energy to buck the current of the Hudson river?

No. Not even if he had all the time in the world to attempt such a feat.

Thinking of simple steam engines, the Greeks at Alexandria had built a rotary steam engine around 200 B.C., steam made to jet out of a metal ball, the ball spinning backward from the direction the steam hissed out -- much like a lawn sprinkler whirls in reverse of the water forced out of it. The Greeks hadn't used this steam engine for anything practical, though. Would have had major headaches finding a way to gear up a spinning metal ball. So this remained just a toy. Fire up the water. See the escaping steam make the ball rotate. Fun, fun, fun!

A toy ..............

When John was a boy, a friend of his had an antique toy boat. To make it go, you placed a lighted candle inside the boat and the boat would chug ahead by what looked like magic. A putt-putt boat was what it was called.

As an adult, John had realized that what was making the boat move in the water, was an early, and simplistic version of a steam engine. Inside the boat was a boiler -- nothing but a couple of strips of copper soldered so close together that only a thin film of water could get between them, copper pipes trailed back from either end of the enclosed boiler to emerge under water at the stern of the boat. Place the candle flame under the boiler, and the film of water within was instantly boiled into steam, the steam putting pressure on the water in the twin pipes, forcing a little water out the back of the pipes, the pulse of water driving the boat forward. Meanwhile, the little boiler, now empty (a partial vacuum created inside by the expulsion of steam), water was sucked back into the boiler, this water to be instantly turned to steam, another pulse of steam driving water out of the back of the pipes. The boat made a "putting" sound as pulse after pulse of steam-pushed water jetted out the back, the boat driven by this most simple of steam engines -- surely simple enough for this world's craftsmen to built.

The question was, how much "push" could you get with this primitive device?

On the other hand -- John's mind scrambling to think of the possibilities -- if he could make a steam engine powerful enough to buck the gentle currents of this world's whirlpools, he could cut across the swirls, the shortest distance from one point to another, a straight line. If this worked, he would be going in a straight line; pursuit ships forced to drift much further around the whirlpools' rims.

It would take some planning. First, to make a model boat to see if he could duplicate the steam powered toy of his childhood. Then to build a boat large enough to carry people.

Time to have a serious talk with Admiral Coluth!

* * * * *

Chapter 18

Coluth had never seen the Mage work like he was working now. Even in the last war when creating the sailing ship, the wind-ship that Coluth and his sailors had to handle in a new way.

This time, with Coluth often in attendance, the Mage had three, secret projects under way, the first, making objects for catapults to hurl.

A second weapon was much like the "cannon" the Mage had created for the last war, this one to shoot water?? (No matter how hard the Mage tried to explain how this weapon worked, Coluth failed to understand what was in the Mage's mind.)

Of greater interest was the Mage's talk of a different sort of ship, one not rowed like most ships, or even to be pushed by the wind, the evil wind coming to an end with the defeat of Auro of Azare. But a ship that would go forward by what the Mage called "steam."

"It makes sense to build a model, first," said John-Lyon. "I think I know how this will work, but I need to try out the principal."

"Yes, Lord," Coluth said, in his rough, seaman's voice -- Coluth never sounding right to himself when indoors.

So the work on the little craft began, metal workers once more involved, the Mage telling them what to do, the workers hammering and soldering on what John-Lyon called a "simple steam engine," the "engine" looking to Coluth like nothing more than a thin, coin sized bottle of flattened copper, two small metal pipes coming out from either end, the "engine" fastened in the middle of the model boat, the pipes trailed down the center to the stern, ending under the water a short way back of the boat.

The Mage then put a pebble of fire stone under the flattened copper pot -- this pot called the "boiler." Heat, said the Mage, would make the boat go, Coluth interested to see how that might be.

After the small boat was finished, the Mage had a tank of water brought to the invention room, John-Lyon filling the boat-pipes and the "boiler" with water before setting the small boat down to float on top of the tank-water.

But a problem arose. The small piece of fire stone created too little heat to boil the water in the "boiler" -- even though John-Lyon and Coluth together thought the fire stone into heat. What the Mage wished, he said, was for the water to get so hot that heat-bubbles swirled up from the bottom of the boiler-water, these bubbles bursting into mist, the Mage calling this mist -- "steam." It was the pressure of the "steam" that would make the boat go forward in the water. At least that was what Coluth thought was the Mage's meaning, Coluth -- and others -- sometimes failing to understand the Mage's explanations.

"Tell me, Coluth," said John-Lyon, frustrated that the water he had put through the pipes and into the "engine" refused to boil. "When using light magic to make fire stones hot, does it matter who is doing that?"

"I fear, that I do not understand ...."

"By using magic and thinking hot, will the stones get hotter if some people do that, rather than others?"

"I believe so, Sir."

"Why?"

"It is a matter of practice."

"What you're saying is that the more you heat up fire stones, the better you get at it. In this case, the hotter the stones become?"

"That is the way of the world, Sir. Everything done frequently is eventually done better."

"Then, if you're right about this, the person best able to coax heat from the stones, would be someone like a cook, who has to prepare food every day."

Coax?? It was very like the Mage to use words making little or no sense. This time, though, he had used the word "coax" in such a way that Coluth could divine the word's meaning.

"That would be true, Lord."

"Then, by all means, let's get the Head cook up here!"

So saying, the Mage sent a runner to the cook room, the Head cook, a fat old woman named Deninia, herded up the many stairs to the top floor of the Palace and into what the Mage called his "laboratory." Gasping for breath, shuffling her feet, muttering discontentedly, she none-the-less was careful to keep from saying something disrespectful to that man of power.

"Deninia ... I believe you know who I am?"

"Yes, Sir." Grudgingly admitted.

"See that little boat?" He was pointing to the small toy-boat floating on the water in the water-vat.

"Yes." Said, as if anyone having to ask that question was an idiot.

"Under here," he said, again pointing, this time to the boat's boiler, "is a small piece of fire stone. I'd like you to think the stone to become as hot as you can make it."

John-Lyon often spoke as if he was politely asking someone to do something. When, in reality, he was ordering them to do it. Just another oddity of the young Mage.

"Why?" asked the Head.

"Just do it."

On the other hand, there were limits to the Mage's patience, in particular, when he was at a halt in a project he was pursuing with all his attention.

Her orders received, shuffling to the table, staring at the boat, the cook-Head thought "hot" at the little stone, the stone heating as it should, soon to glow a shiny red. And with short, puffing sounds, the little boat moved forward on the surface of the water! If Coluth had not seen it for himself, he would not have thought that new magic could be added to the old!

Delighted, the Mage turned to the cook Head. "Thank you, Deninia. You can think the stone cool, now," the cook Head doing that, the toy-boat stopping immediately.

Still smiling, John-Lyon pulled a golden coin from what he called a "pocket" in his robe, giving it to the cook Head, the old woman grinning toothlessly. "Let me understand this. Once you have heated fire stones, they will stay hot that way until someone 'unheats' them?"

"Even so, Lord." Said without sarcasm, though everyone in every Band knew the truth of the Mage's question. Coluth believed it was the money in her hand that had helped her to lose her sour nature ... for the moment.

After his first-joy, as it often happens, Coluth had heard the Mage mutter his disappointment about the small craft's slow speed, boat-work none-the-less moved from the invention room to a secret place in the harbor, construction beginning there on a real boat, but still so undersized it could not hold many.

On the boat, the Mage also put the mystery weapon, consisting mostly of a copper pipe sticking out the stern. How this Mage-weapon was to work, was the puzzlement, some things the Mage did to be taken on faith that he knew what he was doing.

* * * * *

For all but Golden, it was a busy time, workmen ordered into the invention room, everyone excluded except Admiral Coluth and the workman.

There was no hiding the pounding going on inside, however, though unlike the last time, the smells produced were not disgusting.

Early in whatever project was underway in the Mage-lab -- John-Lyon called it a "lab" -- well after down-light, Golden (now installed permanently in the room across the hall from the Mage's workroom,) was awakened by noises. Opening his door a little, he saw men bring what had to be fire stones into the Mage's work room, the moving men doing this secretly.

No surprise there. This, in spite of the fact that no one, except for Golden, had noticed that torches along palace corridors had begun to disappear, those that remained in their iron angled holders caused to flame brighter to maintain the halls' light.

To be sure, Golden knowing that John-Lyon was interested in fire stones gave Golden an advantage in this discovery, the Mage no doubt having the missing fire stones brought to him to use for his own purposes.

More hammering and more hammering, until pony carts were brought to the back Palace gate, cloth covered objects carried from the Mage's invention room to the carts, the carts driven off, headed for a remote side of the island where few people lived. (This was what had happened when the Mage was experimenting with his cannon in the last war.)

As for this end of Xanthin island, the Malachite blockade continued, even the most important people in the Palace -- by the Mage's direct order -- eating meager meals as the capital's food supply dwindled.

It was later that Golden saw workmen bring to the lab a large tub filled with water, for what purpose, Golden could not guess, the frantic building activity in the invention room soon stopping, construction moved to the harbor where carpenters built giant screens of wood and canvas to shield the back part of the port from view.

The screen finished, metal workers and wood workers toiled back there during the day, also (because of the Mage's threats to wither them if they fled,) after down-light.

Rumor said that a boat was under construction in that hidden part of the harbor, Golden willing to believe it since the port was the place for that kind of work

* * * * *

John Lyon was pleased. Though nothing had gone as smoothly as he wished -- nothing ever did -- his projects were moving toward completion.

After the toy steam boat had proved itself by putt-putting around a large tub of water, John commanded a section of the harbor to be screened off from prying eyes, his wood and metal workers back of the screen to build a full scale boat with a putt-putt steam engine in it.

Construction completed, he'd had the Head cook -- grumbling all the way -- taken to the harbor by pony cart, the woman firing up the stones under the ship's considerably bigger boiler.

And John had been right again, this time to his displeasure. For in its night time trials in the harbor -- Coluth in charge, John not wanting it known he spoke no Stil-de-grain after dark -- the putt-putt boat had turned out to be as slow as he'd figured it would be. So slow that to have any chance at all of outrunning pursuit cruisers -- even with the Malachites needing to go around the rim of the swirls in the sea -- John had to have the boat made of the lightest materials consistent with the stress the boat would encounter from wave action in Sea Minor. The primitive steam engine just wouldn't crank out much speed, this, in spite of the flat bottom of John's boat, the ship designed that way to skim over the surface rather than plow through the sea like a heavily loaded merchantman. The boat must also carry a minimum of weight. The steam engine, of course, but not soldiers or even food.)

Fortunately, the ship didn't need to carry water, all this world's seas fresh enough to drink. (People had laughed at John's earlier question about salt water oceans, the way people do when knowing a joke has been told, but failing to "get it.")

Food wasn't a problem because you could fish for what you needed, gold and silver fish in abundance. John did decide to take along some sea-biscuits and a little dried meat for variety. But that was all.

As for weapons, he'd have to do without them, even a small addition in weight slowing the boat noticeably.

Not entirely true. For he did install his new "gun," to be used in desperation should a Malachite cruiser catch them: a modification of DaVinci's steam driven cannon. What John had designed was a light weight, copper tube mounted over the boat's stern. For power, the back of the tube was "plugged" into a device the ancient physicist, Archimedes, invented. Called an "endless screw," the encased "drill bit" pulled up sea water, a crude valve made to let a measured amount of water into the back of the tube, the back half of the tube buried in hot fire stones. Open the valve, turn the crank, and sea water was pushed into the back of the "gun," a portion of the water converted instantly to steam, the tube-cannon shooting a stream of scalding water from the tube's mouth. "Boiled" down to the bare facts, if an enemy ship came up behind them, John could shoot seething water at them, roasting their sailors while providing John's putt-putt boat with a forward boost -- like cutting in the after burners on a jet fighter.

Messenger birds flying between Taruo, King of Realgar, and Gagar had established that Pfnaravin was in Realgar. And that a mysterious woman was with him, the sub-text of these "bird-o-grams," that Pfnaravin was making a nuisance of himself, the old Mage suspected of attempting to overthrow King Tauro.

In short, Tauro was delighted to give sanctuary to John and to John's party -- assuming John could make it to the Claws -- the bird-talk also implying that Tauro hoped John would "take out" Pfnaravin, the legend of John defeating the evil Auro penetrating all bands.

All in readiness -- as nearly as everything could be planned -- John's final decision was about what personnel to take on the run from Xanthin island to the claws, the claws the name for curving, waterways that cut deep into Realgar.

What it came down to was, besides Coluth, John was only able to take two, additional sailors, one to see to the "needs" of the steam engine, the other to control the tiller, Coluth choosing his old comrades, silent Philelph and grizzled old Tangu.

Admiral Coluth was part of the team, of course, John wanting Coluth's advice on all, sea related matters. John also needed the Admiral's sense of direction. Apparently -- John's compass question producing blank looks all around -- navigational devices unknown here, an experienced seaman developing a sixth sense about direction, it probably helping to be able to see so far into the distance in this flat world; Bandworld with no horizon line like on John's round one.

And that was it: four men only, Coluth and John able to "spell" the sailors so the men could get some sleep. The boat just wouldn't take any more weight and still have a chance to outrun the Malachite cruisers, and in particular those new biremes lurking outside the harbor.

A bonus of these many activities was that John rarely thought about the Mage-Disk in his pocket; was grateful that it no longer had the power to bother him.

* * * * *

Platinia had again managed to slip out of the Palace, she being so small -- her fear, not that she would be seen, but of what the Mage would do to her when he learned she had disobeyed him. For he had told her to stay in the Palace; that she could not go with him on his boat.

She had never been as glad that she was a tiny person as when John-Lyon was making his great magic. For, being small, also moving slowly, then staying still, she could get close to John-Lyon and to those working for the Mage, doing that without anyone noticing. Mostly, people saw things that moved. (They did not see the mouse while it was quiet. But only when it ran across the floor.) So, Platinia was the still, quiet mouse, in this way learning of the Mage's plans.

Earlier, she heard him order the harbor workers to build another magic boat, this one not rowed or moved by wind-magic.

Platinia had gone with him on the last boat, to Azare. Also Zwicia. Had stayed close to him, to strengthen him against the bad Mage, Auro. At that time, she was so fearful of John-Lyon, she had been trying to kill him. For she thought that all men, like the priests of Fulgur, would torture her. As King Yarro had done to make her use her Etherial power to strengthen his pleasures. With food. With women. So she had feared John-Lyon until she had been with the young Mage for a long, long time, finding, at last, that he did not want to hurt her -- except for that one time, and that was because of his Mage-Disk. After that, something new had happened to her. It was what people called falling in love. The trouble was that, while she could sometimes strengthen the Mage's care for her into making him love her also, she had been unable to make that feeling last in him.

It was because of the woman, Ellen.

Platinia had been sure that, when she had pointed out this Ellen to the old Mage, Pfnaravin, he would take revenge on John-Lyon by killing Ellen. But the old Mage had not done that. Instead, he had left Xanthin, taking the woman with him. Now, the young Mage was building a boat to chase after Pfnaravin, and to take the woman back.

There was nothing Platinia could do to stop John-Lyon from going in his boat. She had thought and thought and thought about how to do that, but could not think of a way to stop the boat. Since she could not keep the Mage from going after the woman, the best Platinia could think to do was to go in the boat herself, to be with the Mage all the time. That way, if John-Lyon took the woman away from Pfnaravin, Platinia would be there to think of some way to get rid of her.

So, when Platinia heard the boat had been tested in the harbor, and that Admiral Coluth would soon go with John-Lyon and two sailors, but that was all, she had slipped out of the palace at night, the first gate-guard asleep, the second muttering to himself about something so that Platinia could slip his gate-key out of his tunic pouch, use it, then return the key. The third gate-guard was gone, probably to the Palace to be friendly to one of the young drudges.

Walking to the harbor in the fog of down-light was ... terrible! she was so wet and shivering with cold and from fear that the dreadful night creatures would eat her (for she had seen them when with the Mage in Azare.)

Arriving so late there were few people there to see her, Platinia hard to see anyway since she was buried to her head in fog. Unnoticed, she squeezed under the giant screen, to find the new boat tied to the dock on the other side.

Quietly, she had gotten on the boat and, looking around, had found a large coil of rope at the boat's center, the rope wound around a space large enough for little Platinia to hide in.

That was several up-lights ago.

Hearing that it was today the Mage-boat would set out from the harbor, she had slipped through the gates when other people were going through, in that way getting to the boat, hiding before up-light inside the tiny, rope-coil space.

From there, she had heard the Mage and the sailors and Admiral Coluth step from the dock onto the boat.

She had heard old Deninia grumble, and smelled the fire stones Deninia had heated up, after that, felt the boat bounce up as Deninia stepped back to the wharf.

Platinia also began to feel the heat of the fire stones at the center of the boat and at the back, Platinia's hiding place near the center.

She had heard the tie-up ropes pulled in.

After that came a coughing sound, the boat lurching forward, Mage-Magic driving it.

She could even tell when the boat was beyond the harbor mouth, because the sea outside was not as gentle as the sea inside the harbor.

It was then that the heat from the Mage-Magic at the center of the boat had gotten so strong that she could not hide in that tiny space any longer.

"Hey," yelled the sailor, Tangu, surprised to see her come out.

At that, the Mage came running from his place at the back of the little boat, his white silk Mage robe flapping.

"Platinia! How did you get here?"

"I beg forgiveness," she said, falling to her knees, banging her forehead into the ... deck. At least that is what she thought the wood "cover" over the bottom of the boat was called. She did not know much about boats.

"You were supposed to stay in the Palace."

"I could not," was all she could think of to say.

When she looked up, Admiral Coluth was there, also coming from his place at the back of the boat, the Admiral in his naval uniform.

Platinia could see this because up-light had come, the sky over Stil-de-grain turned gold, the sea around them gold as well.

"How did you get out of the Palace?"

"Through the gates." It was all she could think of to say. Anyway, it was the truth.

"We've got to do something about security in the Palace, Coluth," the Mage said, turning to the Admiral. "Apparently people can come and go at their pleasure."

The Admiral nodded.

"We've got a stowaway, as you can see."

"Stowaway?"

Platinia was glad that someone else could not understand the Mage's words. That it was not just her. She knew she did not know much about the world, locked away as she had been in temple Fulgur. But Admiral Coluth had been ... everywhere ... and he did not understand the Mage, either. Platinia was glad of that.

"Stowaway means someone who is not supposed to be on the boat but is in hiding, coming out after the boat sails."

"Yes," Coluth said, understanding at last, as did Platinia. She was the ... stowaway ... the Mage meant. "Too late to go back and put her ashore."

Now was the time the Mage would either punish her -- perhaps wither her with a Mage-bolt, so she would die. Or else he would let her stay on the boat. He might throw her in the water, but Platinia did not think he would do that.

"Fortunately, she doesn't weigh much, and also doesn't take up much space." John-Lyon turned to speak to her. "You realize that I forbid you to come for your own protection, don't you? This is risky business."

Risky business? Another thing the Mage said that she did not understand.

"But there's nothing we can do about that now. We can't go back. That would be even more dodgy that to go on."

Dodgy. Another Mage-word.

So -- she was to be allowed to stay!

"Thank you for making me so happy, great Mage!" Still kneeling, she put her head on the ... deck ... again, to show her thank you.

"I can only hope you'll still be glad by the end of the journey," the Mage said in his dust dry voice, shaking his head. "You've put your neck in the noose, like the rest of us."

Neck in a noose??

"For now, try to keep out of the way, not that there are that many people to keep clear of."

"Again, thank you."

"All right."

And suddenly, Platinia felt herself leave the Mage's thoughts, his mind returning to how the boat was going, and to looking over the back of the boat again, to see if anyone was following them.

The two men walked away to stand behind the sailor, Philelph, the sailor in his seaman jacket. Philelph steering.

Platinia did not know much about boats, but did know that something was wrong with the way the boat was going. For it was not floating in great circles like other boats, but moving straight through the center of a circle!

Magic. The magic of the Mage, magic helped by the sailor at the center of the boat who was looking, with worry, at the hot fire stones and at a metal container, the container getting fatter and thinner, fatter and thinning, all the while making sounds, like the sounds of blood in your ears when your heart pumped. Like when you were afraid. Beat, beat, beat. Fast. But steadier than when your blood was pounding.

Did the boat have a heart? Was the boat afraid? Platinia did not know.

Though Platinia did not understand, she guessed that this metal pot was the heart of the boat, beating, beating. And that the two pipes running along the bottom of the boat were carrying the boat's blood.

She had been ordered to stay out of the way; the single thing she did best. Stay out of the way.

She had not been ordered to stay far enough away so she could not see and hear!

So it was that, on tiny feet, she sneaked to the back of the boat, standing out of the way, but near enough to listen to John-Lyon and the Admiral talk. Also to see that the pipes coming down the boat from the "heart" were under water at the back, streams of water shot out behind the boat, but under the water. This was what made the boat go forward, Platinia thought, though she did not know how this could be.

The Mage and Coluth were talking.

"Do you think we got out of the harbor without picking up a tail?"

"Tail?"

"Having someone see us. Maybe we got away. That no one will be following us. That's the best chance we've got, I'm afraid."

"Agreed."

For a time, as the last of the up-light mist lifted from the surface of the sea, they stood at the back rim of the boat, looking behind the way the boat was going.

"No." It was the Admiral, speaking in his sand-paper voice. (Platinia had seen a man use what was called sandpaper, at the Palace. To fix wood.)

The Admiral was also cupping his hand to his eyes, the better to see. Platinia had often seen him do that.

"You see something?"

"I think so."

"Chasing us?"

"That would be my guess."

"I think ... I can see it now. It's a ship, only a dot. Wait! Two, three ships!

"That is my count."

"But they're doing what we knew they would, going the long way, circling off to the right, to come around the rim, and transfer to the next whirlpool."

"That is the way."

"Can you tell if they'll catch us?"

"Too far away."

"Not today, surely."

"Or tomorrow. They are too far back."

"At least that's something," the Mage said, but not in a happy way, the Mage sad because of his belief that the boats following would catch them.

Suddenly, a movement to the other side of the boat!

Golden!

John-Lyon saying he could bring only Coluth and two sailors -- Platinia heard him say that -- he had also brought Golden.

Truly, there was no understanding Mages!

* * * * *

Chapter 19

And the run for Realgar was on in earnest, a race John had to win; not that he had much time to worry about it at the outset. For in spite of all the planning he'd done on the little ship, John's first task was to modify the boat's design.

He'd already had his ship builders install elevated metal plates to keep the fire stones off the wood deck of the boat, both for the stones beneath the engine's boiler and those meant to propel his steam-cannon. (Other than the engine, there was no time to construct a super structure, the boat as flat as something a child would carve out of a shingle -- hand rails all around for safety.)

If he'd had more time to work out every detail, he might have remembered that one of the weaknesses of the old Stanley Steamer was having its engine under the hood, the driver condemned to motor through boiler heated air.

Applied to the putt-putt boat, the sailor manning the tiller stood between the boat's two heat sources -- boiler ahead of him, the gun's fire stones behind him.

It hadn't taken long -- Philelph sweating and red faced -- for John to realize he must find a solution to the temperature problem, the limited amount of material they carried making a change of design difficult. For in addition to string and hooks for fishing, a water bucket to keep the fish fresh, and some metal pans for cooking on the fire stones, John had brought along nothing but tools necessary for minor repairs: hammer, nails, pry bar, and chisel.

Taking his cue from steam boat captains on early America's rivers, who sometimes had to burn wooden parts of their ships to build enough steam to buck unexpectedly heavy currents, John instructed Coluth and Golden to pry up deck boards, the men getting enough lumber to cobble together wooden heat shields to nail in front and in back of the steers man.

Other than producing unwanted heat -- though buffeted by steam pulses within and the bounce of the boat as it bucked small waves -- the primitive engine held together. So steadily did the engine run, to John's delight, that it took only precautionary watching, freeing Tangu for tiller rotation.

Plan A was to slip out of the harbor unnoticed, that hope quickly going down the tubes.

Plan B was to outrun the Malachite cruisers. And maybe that would work, though it was too early to tell.

Plan C was -- Golden.

It was a late decision on John's part to take Golden, John wishing to limit the boat's personnel. It was just that John had gotten to thinking that, should the Realgar ships catch them, Golden might be John's ace-in-the-hole. After all, Golden said that some Malachites had recognized him as king, making it possible that, learning their "king" was on board, the Malachite sailors might change sides. It was something to try, anyway.

A second reason for including Golden was his ability to do what few people here could. While the light allowed everyone to speak/understand all languages (even English), Golden (in his guise as nighttime entertainer), had been forced to learn several Band languages. Assuming John and company reached Realgar, the natives would think that Golden was deaf to their speech after down-light, possibly revealing secrets Golden could relay to John, John knowing enough about Realgarites?? to use caution when dealing with them. (Though it could be nothing but prejudice, when the subject of Realgar came up, it seemed to trigger talk of poison.)

Back to the chase, everyone sneaking peeks at the pursuit ships as they looped around distant whirlpools, the trailing Malachites still far back but looming larger with each swirl they circled. The question was what it had always been: would the Malachites catch up to John's putt-putt boat before John and his crew reached the safety of the Claws?

So ended the first day, down-light upon them, the Malachites making for tie-up docks to resume the chase tomorrow.

With the steam boat no match for the speed of the enemy, John considered traveling throughout the night -- night monsters be damned! But gave that up. Forcing his crew to travel at night was to risk mutiny. (Also to be considered was his brush with the nocturnal Lxlop -- making it at least a possibility that fearsome creatures did lurk beneath the night time sea.)

So he'd decided to head for shore, tie up presenting another problem!

Had he thought beyond his eagerness to high tail it out of Xanthin harbor, he would have insisted that the Head cook come along for the ride, Deninia the only one who could "turn on" the fire stones to a sufficiently high temperature to boil water. Without Deninia, he couldn't shut down the boat's engine to make tie-up and expect to get the stones hot enough to take off again tomorrow.

Time for a final idea, the light fading fast, the trees at shore line dimming to a continuous hedge of green. "Coluth?"

Turning the steering over to Golden, the Admiral walked to where John was looking at the approaching shore. "Yes?"

"Is there any chance we can continue traveling after down-light? But do it safely, by staying in the shallows close to the coast?"

Resting his sea-roughened forearms on the deck rail, the Admiral thought it over. Shook his head. "Even in waters I know, the dark would hide rocks that might damage the boat."

Though John had wanted a different response, John could be certain he'd gotten the best advice Coluth had to give, disaster dogging any leader whose followers "sucked up" to him by soft pedaling unpleasant truths.

"The problem is that we can't stop the boat because only Deninia can fire it up again. Can't even slow it down. So how are we going to tie up a moving boat?"

Coluth thought about that in his deliberate way.

"It could work to reach the shallows, then set the rudder to take the ship in tight circles."

* * * * *

A suggestion that worked, the boat circling just off shore -- all night long -- the crew cooking the pan fish they'd caught before bedding down on what was left of the boat's deck, using their robes to protect them from the splinters of the unvarnished boards.

* * * * *

It was Coluth's turn to keep track of the hunter ships, Coluth thinking that, if he had only traveled to this part of Realgar more often, he could come closer to calculating the number of days it would take to reach the Claws and safety. Not too many, he hoped. For the Malachites new, double oar bank ships were gaining on them with alarming speed, the three of them looming larger each time they reached this end of their circle-turns.

When making the point to the Mage that the enemy ships were catching up, Coluth had observed John-Lyon carefully. And been discomforted by what he saw.

Until now, Coluth had been unconcerned about the Malachites. Let them approach. Let them narrow the gap. For when close enough, the Mage would destroy them with bolts from his Mage-Disk.

On Coluth telling the young Mage the truth about the Malachite advance, however, the Mage's eyes said something different: that John-Lyon did not have that option.

Coluth's understanding of that haunted look? That, somehow, John-Lyon had lost his Crystal.

Such were Coluth's thoughts early in the day, Coluth, Golden, Philelph, Tangu, John-Lyon, Philelph, Coluth again ... taking turns at the tiller, the Admiral -- just relieved by Golden -- walking back to lean over the rail.

John-Lyon joining him, Coluth shaded his eyes ... to see something unusual, an oddity he was about to share, when the Mage spoke.

"Have you noticed the sky, Coluth? It seems to me that the sky is changing. That the yellow of Stil-de-grain is shading into the orange of Malachite's sky."

Coluth looked up at the dome. Saw that the Mage was right.

"From where we are now," -- John-Lyon was about to ask the question he often did -- "can you estimate how long it will take to get to Malachite waters?"

"Two days, perhaps another day's travel into one of the claws, to be safe."

"Think we'll make it?" Asked, less with hope, than longing.

"Perhaps."

"One thing I wanted to ask about. Does it seem to you that the Malachite cruisers are going faster than they did at the start of the chase?"

So, John-Lyon had noticed the Malachites were picking up speed.

"They, also, know we approach Realgar. Wish to catch us before then."

"But how can they speed up? Are the circles smaller here in Sea Minor, so that they're coming around them faster?"

"No."

"Then how?"

"I was about to tell you."

"Go on."

"They go faster because they are rowing all the time, even around the rim, to reach greater speed."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"A tactic in our favor, if their sailors tire."

"And will they?"

Coluth looked over the stern again, the sea, like the sky, a muddy, yellow-orange, a sure sign of band change. "Perhaps."

* * * * *

Another day, John and Coluth watching as the three Malachite cruisers finished a loop, coming so close this time that John could see individual faces of the officers and crew.

It was then that something ... unusual ... happened.

"What are they doing, Coluth?"

What John was talking about was the cruisers pulling close together, oars shipped between the three of them, John making out grappling hooks tossed from deck to deck to bind the ships together.

"I don't know," Coluth admitted, squinting, shading his eyes again.

Not what John wanted to hear, but better than some phony answer that would back fire on them later.

Sensing something was wrong, Golden had come to stand beside them. Also Platinia, out of the way as ordered, but still within ear shot, John noticed.

"Whatever it is, they're losing ground."

"I know," Coluth said soberly, this maneuver making no sense to the Admiral, either.

"Ah." Coluth said, "Now I know. They are exchanging crews."

"Why? Oh, look!"

The ships had just separated, two of the three allowing themselves to drift past the "jump point" to the forward swirl, continuing around the same whirlpool to drift back toward Xanthin.

Only the third ship had done the expected: pulled for the next whirl in the sea, putting them around the rim of the circle John's boat was cutting across.

"Yes, I see what has happened," Coluth said. "Rowing to catch us was tiring them. They pulled together to consolidate their sailors, putting their strongest men in a single boat."

"The better to run us down."

"Now or never, since we're nearing Realgar," Golden put in, the young man rarely speaking throughout the trip, the youth using his free time for exercising -- a Golden obsession.

"They've still got to go around this loop," John said, stating the obvious. "What's the chance they'll catch us when we reach the other side?"

"A possibility," Coluth put in, seconding Golden's judgment.

John looked at the sky. "We're heading into Realgar waters."

"Yes," said Golden. "I can feel the beginning of Band Sickness."

And he was right, John also aware of increasing strength. "But it does not matter. They have made a mistake." This, also from Golden.

"What?"

"They are down to their last ship."

"So?" From John's point of view, it was five men on the steam boat against two hundred Malachite sailors and however many marines they had on board. Not only that, but with Malachite a "heavier pulling" band, Malachite men had grown up to be stronger than John's Stil-de-grain crew.

"With only one ship," Golden continued, in his smug way. "You will find it easy to destroy them with your Mage Magic."

"Unfortunately, there are side effects to the use of the Crystal."

"Side effects?"

"The Crystal makes me ... dangerous to be around."

Golden nodded.

"So you can see that I don't want to use the Disk's power unless absolutely necessary."

"Very wise, great Mage."

"Let's just say that, for the moment, I'm going to try everything else first."

A Golden bow of assent.

The trailing ship continuing to row around the last loop, John found his entire crew gathered at the back of the putt-putt boat. (Even Tangu, who had tied off the rudder so the boat continued to run straight.)

"As we cross into the next swirl, they'll be near enough to row straight for us," Coluth said, as if announcing that the church picnic was about to begin. Even in a tight spot, you didn't rattle the Admiral.

"And their rowers seem fresh enough to do that," John added, trying for Coluth's neutral tone.

What they were talking about was capture. Unless ....

The Malachites so close John could hear the slap of oars, their sailors pouring on the power, John cupped his hands around his mouth to project his voice. "We have the king of Malachite on board!" Though sound didn't carry well on land, noises skipped a long way over water. "Your true King, Cleadon, son of Cleadon. You are to take your orders from him!"

"We follow Lithoid," came the echoey reply. "Until there is proof he is no longer king, our loyalty is to him."

"The proof," John shouted, feeling for his Crystal in the deep pocket in which he kept it, "is in my word. For I am John Lyon, Mage of Stil-de-grain."

"There must be more than that." Ever closer, the Malachite captain's voice assumed new authority.

"Do not force me to give you the final proof. For unless you give up the chase, I will wither you to nothingness."

Crystal-bluffs had worked before. No reason a Magical threat would fail now.

There was a pause, then a shifting on board the Malachite boat.

Slowly, then faster, the sailors pulled on ropes to swing a large mirror forward of the ship's bow.

John had thought about using a mirror for defense against Mage bolts. Just hadn't had time to try that. Leaving the question: would a mirror reflect a Mage bolt back on those who sent it?

He hadn't wanted to use his Crystal anyway. Couldn't risk doing that now.

Not that he was ready to surrender until he'd tried the weapon of last resort.

"I'm going to use the steam gun," John said to no one in particular -- to all in general. "If this doesn't work, we're through -- unless someone else has a suggestion?"

No one said anything, all looking at John.

"OK. Everybody get behind the gun," the men jumping to it, eager to follow that order.

Meanwhile the Malachite ship continued to approach, its sailors bending their backs to the oars, their sweaty muscles gleaming.

Closer. .... Closer.

Near enough!, John bending to grab the crank that siphoned sea water into the back of the gun. If the gun worked like it should, there'd be a moment's delay while the hot rocks at the back turned the nearest water to steam, the rest of the water, now scalding hot, belched out the barrel and across to the Malachite ship.

There hadn't been time to develop a way to aim the steam-cannon. Still, John thought that most of the boiling water would clear the Malachite mirror to fall on the sailors amidship.

Giving the crank a measured turn, feeling it pull water into the gun, John waited ... and waited .......................

Nothing. No surge of heat. No stream of boiling water out the barrel.

Why?

There was a ragged cheer! From the Malachites? No. From John's people.

Looking up from the gun, staring over the back rail, John realized his crew was rejoicing because the Malachite ship had turned back, its sailors rowing furiously to catch the lip of the spinning circle of water that would have them headed home.

Again, why?

"There," said Golden. Turned to face John, Golden was looking over John's shoulder.

Pivoting to the front, John saw what had happened: six Realgar cruisers, coming out of the Claws, headed straight for John's boat, the lone Malachite ship no match for odds like that.

John looked up, then down, to see that the sky above and ocean below had turned bright orange. They were in Realgar waters.

They'd been saved, all cheering!

All cheering, except for Platinia who was ... crying.

"It's alright now, Platinia," John said, going over to the little girl, Platinia turning away from him, walking off to sit by herself in the ship's prow.

She'd had a scare. Best to leave her alone to get over it.

* * * * *

Platinia had planned well. She had thought and thought. Had decided that the thing to do was let the Malachite ship catch them. Yes. That was the thing to do. She was a Malachite herself -- at least she was born there. Golden was a Malachite, though he had traveled to other Bands to entertain. Golden even said he was king of Malachite.

If the Malachite ship caught up to them, Platinia and Golden would speak to the captain of that ship. They would say that John-Lyon and the sailors were good men, the Malachite captain listening because Platinia and Golden were Malachites. The Malachite captain would take them all on his big boat, back to Platinia's home Band. There, Platinia and John-Lyon would become lovers. Ellen would no longer make a difference. She would not be there.

The only trouble was that John-Lyon's little boat might outrun the Malachite ship, no one but Platinia seeming to know how close they were to Realgar, to that place called the Claws. Orange was in the sea. Orange was In the sky. Everything orange. She felt ... strong, even though she was so small. She also felt ... cooler. Because the Realgar Band was a cooler Band.

The men were all looking at the ship coming after them, not at how close they were to Realgar. So close that Platinia feared they would reach the Claws.

But Platinia could do something about that. On the trip, she had learned that it was the hot fire stones that made the little boat go forward. Without fire stone heat, the boat would ... stop.

So, little person that she was, she had done her best to "think" the fire stones to go cold.

No one was watching the fire stones. All the men were at the back of the boat looking out at the ship coming up behind them.

Platinia looking at the men to make sure they didn't see her do it, she thought and thought to make the fire stones cold.

And it had worked. She could feel the stones getting colder and colder, until they were no longer hot.

What she had not understood was why the ship had continued to putt-putt its way forward. Was that because of the Mage's magic? Had she been wrong about the fire stones? Was it Mage Magic alone that kept the ship going?

Then, too late, she saw the mistake she had made. Facing the men at the back of the boat, thinking cold, cold, cold, she had stopped the heat of the wrong fire stone pile. She had cooled the stones that were heating the back of what the Mage called his "gun." If she had faced the other way, she would have cooled the stones making the ship go. But she had made that mistake, the little boat going and going until, seeing it come, the Realgar ships had rowed out of that Claw to drive off the Malachite ship.

Everyone else was happy. Golden was happy. Admiral Coluth was happy. The sailors were happy. John-Lyon was happy. Everyone was happy, except for little Platinia, who was feeling sad.

"It's alright now, Platinia," the Mage said, smiling very much.

Meaning that, for Platinia, what she needed was a secret place to go.

Where she could cry.

* * * * *

Chapter 20

Mage Castle.

At last.

After bathing with his sailors in the hot water pool, Platinia doing the same in the woman's bath, John felt as human as anyone could in the "light-pulling" Band of Realgar. There was such a thing as being too strong, every step he took threatening to bounce him into the air.

At least, toweling off, he was warm again, Realgar a cooler Band that Stil-de-grain because the daylight, shot skyward from the center of the world, lost its strength when reflected from the outer edge of this iron-domed land. Or so the locals believed.

If Realgar was cool, its waters were cold, nothing like crashing the steam ship into a Realgar dock to prove that point.

Had it been seven days since the boat smashed into the mole, the little craft split in two, its engine and gun sunk to the bottom of the bay? An accident that was partly John's fault for paying so little attention to docking procedure, the mishap also attributable to John's crew who, with oarsmen's mentality, didn't think to wave the fire stones cold as they approached the dock, the ship ramming the outer pier, the boat sinking, John-and-crew thrown into the water. (Not a personal disaster since each of them weighed so little that everyone popped to the surface to float high on the water. Rather, John imagined, like people bathing in the great Salt Lake at home or in the Dead Sea beyond the Eastern Mediterranean, the high salt content of those bodies of water making people "unsinkable.")

Realgar dock workers fishing them out, John had apologized profusely for damaging the pier, John not as concerned about the accident as he wished to seem. For win or lose in his efforts to catch Pfnaravin, John no longer needed the boat. Going further, one of the principals he thought was a good one -- derived from the original Star Trek series?? -- was not to pollute this medieval world with the modern world's technology, steam engines, no matter how primitive, a technical wonder here. (John supposed his boat's fire stones -- scorching hot until thought cold -- would continue to boil water where they'd sunk by the wharf. Wondered what the locals would make out of that eternal "hot spot" in Realgar's waters.)

A stevedore escorting them from the central Claw where they'd crashed, they found lodging in an inn servicing traders.

A late afternoon snack, and they'd bedded down in clean, but crude rooms, all inns in all Bands providing the same, basic services, John remembering to remove his Mage disk and coins before surrendering his robe to be cleaned, everyone's clothes washed and dried by the next up-light.

Breakfasted on fried eggs and boiled meat -- deer, squirrel?? -- they'd hired a leather clothed hunter to escorted them over trails leading through overgrown vegetation -- bushes, trees -- this Band's plants growing larger than normal because of weak gravity.

Five more days and as many inns took them to a stone pile complete with drawbridge, the hunter telling them this was Mage Castle.

Saying goodbye to their guide, they crossed the overbridge, a fat, shades-of-green-dressed courtier (who seemed to know who they were), taking them inside to whisk them down window lighted passageways to what seemed to be a meeting room, the table-with-chairs chamber dressed up with marble, walnut, and gold leaf trim.

down-light coming soon, tunic clad slaveys brought fruit, sliced meat, and glasses of honey flavored wine.

Finished eating, a ribbon bedecked dignitary took them to a dormitory room down the hall, the palace functionary assuring them the governing authority would see them after up-light.

Exhausted, more from uncertainty about their fate than from the six day hike they'd undertaken, they choose beds along parallel walls, collapsing on what, in John's world, would have been called King sized mattresses.

John thought about asking the sailors to set up a watch schedule, but decided that if Tauro meant to murder them, there was nothing John's few men could do about it. (John did manage to hide his money and disk behind a loose dado board.)

Slaveys awakening them after up-light, the parties' clothing again clean and folded for them, they were served a breakfast of boiled eggs, mixed fruit, and a hot drink that would never replace either tea or coffee.

Breakfast concluded, two armed soldiers conducted them, first to "wash up rooms" down the hall, then through corridors and more corridors, the attendants breaking trail through a highly curious crowd of castle personnel, John and his party presumably on the way to meet this Band's king.

As John had noticed -- even at the seediest of inns along the way -- everything in Realgar was built on heroic proportions, the ceilings higher than anywhere he'd been in Bandworld, the halls wider, done to accommodate the considerably taller people of Realgar, was his guess. Taller, also fatter, though he didn't see how obesity could be blamed on low gravity. It was lack of gravity, not slimness of body, that had John's party bouncing along like balloons half filled with helium, John first noticing this "light" feeling on the trip from his world to Stil-de-grain. He hadn't felt this buoyant though ... since the last time he'd been in The Claws, John with so many worries at that time he'd been able to ignore this "floaty" feeling. Get used to feeling airy of course, and it would be a "drag" when returning to Stil-de-grain. To say nothing of how weighted down he'd be after making the "jump" to his own, heaver gravity planet.

Coming to the end of an even wider corridor, their chaperons pulled open the end wall's twelve foot doors, John and company bowed into what had to be the King's main room -- the chamber adorned with marble columns, walnut paneling, and alabaster sculpture.

Sagged into an elevated seat at room end was another of this band's big men, his body bulging through a tent-like robe, tangerine light streaming from high windows illuminating the room.

The military men flanking them, they were marched toward the fat man, to be halted at the foot of the dias on which he sat.

He looked ... feverish.

No ... John realizing they all had an apricot cast to their skin.

Realgar. The orange Band; it's burnt ocher "sun" light coloring everything below.

What did you do when brought within the presence of Realgar's King? Take a step forward and bow, John guessed, though kowtowing to authority went down hard for Americans.

"Welcome," said the fat man in a voice too small for his flabby body, the man of considerable age, though no wrinkles lined his baby-fat face.

"Thank you for your hospitality, King Tauro" John responded, straightening.

"You are mistaken to address me, thus. King Taruo is in his capital."

"Excuse me, sir," John apologize. "Apparently, there has been some mistake." John turned to Golden, the rest of John's little band a step further to the rear, John gesturing for an explanation.

"The capital is Orpiment, sir," Golden whispered. "I assumed you knew ...."

"And where is that?" John cut in, feeling the need to at least look in control in this foreign place.

"Half way around the band, near Beak Island."

"I thought when we left Xanthin harbor we were headed for the capital."

"I did not realize that, sir. At any rate it would have been impossible since it would mean going toward Malachite, instead of away."

Just the kind of mistake John was apt to make in this confusing place where countries formed complete circles.

Turning again to the dignitary, John explained. "Forgive me. I fear that, in the boating accident I may have had a concussion ...."

"You wished to have an audience with King Tauro?" The fat man could also interrupt to show authority.

"So I thought."

"Here at The Claws, I speak for the king. For I am Helianthin, Mage of Realgar."

"I see." John didn't see.

"And who, might you be?"

He didn't know? What kind of game was being played here? One where the power at the moment was clearly on the other side, John's job to discover the rules and learn how to win by them. "I am the Mage of Stil-de-grain, John Lyon."

Helianthin leaned forward, his elaborately carved chair squeaking angrily. "Are you, so?"

"Show and tell" time. Reaching into his pocket, careful to avoid touching the Crystal, John dragged out the Disk-on-chain. Held it high, the fiery window-light sparkling the gold gem.

"You do not wear the Crystal?"

"No."

"Nor do I wear mine -- until the appropriate time."

Was that a threat? Not up on the customs here, John was unable to read the Realgar Mage's "thoughts" by tone of voice.

"Very wise, Sir," John said, striving for tact. Where this conversation was going was anyone's guess.

"And the reason you are here, in my Band?"

An odd thing to ask since, according to earlier messenger birds, the king of Realgar knew of John's mission. Had invited him to come. Did this mean there was little or no communication around the Band? For that matter, what was this "my Band" business?

"I was under the opinion we would be welcomed here."

"Possibly. Possibly." The man settled back. "There is the difficulty."

"What? I've apologize for hitting your wharf. A navigational problem with an experimental ship. An unintended error, I assure you."

The grossly fat Mage waved off John's explanation. "I refer to the known fact that, as there cannot be two kings in any band, there cannot be two Mages."

What was he talking about?

"I have no wish to be a second Mage in Realgar, nor have I ever thought of such a thing."

Again the wave of nullification. "I refer to the other Mage who journeyed to this land, the first Mage of Stil-de-grain, calling himself Pfnaravin."

So, that was it. Time -- past time -- for the truth. "Pfnaravin is a Mage. But not, as he may have claimed, of Stil-de-grain. Did you see his Mage-Disk?"

A nod. At least John thought it was a nod -- the man's neck buried in all that blubber.

"If you will remember, Pfnaravin's Disk was green."

Again the almost nod.

"Pfnaravin is Mage of Malachite, sometimes pretending to be Mage of Stil-de-grain. As you have seen, my Disk is the gold of Stil-de-grain. If a messenger bird could be sent to your King, I am sure any confusion on this point can be eliminated."

"And the reason you venture into Realgar? It could not be trade, I think."

"No. We seek this same Pfnaravin. And his woman companion."

"True, there was a woman with him. Under Mage restraint, so not accompanying him willingly."

The fat man wasn't a dummy.

"Pfnaravin is a criminal. As proof, has stolen the woman. We are here to right a wrong and desire your help in doing so. Hearing by Messenger Bird that our interests and yours correspond, we ask for supplies to continue our search for this evil Pfnaravin. We also need directions so that we may hunt him."

"What you ask presents difficulties." The man sighed a great, fat jiggling sigh. "For recently, again by messenger bird, we have been required by the king of Malachite, to detain the one he has described as the false Mage of Stil-de-grain."

"It was my understanding, that it is Pfnaravin who has proved himself to be a false friend of your King. That, wherever he goes, treason is ...." John almost said in the wind, wind a meaningless concept here, as elsewhere in this world. "...in the air."

"There is some truth to what you say. And I would order done what you suggest: provide you with supplies for your continued journey. Willingly so, had the difficulty between the two of you affected none other than yourselves ..... But there has been this change ...."

"If I may ask, what change?"

"I have been told that ships were attempting to intercept you, your reaching Realgar waters with our help."

"Yes." Where was this going?

"Even now, Malachite troop transports approach our shores in The Claws, demanding, by messenger bird, that we apprehend you and your party. As for that request, as for your own, we wish nothing but to avoid entanglements."

So that was it. The fat Mage wanted to duck out of what he saw as other people's problems. Though the King might have been of more help, it was clear that his second in command wished, above all else, to maintain the status quo.

"The Malachite problem is not yours, but mine. I agree. So let me make a suggestion. Provision us, as you surely did Pfnaravin, then show us the way to go to arrest this evil Mage. Do this immediately before Malachite soldiers threaten your Band. In that way, the struggle remains between two, foreign Mages, Pfnaravin of Malachite and John Lyon of Stil-de-grain. Treating combatants equally is the only way Realgar can claim neutral status."

"A wise suggestion -- had not the Malachites sent so many troops."

"You allowed Pfnaravin to travel through your Band ...."

"More across than through."

"And did you supply him for this trip?"

The almost imperceptible nod.

"All I ask is for the same support. Let me summarize. Currently, the band of Stil-de-grain and that of Malachite are in conflict. It is also my understanding that Realgar wishes to remain a neutral Band."

"You have stated my meaning with these many words."

"Neutrals are ... neutral. If a privilege is granted to one, it should be given to the other."

"And that would be?"

"Allow us to take the same road as Pfnaravin."

"That would be the silk road," said the Mage, casually, as if he said something of little importance. "And when the Malachites arrive?"

"Tell them both Mages slipped away before you knew of Malachite's request that you intervene."

"If, as you say, you are here to pursue Pfnaravin, will the Malachite troops not demand to follow you?"

"Let them."

"Wise advise from one so young. I will make your request known to our King, who will make the decision about what to do.

"Meanwhile, avail yourself of this opportunity to rest. I will inform you of the King's decision regarding your person."

They were dismissed, a new set of soldiers taking them back to their rooms.

John's party now installed in their quarters, the military remaining in the hall, the door shut, the Stil-de-grain group gathered to sit at John's end of the table, Coluth on John's right, Golden to the left.

"Not much of a welcome," John said dryly.

"Are we prisoners here?" Golden.

"A possibility. As you heard, the situation has changed between the time we set out and our arrival."

"Malachite troops coming behind us." Coluth.

"Yes."

The sailors said nothing, looking to John and to Coluth for leadership.

"Are we agreed that the rulers of Realgar want to stay out of any conflict that might develop?"

Coluth nodded.

"Then, as I see it, it's our job to help them do that."

"How?" Golden.

"By finding a way to get out of here. After that, follow this 'silk road' the man mentioned so casually. My guess is that Helianthin was thinking even as he spoke; that he mentioned the direction we should take because he'd be pleased to see us gone. Doubly pleased if we take out Pfnaravin. After all, our earlier communications indicated bad blood between Pfnaravin and their King.

"On the other hand, the Mage speaking of 'my Band' could mean competition between Mage and King, Helianthin wanting nothing so much as to keep from fouling up. (At "fouling up," John saw men's eyebrows raise -- but no matter.) "What came through," John pushed on, "is that he wants to preserve what, in the politics of my country, is called "deniability," that is, to be able to maintain his innocence should something go wrong. Right now, the eventual winner in the Stil-de-grain/Malachite conflict would seem to be Malachite. Their Mage is on the loose. Troops are coming, and we're too few to make much of a show. The situation remains fluid, however, a fact he must consider.

John thought this over. "It could even be that Helianthin sees the winning strategy as holding us here until he can turn us over to the Malachites. Our capture would mean a Malachite win, Helianthin taking credit for finding the only safe way through this muddle."

Muscled forearms on the table, hands clasping and clasping, Coluth nodded.

"On the other hand, if we 'escaped' ...."

Again, the Coluth nod.

"We are not helpless," Golden said. "I have certain skills ...."

"And I'm counting on them, Golden," John agreed. "Though few in number, we're also stronger then these fat folks. And we know from previous communications that Pfnaravin is disliked. It's my guess that one of the reasons Pfnaravin was given assistance to continue his "cross band" trip was to get rid of him."

"We need food, clothing," Golden said, more to himself than to John. "Packs. As for weapons ....?"

"If we could get out of here, we might be able to pass ourselves off as traders. Buy supplies down the trail." John had also begun to think ahead. "For now, we've got to make our escape. After that, find this silk road."

"I know of that road," Coluth said, so quietly he could have been speaking in his sleep.

"What?"

"Long ago, I traveled the silk road. With my crew and pack ponies. Leading cross band from the third Claw."

John did seem to remember Coluth talking about that. "Was that the time you went to Cinnabar?"

A shudder passed through the Admiral as it often did when people mentioned the outer band of Cinnabar -- generally called "The Cinnabar."

"You were trading for silk, if I remember right."

"Yes. When I was younger. At the border, I stepped into The Cinnabar." Said as someone forced to cross a mine field.

It was coming back to John. "You called the people of Cinnabar 'the flyers,' I believe."

"Yes."

"Because they can fly?" Cinnabar had the reputation of being the weakest gravity band of them all, gravity in this place going from heaviest in the center, to lightest at the rim. Beyond Cinnabar was what people here called "down-land" where the unwary could fall off the edge of the world. "Did you see them fly?"

"No. No one sees them. It is that they ... know. When a trader comes, he finds bundles of silk on a stone trading floor ... just within The Cinnabar. Take the silk, leave behind items for payment, and there will be silk bundles for further trade at a later date. That is what is said, though I do not know of my own experience. It is for men braver than myself to venture twice into The Cinnabar." Again, the involuntary shudder. "If a trader leaves too little in value for the silk taken, the cheater will find no silk on the trading floor when he returns -- forever and forever."

"So the supposition is that the Cinnabarians -- or however they call themselves -- have a way of knowing who is a cheat and who is not?"

The Admiral nodded, Coluth as sober as John had seen him; grave, an even better word to describe his demeanor, every sea-weathered line in his broad face sagging.

"You think the citizens of Cinnabar must be flying overhead, to observe trade transactions?"

"There are birds that fly so high, no man can see them."

"Your theory is that, because the gravity is almost non-existence in Cinnabar, its people can actually fly?"

While Coluth didn't nod yes, he didn't nod no.

"It does seem that Pfnaravin and Ellen are headed there." No one disagreed. "Why?"

"Unwelcome here, Pfnaravin must leave. With us blocking his way to Sea Minor, where else could he go?" Golden.

John thought about that. "He could have traveled around the band; gotten to some place where people didn't know him, then doubled back into Stil-de-grain."

"Taking passage on a stolen ship, the crew seeming to have deserted him here, he is alone with only the woman, and she unwillingly. He might feel safer in The Cinnabar, few with the courage to follow him there." Common sense from Coluth.

"Sounds reasonable. Is it agreed, then? That we make a run for it?"

Nods all around.

"After down-light, I will provision us." Golden, getting back to practical matters.

"You still know the way to this silk road, Coluth?" John.

"Yes."

"Then if Golden can 'appropriate' what we need for the trip, we leave at first light!"

* * * * *

His orphaned life lived by thievery, Golden had learned the layout of most buildings, public and private. Food was to be found in kitchens, pantries. Clothes stored in closets, chests, and laundry rooms. Weapons locked in strongholds close to soldiers' billets.

When foraging for what he needed, Golden generally started with a disguise, the better to slip past others on his way to round up useful items. This time, of course, the first thing he must do was get past the two "honor" guards the Realgar Mage has left outside the door as a "courtesy" to the foreign guests, Golden opening the hall door to indicate by nods and gestures -- down-light settled in -- that he was going to the necessity room down the hall.

Once inside the elimination room, he peered out the door crack until finding both guards in conversation. No one looking his direction, Golden slipped into the hall and was soundlessly out of sight down a parallel corridor. How long the guards would ignore his absence, he didn't know. Long enough, he hoped.

Even when on their way for an audience with the castle Mage, Golden had been looking for a way out, doing this by taking note of the movements of the crowd around them. It was rather like finding honey. If bees were flying at random, they were searching for flowers -- a necessary ingredient in honey making. If most bees were flying in a single direction, however, they were returning to their hive. In like manner, people followed similar patterns. The Military men escorting John-Lyon's party -- newly relieved of their watch duties by other soldiers -- had stocked off to their quarters, in this case, taking the same hall Golden was traversing now, going down the stairs at the far end.

Flitting from shadow to shadow -- not much traffic at this sleeping hour -- Golden found the same stairs, descending to a floor where many feet had scarred the tiles. Clearly, the marks of soldiers' boots.

Rounding a turn, there it was, an alcove shielding a fortified door, soldiers barracks beyond.

An iron braced door. Locked tight to everyone except for a man of Golden's skills.

Palming a fork he'd concealed in his sleeve, bending the tines to make a lock pick, he soon defeated the outer lock and two smaller restraints at the ends of slide bars, Golden quickly inside, someone conveniently leaving a flaming torch within. To find the expected armory. Shelves of weapons. Spears, scabbards, belts, slings, bows, swords (short and long), maces, helmets, shields, body armor, hobnailed boots, backpacks.

He'd need swords for the sailors -- short ones since sailors used similar tools in their work. A star-mace for a bludgeon. A short bow and six arrows. (As fast as he could draw and fire, he could only loose six arrows before an onrush of troops overpowered him, making a seventh arrow more hindrance than help.

The girl was worthless in a fight. But what about the Mage? Since John-Lyon had showed no fighting skills, either with sword or bow, Golden decided the Crystal-Mage would do better with a bludgeon than any other weapon. And in particular, since the other-worlder was the strongest man Golden had ever know. Something about coming from a heavy-pulling planet, John-Lyon said -- the Mage's mysterious, original home. Skull cracking would be John-Lyon's specialty.

Armed -- over armed -- Golden left the weapon storage room, turning to fork-jam the lock to make it difficult for others to retrieve their own arms, Golden then slipping down end-of-the-hall stairs and more stairs until he smelled hot water ... and soap.

Laundry.

Finding stacks of clean clothes ready for the morning's distribution, he "lifted" the right number of Realgar robes -- pumpkin colored cloth with marigold stripping, over-sized, as was suitable for the fat nature of this Band's citizens. He even found a child's robe that should fit the girl.

Bow over his head, string slashed across his chest, arrows stuck in his under-tunic belt, other robes draped over his shoulders to pad his body, he donned an over-robe, now looking like any slavey in the castle. Fat. Disheveled.

Food came next, Golden continuing to "put on weight" as he pouched sausages and hunks of cooked meat. No room for bulky food. Bread could be purchased after escaping from the castle.

And escape, they must. On that point, Golden agreed with John-Lyon.

Something was wrong here. So wrong, it was a danger to them all, the unspoken signals he was receiving in this place -- movement of the mouth, eye twitches, finger snaps, foot scraping -- foreshadowing misfortunes in his own life. The Mage was unwelcome here; arrest and execution sure to improve the position of Helianthin. Golden could imagine John-Lyon's severed head, pickled in a barrel of brine, the cask rowed out to the incoming Malachites as proof that Helianthin favored Malachite. Golden could also see his own head, similarly preserved, delivered to the agents of Lithoid for return to Malachite, there to be set upon a pole as an example to other would be "traitors."

The only remaining question was what falsehood he would tell to John-Lyon, a lie impressive enough to motivate the young Mage to order an immediate escape.

Mages had extraordinary powers, John-Lyon no exception. Still, Golden had told lies to the young Mage and had not been withered on the spot. He had even stolen John-Lyon's Mage-disk at one time -- to save it -- but stolen it nevertheless, the Mage in ignorance of who had looted it.

Truly, the Mage was remarkable, both for his vast learning and for his daily ignorances.

One thing was certain above all certainties. What Golden had done this night would be discovered. And once discovered, blamed (rightly) on John-Lyon's party.

Headed back to the prison room -- for that was what it was -- passing cleaning drudges without receiving suspicious looks, Golden's mind raced to devise a strategy. First, to out smile the guards in order to bash them, then drag their "sleeping" bodies inside the "guarded" room.

After that, no matter what myth Golden created, perhaps one saying Golden had overheard Helianthin tell soldiers to kill John-Lyon and his party before up-light, Golden must convince the Mage to leave the castle -- now!

The sailors would balk at going out into the dark, frightened to face the fearsome animals loosed by down-light -- the horrors of the night that longed for human blood.

And the men would be right to be afraid, as Golden, himself, would be afraid. It was just that certain death within, made the possibility of down-light death the better choice!

* * * * *

Chapter 21

Coluth shaded his eyes to look at the sky; finding that blocking out glare was unnecessary in this dark place, Realgar's ocher smudging into the next band's burgundy. This close to The Cinnabar he was cold, the outer Bands cooler than the inner ones, Coluth's shiver augmented by the quake of fear.

For days, starting with the down-light danger of their escape from Helianthin's Castle, the cross Band trip had the portent of disaster, evil news received at the first inn on the Silk Road. Glimpsing the tavern ahead, taking every precaution, the Mage had ordered them to desert the trail, the group trudging through thick, off-road bushes until reaching the woods across from the inn. There, giving Golden money for supplies, Golden crossed the track to enter the hostelry, returning with a push cart containing rope, food, and robes (common ones of brown wool.) And of more importance, telling of the rumor wagging every tavern tongue: that a messenger in a fast, three pony cart had already passed by, the driver instructed to alert all hostels to the possibility of foreigners in the neighborhood. In addition, that Malachite soldiers -- with Helianthin's permission -- would soon be mustered to pursue these intruders, the dangerous outsiders thought to be taking the Silk Road to The Cinnabar.

Though Golden himself was alien to these parts, the inn owner had showed no concern at his presence, perhaps because Golden was a single traveler when a group was sought. Or more likely, that the glint of gold in Golden's hand had blinded the inn's owner to the presence of a stranger.

Much disturbed, John-Lyon ordered everyone to stay well back of the pathway, the party to pack the goods in carry-alls, everyone to stay hidden behind the bushes and tall trees paralleling the Silk Road.

The major difficulty, of course, was the down-light problem, John-Lyon's party risking discovery at every accommodation they might seek.

"Would we be safe from the creatures of the night if we climbed a tree?" the Mage had asked Golden, the young man knowing more about land-travel than any in the group, Golden -- as entertainer -- occasionally forced to journey overland at night.

"Yes," Golden said, but looking up to shake his head at the loftiness of the trees' branches where they might sleep in safety.

"My bet is that these are fast growing trees," the Mage said. "And because of that, of soft wood."

To demonstrate his meaning, John-Lyon borrowed Philelph's short sword, the Mage hacking at the nearest tree trunk, each blow slicing out a sizable wedge of wood. "It'll take some effort, but we can cut steps into these tree trunks to use for climbing -- like going up steep stairs."

And just before down-light of every day, they had done that, hacking and climbing until all were safe in the branches, safety ropes securing the Mage, Golden, and the girl, Coluth and the other sailor-monkeys at home at any height.

Allowing no pause at up-light for the warming of dried meat, they would set out again, their increasing nearness to The Cinnibar causing Coluth to recall his former trip through this terrain.

It was at that earlier time -- Coluth the captain of a group of sailors from the Roamer -- that he had come to this bleak and barren border, only to discover that he, alone, could force himself into The Cinnabar, the stone trading floor at twenty paces further on.

His sailor's tunic sweaty despite the chill, a much younger Coluth in those distant days had left the others to creep into that mystic band, his feet crunching the brittle grass below, a blood red sky above.

Easing ahead, he'd discovered the expected bundles of Cinnabar silk on the thick stone trading floor, Coluth picking up the feather weight packages to toss each to his sailors still in the Realgar band, his men strapping the silk to the backs of rented pack ponies.

To complete the transaction, his crew had thrown bags of trade goods back to him, wheat from Stil-de-grain, fruit from Realgar, and bundled rods of metals from Malachite, these packages made light by the weak pull of The Cinnabar, the parcels seeming to contain little more than air.

The transaction complete, chilled to the bone, trembling like a frightened child, Coluth was glad to creep back to Realgar, the slightest pressure of each Cinnabar step threatening to hurtle him into the scarlet sky.

Profit from that single trip -- after sharing with his men -- had paid off the Roamer, Coluth careful to prevent the need for money from forcing him to return ... here!

Now, against his will, he'd been compelled to plod toward that frightful, ruby band, Coluth looking up through thinning trees to find the sky dome shading into crimson.

They would soon be at the border!

"Coluth?" It was the Mage, John-Lyon coming up to walk beside him. "Does it seem to you that the sky here is lower than in the other bands; that it's not that far above our heads?" Without waiting for Coluth's answer -- something John-Lyon often did -- the Mage continued. "Or is it like the moon seeming larger on the horizon than when high in the night sky?"

Surely, the Mage was talking to himself, when doing so using words like moon and sun. Also other unknown words.

"Never mind. We're almost there, right?"

Coluth nodded, wishing not even to think of their dreaded destination.

"Let's go."

And they started again, another fifty paces taking them to the place where the trees and bushes ... thinned.

"That's not what I expected," John-Lyon said, peering through what remained of the foliage, the young Mage rarely seeming puzzled. "That's the border, isn't it?"

Coluth could barely nod.

"Golden?" The loose limbed youth flowed forward. "I thought there'd be even more vegetation in Cinnabar than elsewhere. I thought the extra light gravity that's supposed to be across the border would make for taller plants in general."

"I have never been here, sir," Golden said.

"Coluth?"

"There is ... nothing in The Cinnabar."

This answer unsatisfactory to the Mage, John-Lyon again set out, but at a crawl, signaling them to halt behind the last, few trees.

Looking ahead, there was nothing but an empty, undulating land of brown and brittle weeds, Coluth recalling his former trudge through dried out vegetation. Nothing to be seen except the rock slab trading table twenty steps beyond the border ... a platform strangely changed; chunks of stone cracked from its corners, the ground around the table blasted as if by Mage-Magic, the dry grass scorched to bare dirt, the earth exploded into great, gray piles!

"I'd say that Pfnaravin has been here," said the Mage in his dust-dry voice. "And that he wasn't in the best of moods."

"But ... why?" Coluth could not put a reason to this destruction.

"Just a guess, but since the stone pieces that were knocked off the slab appear to be missing, I'd say that Pfnaravin is using them to weight himself down so he can walk without fear of floating to the sky dome."

"Reasonable," said Golden, the youth never far behind the Mage.

At some distance, old Tangu and young Philelph maintained their respectful silence.

"Is that trading floor made of fire stone?"

"Though I did not make a study of it," Coluth answered, trying to remain calm at the memory, "I believe that to be true."

"Heavy, but easily broken," the Mage muttered to himself. "And look there," John-Lyon pointing into The Cinnabar. "If I'm not mistaken, that's Pfnaravin's trail, the grass so dry there'd be no way to travel through it without snapping it off."

"That would seem so, sir," Golden said, a bow often to be discerned in the young man's voice.

"Only one path because the 'flyers' of Cinnabar ... fly?"

Coluth looked skyward again. But, like the last time he was here -- though he knew they must be there -- could see neither man nor bird soaring over head.

* * * * *

It was clear to John that Coluth was terrified to be on the verge of entering what the admiral always called The Cinnabar, it following that the rest were similarly horror stricken, even Mage-Magic unlikely to make them follow him into this troubling band. Or if he could coerce them into coming with him, they'd be useless in his quest to free Ellen from Pfnaravin.

So it was, as he'd supposed all along, that this trek must end as it had started: in a solitary confrontation between Mages. John vs. Pfnaravin. Crystal against Crystal.

Thinking of Crystal power, that was another thing to consider. The last time John had worn his Mage-Disk, he'd been as much a danger to his friends as to the enemy -- Crystal insanity an ever present threat to the Gem's user, the Disk's god-like power so dangerous to a Mage's sanity that John's plan was to don the Mage-Disk at the last moment before confrontation with Pfnaravin. Even then, given the Malachite Mage's greater skill with Crystal-force, John's only hope was in the luck that had seen him through to date.

For now, following the sensible admonition that a commander gives no orders likely to be ignored, John must forge ahead alone.

But what to do with the rest of his team?

He had a thought: that every army, even a battle group of one, should protect its rear.

"Coluth? Golden? Tangu. Philelph." Coluth and Golden coming to attention, the sailors to the rear approaching, all -- John noticed -- staying well away from the border. "I want you to remain here to guard my back against the Malachite troops that we know are on our heels. How many Malachites Helianthin has given 'permission' to come after us, I don't know. Considering our numbers, I can't think many. In any case, what I need most is time to find Pfnaravin. And to give me that time, I'd like you to employ harassing tactics against whatever troops are after us. You've got some arrows, Golden?" Golden nodded. "As for the rest of you, there's a simple weapon the Anglo-Saxons employed against the Normans at the battle of Hastings." Blank stares. "Another place. Another time."

John started over. "What matters is that this weapon is easy to make and works pretty well. First, hack down some tree limbs. After stripping off their collateral branches, pry up some of the foot thick rocks we've been stumbling over along the way, tying a rock to the end of each tree limb. When you want to do damage to the enemy, grab the other end of the branch and swing the stone round and round before letting go of the handle, a rock thrown like that hitting with surprising force.

"Don't take any chances. Stay behind the trees until ready to hit and run. Against a superior force, the only thing that works is guerilla tactics."

"Guerilla?" Coluth asked.

"It means strike, then fall back before they know what's hit them. If I know soldiers, they'll not want to rush into the woods after a phantom enemy, splitting up to do that making them even more vulnerable to attack. Your job will be to take any safe chance that presents itself to slow down their advance."

Damn! How did John explain guerilla tactics without a reference to angry American colonials pot-shotting British soldiers as the Brits' returned from Lexington and Concord? Or, for that matter, what happened to the ponderous American army in Vietnam.

"I can do that," Golden said soberly. Not we. But I. An assertion John believed. For, once-upon-another-time, John remembered seeing Golden throw knives with deadly accuracy. Figured that if the young man could handle arrows as well as he could "shivs," he'd be a one man wrecking crew -- John not wanting to explain what a wrecking crew might be.

The plan communicated, smiles conquered frowns on the sailor's faces.

"If there is time," Golden added, "we can make barriers on the trail. Dig traps."

"Good. Get to it, then."

John's men jumping to obey the lesser of the orders he might have given, he turned to weave his way around the last of Realgar's trees, again to halt at the edge of the crimson band.

Sucking in a calming breath -- he'd caught some of the others' fear -- he eased a foot across the border, the Cinnabar sky now a scarlet flame, the air resembling November's chill. Finding that his forward foot would "hold," carefully lifting his other foot, he slid it across the line, John now wholly within the ruby band.

To experience ... some pull ... though less than anywhere he'd been in this world of shifting gravity bands.

Looking down, he saw he was up to his ankles in brittle brown grass, his steps crunching the scraggly plants to powder, the dust floating around him, too little gravity to make the grass-granules settle, John already feeling like sneezing as the pulverized vegetation rose to tickle his nose.

The only way to get out of the swirl of grass-powder was to keep moving -- John taking another step to find that the most mincing motion threatened to bounce him skyward -- perhaps never to float down again.

This was no way to make progress, John bending over to examine the ground.

Grass.

Brittle if stepped on; the tangled roots of it straggling out of bare ground.

A potential solution to his motion problem?

Sliding the toes of his soft leather boots along the ground, he was able to hook them under the grass runners in front of him, the root-tangle ... holding.

So, the way to make time -- though still at an agonizingly slow pace -- was to shuffle forward, sliding your shoes under the swirl of grass growing from loose soil.

Standing carefully, scuttling forward, he passed the damaged trading slab, after that circling the geysers of blasted-up earth, grass-powder masking his wake like a heavy fog.

He was bird dogging Pfnaravin, though, the track through the grass in front of him clear to anyone looking for it.

John wondered if the invisible "flyers" high above were aware of his presence, these "bird men" reputed to have the eyes of eagles.

Before him, the ground rose and fell, the terrain more swells and depressions than hillocks and valleys, Pfnaravin somewhere ahead. And Ellen, John increasingly thinking of her as his ticket home, instead of as the love interest she used to be.

John wondered of Pfnaravin's "rock" solution to the low gravity problem was better than John's method of snaking forward. Not that it mattered. However long it took, John was determined to catch the shifty Mage.

Except that John was going more slowly than a moment ago. Now, slower still.

Trying to avoid a quick movement that could spring him into the sky, John bent down again to look at his feet. Saw that, beside the grass roots keeping him from flying up with every step, his ankles had picked up silver threads, the threads slowing him down.

Careful to keep one foot secure under grass roots, he tried to wrench the other foot free, only to fail, John now seeing threads wrap themselves?? around his knees.

No. Not wrapping themselves. For, looking closer, John saw that tiny spiders spun these threads, spider-webs now circling his ankles and knees, John no longer able to move.

Attempting to flail his arms to wrench himself loose, John found his hands and arms drawn to his sides, multiple spider spinnings pinning them there with the combined strength of iron.

Wrapped up before he realized it, he heard a creaking sound, John straining in the vermilion light to see the ground open before him, a hole yawning five feet ahead.

From the cavity, bending over to exit a narrow tunnel, then stretching up, up -- to eight feet tall at least -- were ... men. Or what John took for men: small, alabaster heads atop elongated bodies; long, thin arms ending in white, finger-tendriled hands.

Men. Coming out from underground. One after the other. Five. Ten. Straightening to circle him.

Were these the "flyers" of Cinnabar? Could John talk to them?

"I'm John Lyon, the Mage of Stil-de-grain," he said, in as authoritarian a voice as a man could make, bound hand and foot.

Nothing. Except for the men yo-yoing spider threads at his body, the ends circling his waist, sticking there. After that, the man-creatures moving from the front, they tugged on the threads behind him until John was toppled on his back, his head hitting hard enough to produce the kind of stars never seen in this iron domed world.

The last John saw of the dusty, vermilion light of Cinnabar was when, first his body, then his head, was pulled down the "man" hole, the trap door closing to shut out the sky.

It was as if the earth itself had swallowed him -- as a first step to digesting him whole!

* * * * *

Chapter 22

The sailors and Golden were doing what the Mage said to do. But not Platinia. She was following the Mage. Her Mage. Able to do that because she had seen what the Mage had done. Trap his feet in the grass.

Platinia could do that.

And she did do that.

He did not see her because of the dust he was making, and that was good. Platinia could not breathe the dusty air, and that was bad. What she could do was walk to the side to stay out of the Mage's dust. To one side, she could breathe. A little better.

She did not like this place. A place where she was even smaller than in other places. She did not look smaller. But was sure she was smaller because she felt so tiny!

And she was cold, small people going cold faster than big people. Platinia pulled her robe tight around her because of the cold.

The sky was a pretty red. But she soon was tired of looking up at it.

As she walked, she made sharp sounds in the dry grass. But she got tired of listening to those sounds.

There were no trees to see here. No colored birds. No pretty flutterbys. Right away, she was tired of looking at the dust the Mage was making up ahead. And that she was making back behind.

If she stopped for even a short time, the dust came up to make her sneeze.

There was nothing interesting here. She wished the Mage would turn back.

And there it was again! That voice inside her head. A voice no one else could hear, but that she could hear. A voice she had heard for an up-light. Maybe two.

Pfnaravin's voice!

He was entering her mind as she could do to other people's minds. Sometimes. Not to make her feelings stronger as she could do to others. But to ... steal her thoughts about the Mage, John-Lyon. Was he following Pfnaravin? Did John-Lyon carry with him the golden Crystal-Disk of Stil-de-grain?

Though Platinia tried to keep her secrets from the old Mage, she could not. John-Lyon did have his Mage-Crystal. She had felt it through his robe after the Mage of the green eyes slept. High in a tree. She had not meant to find that out. Only to touch the Mage, Platinia liking to do that when it was safe. When he was asleep.

The Mage Pfnaravin was a bad man. And still, she could not keep him from her thoughts. He knew what she knew. She could not help that.

It was also true that when the old Mage forced a thread of Mage-Magic into her mind, on the same thread, could she see back into his mind. A little. He still had the woman with him. Finding that out, Platinia did her best to make the Mage, Pfnaravin, hate this Ellen, so that he would hill her. But Platinia could not do that because Pfnaravin had no feelings about the woman. He did not love her. He did not hate her. He did not think of her at all. It was enough for the old Mage too know that the women was why John-Lyon came after him. Pfnaravin wanted John-Lyon to come. Platinia could not tell why.

Up ahead, John-Lyon had stopped, Platinia almost catching up before she could think to stop also!

After that, there came a sound in this red land of dust. A sound different from the crunch of feet that made the dust.

Looking ahead, moving a little forward so she could see through the dust she had made by stopping, she saw the ground ... become a hole.

Men were coming out, Platinia bending low very much, making herself small so she could hide.

Men. White men. Tall men. Little heads. Long arms and legs. Thin arms. Thin legs. Thin fingers.

Quickly picking one to think about, sifting through his mind, he was thinking about ... spiders. More than thinking. He was ... causing the little spiders to do what they did, this man having the little spiders spin webs around John-Lyon.

John-Lyon spoke, but she was too far back to understand what he said.

After that, the spider men -- for that was what they were -- pulled John-Lyon until he fell. Began dragging the Mage toward the hole in the ground.

She could see into the minds of these spider men ... because they all thought alike ... all very much afraid.

As quickly as she could, Platinia followed after the spider men. Saw them drag John down into the ground. Saw the hole in the earth close up.

Arriving at the hole that was no hole, Platinia felt until she found the edge of the hole. Digging in her fingers, she pulled up a ... flap ... the earth coming up easily to show the hole again.

While the tall, tall men had to bend over to enter, Platinia did not. Instead, she went down the hole, turning to close up the earth door behind her.

Inside, there was a glow. It was the walls. Glowing with a weak, blue light. But enough light to see by.

Ahead -- the ceiling taller, taller -- the men were pulling John-Lyon, except that now, the inside of the hole through the ground was covered by something soft. Soft and springy.

It was the web of spiders, Platinia thought.

Again, she thought the thoughts of the men-spiders.

Afraid. They were afraid of the Mage. Even though their little spiders had tied him up.

Picking through the tall mens' one and only mind, she saw they were afraid of being ... broken. That if they were to touch something ... hard ... their arms and legs would break. That was the reason for the soft webs around the underground hole. So that they did not touch something hard.

Fear was what they felt. Something Platinia could strengthen.

Concentrating on their fear, Platinia began to think it stronger. Stronger, still. Until the men pulling John-Lyon let him go, the spider men running this way and that in panic. Racing up the walls. Running across the ceiling.

It was easy for Platinia to do. Make the spider men afraid.

They saw her now. But did not come after her because they were afraid of her, too. Afraid of ... everything.

Shifting her mind, she doubled their fear of the Mage.

"Release me," she heard the Mage say, John-Lyon also sensing the fear of the tall men.

And ... they did, spraying something from their hands at the Mage, the webs fastened to him falling away, the Mage standing.

Now, she was near the Mage. Then beside him.

"Platinia," he said, surprised. But was not angry.

"They will not hurt you," Platinia said, not thinking of anything else to say. "They are afraid of you."

"That does seem right. But how do you know that?"

Platinia did not know what to say. It was her secret that she was an etherial. That she could increase someone's thoughts. Make they feel ... more.

"They are ...." What was that word Platinia wanted? She tried again. "They ... break."

"Break?"

"They are men ... of ... glass." That was not right, but what else could she say?

The Mage just looked at her with his sharp green eyes. She tried again. "They break ... easy."

"You're saying they're fragile?"

That was a word that was better than glass.

"Yes. Fragile. They break easy."

"I can see that," said the Mage, looking ahead of him at the many spider men, some tall men crouched on the tunnel floor, some on the wells, some stuck to the ceiling. All stopped. As if, by not moving, they could hide. "In such light gravity they would grow tall but maybe not have strong bones. Astronauts have to exercise a lot to keep their muscle and bone mass. If they don't, they waste away in null gravity."

Platinia did not know what the Mage meant. But that did not bother her. Often, she did not know what John-Lyon of the green, green eyes, talked about. She was not ashamed because others did not understand him, either.

Still speaking to Platinia, the Mage said, "Let's see if we can get some answers."

Turning back, the Mage spoke to the spider men, still stuck to the walls and floor and ceiling. "I am the Mage of Stil-de-grain. I have great power."

Noise. A light noise. A fast noise. The spider men ... talking.

"Stop," the Mage said in a loud voice.

They stopped.

"You," the Mage said, pointing to the nearest tunnel-man who was half-way up the wall; near to the Mage because he could not get farther away since he was blocked by others on the wall and on the ceiling over head. "You be the one to answer my questions."

The spider man seemed to understand.

"Do you have a leader?"

"It is to answer yes," squeaked the man in a tiny, tiny voice.

Platnia had heard mice squeak louder as they ran from cats.

"Lead me to him. I want to speak to him."

And that is what they did. All of the tunnel-men turning to walk away, some dropping to the floor, others walking along the walls, some still on the ceiling. All going away, the Mage following, but in a ... funny ... way. Bouncing. From the floor to the ceiling and back down again, to bounce up, then down. Up and down. Up and down.

Remembering to follow, Platinia also bounced. To the ceiling, then back down. It was the light pull of this Band. Also the webs, that were soft and ... springy.

"Stop." The tall, thin men stopped, looking back. "There's got to be a better way. How do you stick to the floor and walls?"

"Stick we do, by this," said the same spider man, waving his long arms. At least Platinia thought it was the same one, the tall men all looking the same.

"Show me."

Though very much afraid, the man-of-the-tunnel -- for that was what this long hole in the ground was called, a tunnel -- came up to John-Lyon, bending down to show his hands to the Mage.

"Secretion," said John-Lyon, another mystery word. "Since we cannot do that," he continued, "there must be some other way for us to walk. To stay on the floor."

Platinia could tell that the tall, white man understood. Trying hard, she could also hear with her mind that he was calling to the tiny spiders, the little ones coming as fast as their many legs would work.

Not able to follow the fast speech of the spider men, Platinia was still able to understand that they wanted the Mage and Platinia to lift up their feet from the floor.

"We are to lift up our feet from the floor," she said to the Mage.

"How do you know that?"

"I know."

Believing her, John-Lyon pulled up his foot, Platinia also. And quick, quick, the tiny spiders wrapped webs around the Mage's shoes and around Platinia's shoes.

Putting the wrapped feet down, lifting their other feet, the spiders did the same, John-Lyon and Platinia now having ... sticky ... webs that ... fastened them to the web floor. But only until they wished to walk. Pull up, and their shoes came loose, to stick again with another step.

"Good," John-Lyon said, the spider men pleased they had made him happy. Platinia could see that in their many-one minds.

And they were off, all walking on the floor of the tunnel, the spider men leading.

Past big rooms. Rooms where tiny spiders wove webs. Great sheets of webs.

Then, Platinia understood. The spiders were making the silk cloth that came from The Cinnabar. The fine Mage-cloth was made of Spider silk.

Rooms. Rooms. Rooms. Rooms.

Finally into another room with a spider man sitting on a soft, silk chair at the other end.

The Mage, now alone, walked to the man, Platinia following. "I am John-Lyon, Mage of Stil-de-grain," he said.

"I am Mage Cryo," said the man in his tiny, tiny voice, the man speaking so ... weak ... it was hard for Platinia to hear him.

"I would speak to your King," John-Lyon said.

"King?"

"Your leader."

"Leader are we all."

"I don't understand."

"All together, leader are we," he said, trying to explain.

"You have no King?"

"All King."

John turned to Platinia, a question in his eyes.

"They think together."

"And what does that mean?"

"They have ... one thought. All together."

"A group mind?"

Platinia did not know what a group mind might be, but she thought maybe the Mage had understood.

"All right," said John-Lyon, turning to the spider man again. "I seek the evil Mage of Malachite, Pfnaravin."

Fear! Platinia felt fear at that name!

"Him, the Mage, I know. Kill many."

"At the trading floor?"

"That is where he did," said the man's tiny voice, the man waving his long arms very much.

"You tried to stop him like you did me?"

Head bow, a little. "Others not to come here."

"And he used his Crystal against you."

Head bob. Agreeing. Very much fear!

"Where is he now?"

"Down the land."

"Down land?"

Hand wave to agree.

"Can you take me to him?"

"down-light soon."

"After up-light?"

"You go. We stay."

"You won't be able to help? Is that what you're saying?"

"Down the land. So no go. Unsafe."

Platinia has heard others talk of down land. It was the edge of the world. You could fall off.

"You have quarters where we can sleep until up-light?"

"Yes."

"And food?"

"Yes."

"But you can't help with Pfnaravin?"

"Tried. Very power much. Hope ...."

"That I'll get him for you."

Was the Mage reading the spider-Mage's mind? Platinia did not know. Knew only that, soon, John-Lyon would be alone to fight Pfnaravin. So alone even Platinia could not help.

Now, Platinia was afraid!

* * * * *

Chapter 23

Though Pfnaravin had much to do to control the situation, he was supremely confident he would seize absolute power. With enough supplies to complete his mission, the only possible worry was the drain on his own Crystal's force, Pfnaravin still having to spend additional amounts of Crystal-power to probe the mind of the girl companion of the pretend Mage. And to maintain the ward-restraint necessary to keep the woman under control.

Upon crossing the border into Cinnabar, he'd had to use more Crystal-force than he'd intended. First, to blast through the tough, silk lines thrown up to prevent his penetration of the red band. After that, aware of movement under ground, he'd needed to exert even more power to blast whatever entities lurked below. And finally, it had taken extra energy to smash off hunks of rock from the flat trading table, a continued drain of Crystal-force needed to "attract" sizable rock-shards to the bottom of his boots so he had weight enough to walk in that lightly pulling band.

At last, he'd entered down-land -- the conclusion of his plan. For here, the rust colored light was too feeble for the pretend Mage, John-Lyon, to charge his Crystal, light in this dismal place as lifeless as the bare stones under foot.

His thorny eyes searching the terrain, his hawk nose failing to pick up a hint of odor, he was confident that even the daemon animals of down-light could not survive in this dry dead place.

Spending an additional fraction of his remaining Crystal-force, he probed the golden Gem of Stil-de-grain. Was pleased, as before, to feel ... nothing. With the pretend Mage's Crystal drained -- no chance in down land to recharge it -- what remained of Pfnaravin's power would be overwhelming!

Fortunately, the men following John-Lyon had stayed behind. For Pfnaravin did not know if he had the Disk-energy left to wither them all. All that mattered now was that he had sufficient force to kill the girl and the young Mage, after that, move forward to pick up the dead Mage's Crystal, the golden Gem of Stil-de-grain making Pfnaravin a double-Crystal Mage of fearsome power!

The Ellen woman disposed of, upon his return to Realgar (that Band's orange light strong enough to re-charge both Disks,) he would overwhelm Realgar's fat Mage, taking from his dead body the orange Crystal.

As triple Crystal-Mage, Pfnaravin would be invincible!

Careful to reserve as much force as possible, but needing to keep track of John-Lyon, he rubbed the Disk's green surface to send out a ward-tendril to his enemy.

Yes. John-Lyon was near. And nearer still. Traveling underground.

Pfnaravin was ready!

* * * * *

John and Platinia had been hurtling after the tunnel-men, the trick to going fast, pushing forward to half run, half float.

He'd noticed another thing. That the tall, white men ahead stopped frequently to communicate up and down the tunnels, doing this by twitching long, silk threads running the length of the padded corridor, vibrations over the lines communicating information as surely as electric pulses sent over telegraph wires. There also seemed to be "thin spots" in the tunnel's roof through which the under ground men could glimpse the surface.

Though the talk of the tunnel men was too fast for John to decode, Platinia seemed to know what they were saying, Platinia assuring him the spider men were taking them straight for Pfnaravin, Pfnaravin waiting just beyond the Cinnabar border. Waiting in down-land, down-land the last stop before ... nothing.

Running, gliding, they'd been traveling longer than John could calculate.

Thinking back to up-light, he remembered how strange it had seemed to be offered the same food here you found in every band. Not that surprising since the produce of other bands was traded for Cinnabar silk. Spider silk. No wonder people who knew fashion -- people like Ellen -- were amazed by the feel of this world's cloth.

Thoughts to distract him from the coming war. For war it would be, if only between two combatants.

There was increased chittering up ahead, that high pitched twitter the language of the denizens of this blighted band. Also the panicky running up the walls and across the ceiling, John first seeing that upon his entrance to this silk shrouded world. To be interpreted as fear.

"What's happening, Platinia?" They had slowed, finally to stop, the others halted a ways ahead.

"They are at the end of the ... tunnel."

"So, what happens next?"

"They ... do not know."

"What?!"

John saw one of the men turn back to approach slowly.

"What's the trouble?" John asked, the man stooping to be at the Mage's height.

"We at the end are."

"And what does that mean? The end of where?"

"Above is down land." He pointed a slender, elongated arm. First, down the corridor, then up.

"Do you have a port here?"

The man turned to look at Platinia, these tunnel peoples' eyes, like their bodies, a milky white.

"A hole. To above." She pointed.

The man -- all of the men resembling the nearly transparent spiders John had seen in an "insect zoo" on earth -- seemed confused.

"Yes or no?" John said impatiently. Were there no Bands where people did the obvious without being told?

"At a time. Long. One went ... to surface. Come ... never back. Fell. Edge ... of world." There were other words, said so fast John couldn't register them, the man speaking in the rapid chirp of this band. Not that there was a need to pick up every word, the man's meaning clear. One of their kind had ventured to the surface and not come back, perhaps falling off the edge of the world. Or so this man believed.

"Shut tight. Never again go."

"But there has to be a way up, used by the man who was lost," John said, trying reason as a way to make sense of the situation.

The nod. What John had learned meant yes.

"No need for any of you to go to the surface. Just show me how to get out and I'm on my way."

"The ... Mage ... without."

"Pfnaravin is just outside?"

"Talking thread say so."

That would be the spider strands used for communication along the tunnels.

"You remember where the exit is?"

Nod.

"Then take me to it."

Turning, the tall, thin man walked slowly, John following, Platinia trailing, the man leading John through the waiting man-spiders, the others cringing away as John came through their cluster.

Stopped at the end of the silk-padded corridor, the tunnel slanting up, the man pointed ahead, John seeing nothing at first. Then, an outline behind the silk; a round pattern in the earth. Clearly, one of the exit points.

Behind them, the thin men were racing up the walls and over the ceiling to "spider" their way down the opposite wall, going round and round in a dizzying array of flailing limbs.

"Stop!" John commanded.

They stopped.

"You have done well," John said, softening his voice. "There is no need for any of you to go outside."

A chattering among them, John beginning to tell when their fast-talk pattern sounded happy and when it sounded sad, this time seeming as joyous as he'd heard it.

"My advice is to draw back." A suggestion that didn't seem to have translated. "Go back down the tunnel so that nothing bad can happen to you."

That, they got, the men turning quickly, running away, using the corridor floor, walls, and ceiling. Chittering happily, their chirping noises disappearing to ... silence.

Time to try the port hole, the corridor rising, the tunnel itself ending in a solid wall.

With no man-spiders to get in the way, John approached the portal, the spider webbing made to fit it. Feeling around the edge, John tried opening the door from several directions, finally locating a kind of hinge. Pushing the closure opposite to the hinge, John felt the circle ... give. Shoving harder, heard a groan -- indicating the hole cover's lack of use -- the trap door swinging up, the path to down-land open.

John turned to Platinia, the girl sometimes seeming to be attached to him by an invisible cord. "If our spider man friend is right, Pfnaravin is just outside. I've got to put on the Crystal to have a chance against him." She nodded. "Doing that sometimes makes me ... insane. Remember the time I hurt you because I was wearing the Crystal?" Again, the nod. "Though you never seem to do what I ask, this time, you've got to go back. If something happens to me, I'm sure these underground men will see that you return to Realgar. Once there, Coluth and Golden will take you wherever you want to go." No nod. No expression on her little girl's face. Platinia being Platinia.

Turning to the open passage again, John fumbled in the deep pocket of his robe; found the Crystal on its chain. Taking out the Gem, he looped the Disk's chain around his neck ......

So far, so good. No surge of the God-like feeling he sometimes got. Of course, when he rubbed the disk's surface to build a static electric charge sufficient to unleash the Crystal's force ....

No need to do that until the final confrontation with the Malachite Mage.

As ready as he was going to get, not needing to bend over as the tall men did, John emerged through the hole, John in down-land, down-land because this place tilted "down" toward oblivion.

Looking up, it seemed to him the sky-ceiling was no more than fifty feet over head, the reflected light a dull, red-brown. Hardly enough illumination to see the ground beneath his feet.

Ground?

Stone -- no dirt. No vegetation.

Fortunately, the spider webbing under his shoes stuck to stone as well as to the silk corridors under ground. Doubly fortunate because there was so little gravity. (He reminded himself to be careful to have one foot stuck to the stony ground before lifting the other foot. Jump ... and there was little to pull him back to earth, John to float helplessly ... for who knew how long.

The air ... had no smell. Was so dry he could feel it sucking water from his skin. Dry and cold, only the tension of the moment keeping him warm.

Squinting in the faded light, did he see something ahead? A tall column of stone?

No way to tell from this distance.

Time to go.

Setting out slowly, grateful the stony ground produced no dust to cloud his vision, his immediate concern was to keep one foot in full contact with the rock surface, a walking pace his best chance of doing that.

On and on, looking at his feet to be sure they stuck to the rocks.

Reddish brown light. Step after hypnotic step. Until ....

A cruel laugh stopped him cold.

Head up, looking not that far away, John saw two figures, one as tall as the men underground. Had the spider men come to help him after all?

No. The extra tall person was ... Pfnaravin.

But ...?

Then, John knew. Pfnaravin was standing on the corners of the trading floor that he'd broken off to give himself extra weight in these outer bands.

Frantically, John rubbed the Crystal to build its deadly power. If he could direct electric fire at Pfnaravin before the old Mage could do the same to him, he might yet win the battle!

Though feeling no static charge build up on his body, John could wait no longer. Raising his hands, pointing his fingers at Pfnaravin, hoping not to hit Ellen (who was the smaller person beside the Mage,) John willed the fire to leap from his fingertips ....

Nothing.

Except for another evil laugh.

"It is as I thought," Pfnaravin barked. "There is no force in your Crystal. And too little light here to renew it. You are helpless, as I planned."

And John's last hope ... collapsed. For himself, at least.

"I'm the one you want," John said, trying to keep his voice firm.

"Because, pretend Mage though you are, you possess the golden Disk. At your death, the first to pick up the Crystal of Stil-de-grain becomes the Crystal's master. As you, yourself, became lord of the yellow Disk upon the death of the Mage Melcor."

"Since I'm who you want, I'll give myself over to you if you let the woman go."

Another laugh. "And what is it you have to bargain with, pretend Mage?"

A question with no answer, John's mind frantically searching for some leverage over Pfnaravin. Any leverage.

John heard the sound of a dislodged stone. Turned to see Platinia, the girl disobeying his orders for the final time.

Clinging to any hope, could he dodge the deadly electric bolt Pfnaravin would release at him, Pfnaravin's strike to come as soon as the devil-Mage finished playing with him, Pfnaravin the cat, John the helpless mouse?

Though still up-light, perhaps it was dark enough for Pfnaravin to miss. If John turned to run, dodging this way and that, he might still escape!

Except he couldn't even take the coward's way out. Not without leaving Ellen in Pfnaravin's power. Not without abandoning little Platinia.

Pfnaravin. So confident. So ... tall.

Tall, because he was standing on the stones Pfnaravin had blasted off the corners of the trading station just within Cinnabar, the stones to add weight in low gravity bands.

John's mind shying from the reality of imminent death, he wondered how Pfnaravin kept the stones attached to the bottom of his boots. Not with the help of the man-spiders, the tunnel-men commanding their spider helpers to weave sticky webs around John's and Platinia's shoes.

Mage Magic. That was how Pfnaravin held the stones to his boots. He was using a form of Mage restraint; like the force ensnaring Ellen.

Fire stones, Coluth had thought, the rock trading floor was made of fire stone.

Fire stones .....

John had an idea, a desperate idea better than none. Something to try that didn't take Crystal power.

What he'd remembered was that anyone -- including him -- could heat up fire stones in this place of magic. Not to the point of boiling water, but ....

Concentrating on the fire stones beneath Pfnaravin's boots, John began to think them ... hot, as he did that, felt another magic force at work. Platinia, still back of him, was adding her thoughts to his.

Meanwhile, tired of playing cat and mouse, Pfnaravin had started to rub his Crystal to build sufficient force to kill both John and Platinia.

Hotter.

Hotter.

With a yell, Pfnaravin released the fire stones, the old Mage jumping up, the fire stones glowing with a dull heat, the Malachite Mage continuing to drift skyward, Pfnaravin yelling, twisting his body in an attempt to regain control.

Rising, but not far, Pfnaravin hit the sharply sloping dome that substituted for the sky in this Bandworld.

Bouncing off the dome, spun about by the force of his hit, Pfnaravin again struck earth, but not the fire stones that held him to the ground, the old Mage colliding with the land only to rebound into the sky once more, headed for the dome not that far over head.

Screaming curses, still twisting, Pfnaravin pointed his hands at John and Platinia, loosing a Crystal blast with enough force to wither them both, the static-fire missing to the right, gouging stones but doing John no harm.

The force of the Crystal-blast increasing his spin, Pfnaravin ricocheting off the sky dome once more, this time coming back at an angle, headed, not for the stony ground but ....

Though the old Mage's curses could still be heard, his yell echoing from the iron dome above, the sounds were growing fainter. Fainter still, because ... Pfnaravin had plunged over the edge of the last Band of the world!

As if emerging from a spell, John saw Ellen, floating, floating toward the edge ....

And John was running after her, not thinking about planting one foot before lifting another!

Coming nearer! Nearer!

Grabbing her arm as she was drifting off the stony ledge and ... down ... John pulled her back.

"What ... happened," she asked. Released from Mage restraint, she was blinking her eyes in the faint light, safe now that John had a firm grip on her. "Where am I?"

"You're fine," John said, at long last believing it was true.

"I can't ... settle," she said.

"That's because there's so little gravity here."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. You're safe. I've got you."

"I'm tired," she said, closing her eyes, putting her head on his shoulder.

Now that the danger was over, now that he'd survived what he thought would be certain death, John had begun to shake, fighting with himself ... to settle.

All that remained was for John to take Ellen back, John turning to see Platinia ... waiting.

And yet ....

An irresistible urge had possessed him. A mesmeric "pull" emanating from sailors' yarns of sailing west, only to reach an ocean so hot it boiled the pitch from the seams of wooden ships. West -- to witness sea monsters dragging ships and their sailors to a watery grave, these and similar myths spawned from the fear of falling off the edge of the earth -- somewhere beyond the Azores -- off the coast of Spain.

Wrong country. Wrong time. John knowing it was only the farthest reaches of coincidence that had given him the chance to be the first adventurer to reach the edge ... of at least one world.

Was it curiosity? An impulse to flesh out an historic chimera?

John didn't know. Knew only that, now that he'd come this far, he must look ... over the edge of the world.

Gripping Ellen, shuffling to the rim, the edge slanting sharply to the void, he leaned over, to look down ... to see ... seeing ...........

Before turning to walk back to sanity. To the tunnels of the spider men. To Realgar. To Stil-de-grain.

And home.

* * * * *

Chapter 24

Seeing into John-Lyon's mind, Platinia had helped him heat the stones under the feet of the old Mage. After that, Pfnaravin flying up, the young Mage made him disappear. Where he had gone, Platinia did not know. Only knew that the magic of John-Lyon was greater than even she had known!

After that, John-Lyon holding on to the woman, they had gone back into the spider-men's tunnel, John-Lyon telling the woman she was safe from Pfnaravin, but that she would feel weak because of Band Sickness. Because Cinnabar was a stronger pulling band than down-land.

Platinia was glad to have been in down-land too short a time to catch Band Sickness!

The spider men, while very much afraid of the Mage -- Platinia making sure they feared his strength, also that his green, green eyes would melt them unless they obeyed him -- were very glad Pfnaravin was gone. At the Mage's wish, the tall, white men commanded their tiny spiders to spin webs around the woman's boots so she could walk in the tunnels.

As for the woman, she did not know what had happened except that, though weak like the Mage said she would be, she was no longer ill?? The Mage was glad to hear that, whatever "ill" might mean.

John-Lyon told the spider men he would keep their tunnels a secret. Promised that Platinia and Ellen would not tell, either. And Platinia would not, Platinia even more afraid of the Mage's power to punish than before. Afraid of him, but in love with him at the same time, Platinia not understanding how that could be. Mage-Magic was all she could think of to explain her fear/love.

They stayed with the tall white men and their tiny spider helpers until the woman could walk without tiring too much, leaving the spider-land by a tunnel opening near the band of Realgar.

Walking slowly, the dust from the dead grass rising around them, they soon met another grass-dust cloud coming the other way -- Admiral Coluth, Golden, and the sailors making that dust, the Admiral very much glad to see John-Lyon, saying he and Golden had to fight the Malachites very little, though fighting some in Realgar to slow them down. But mostly, seeing John-Lyon go into The Cinnabar, Coluth and the others had also crossed into the red band. That the Malachite soldiers, coming to the border, would not cross it, no matter how much their officer shouted at them.

So, the Malachites had turned back.

When the Mage, the other men, and Platinia crossed again into Realgar they were all very tired. Band Sickness.

It was so difficult to climb into a tree to be safe from the down-light horrors that Platinia had to have John-Lyon carry her up, the Mage with more strength than the others. Because his world was a heavy pulling band. Platinia had been there and that was the truth!

Resting in the tree, the sailors bringing up food, Realgar guards came. Climbing down, John-Lyon let the guards guide them to Helianthin's Mage Castle.

Entering the Mage castle, everyone came around them, smiling very much, laughing very much, all saying John-Lyon was a hero because he defeated Pfnaravin.

The fat Mage, Helianthin, said John-Lyon was a hero. Said that with many, many words.

Later in their room, John-Lyon said to Admiral Coluth that everyone was your friend when you were winning. Not many were your friends when you were losing. Platinia thought there was truth to that.

There were ceremonies, with much food to eat. There were speeches after banquets, but Platinia, eating very much, mostly fell asleep and did not hear what was said.

Messenger birds were taught to speak and sent. Golden ones flew to Stil-de-grain. Orange ones come from Stil-de-grain, returning to say that the Malachite ships at Xanthan island had gone home. With Pfnaravin gone, with John-Lyon seen as very powerful, the Malachites had said there should be peace and had gone home.

Platinia wished she could pet the pretty birds. Gagar had let her pet them in their cages. But the bird-man here did not let her. She did find a cat to pet! Two cats to pet!

They stayed for a long time in Realgar until all were cured of the Band Sickness.

After that, a boat from Stil-de-grain came to take them to Xanthin island.

Again, crowds came to the harbor and shouted very much. Thanking the Mage for ending the war.

Once more they were very sick with the heaviness, strong men carrying Platinia off the boat to lie down in the back of a pony cart, the cart taking her to Xanthin Palace where she was put to bed.

The Mage came to see her, which made her glad. He was sweating very much. They were all sweating very much because Stil-de-grain was a warmer band than Realgar. Cinnabar was even colder. Down-land colder still. The Mage told her about a people called Eskimos who lived in a very cold place. How they were too hot in places where everyone else was cold. How people got used to the places where they were living for a long time, Platinia thinking that was true.

As for Platinia, she would rather be too hot than too cold, but was glad when she was feeling stronger and when she was feeling not too hot again.

After a long time, John-Lyon said they must return to Hero castle. To take the woman home. But Platinia was not fooled. She knew the Mage would also go to that other world. She must stop him! For she could not be sure that the Mage would come back again. Not having the Mage near her would hurt her very much! Platinia had made the Mage love her once before. She must do that again so he would never go to the terrible other world.

* * * * *

For the first time in a long time John Lyon was at peace. Funny how, when you didn't have it, you wanted fame and fortune. And how quickly you tired of people fawning on you.

Away from the crowd at last, safe in Hero Castle, he could dress in a white cotton robe instead of in the more impressive Mage silk. Learning that Cinnabar spiders had spun the Mage-cloth had made him feel ... creepy; a feeling he hadn't been able to shake. Pound for pound, spider webs were stronger than steel. At least that was their reputation at home, strong and sticky enough to entrap bugs many times the size of spiders. John wondered how the white men of Cinnabar counteracted the webs' stickiness in order to spin cloth out of them. But hadn't wanted to stay in the red band long enough to find out. Nor had he discovered how the men communicated with the spiders. Or, what the spiders ate. Not bugs, surely, in that barren band.

Now that he knew the content of Mage-cloth, he'd rather wear cotton or wool, John never feeling friendly toward spiders. Not that he was afraid of them as were so many. It wasn't fear that made him cringe when putting on one of the ever so elegant Mage robes ... he told himself.

It had been at least two weeks since they'd journeyed from Canarin, taking the ferry over the Tartrazine, after that laboring up the increasingly stony Hero mountains to arrive at Hero Castle that morning, the castle slaveys finished serving the noon meal of meat, bread, gravy, and dried fruit -- John's party spaced along the harvest table in the castle's clerestory-lighted dining room. John, Coluth, and the Admiral's men -- the sailors, even the Admiral, dressed in the leather of common seamen. Also Golden -- elegant in anything he wore -- Platinia (in black), and Zwicia, the flabby, old weird in ever-present purple, a turban wrapped around what was left of her hair-wisps. Also Leet, Gagar to follow shortly.

Hero Castle -- where nothing seemed to change.

"Any news of Pfnaravin?" John asked, breaking a piece of heavy bread, following local custom by buttering it with his thumb.

"No," Coluth said, Golden nodding his agreement.

"No messenger birds flying to Gagar?"

"You, yourself, would have heard them speak."

"I suppose that's true. What I'd really like to talk about is what will happen in the Bands with Pfnaravin's crystal no longer in the picture?" What John didn't say was Pfnaravin's and John's Crystals no longer available for Magical output. For John was taking Ellen home, before down-light if he could -- something Golden knew, John giving Golden John's Mage-Disk before they turned in at last night's inn. The Crystal would perform only for John, of course, until John's death, John alert last night for any attempt on Golden's part to sneak up on John with evil intent, Golden doing nothing of the sort. Though possession of the Disk hadn't been enough to make Golden King of Malachite the last time he'd tried to overthrow Lithoid, it could still help Golden as a badge of authority.

"And Auro? No rumors about the evil Mage-King of Azare gaining back his strength?" John knew there'd been nothing new on Auro, either. Was just making the point that there had been a drastic reduction of Mage-Magic in the bands. Not all that bad, Crystal-Magic often used aggressively, as he well knew.

"I was wondering about another thing. Does the intensity of the light in different bands affect the power of Mage-Disks?"

No one seemed to know what he was talking about -- nothing new about that. Eyes lowered, the others continued spooning up meat and steamed vegetables. Taking gulps of mint flavored milk.

"There didn't seem to be any way to charge up a Crystal in down-land, for instance. If the slant of light off the dome makes a difference in a Crystal's power, Helianthin of Realgar -- living out toward the edge -- may have less Crystal-force than Mages located in the inner Bands. As for the Cinnabar Mage, Cryo (John wondering if the spider men's collective mind was the King,) he made no effort to use Disk-Magic. This could mean his Crystal has little power."

Speculation. But given the eventual shortage of Mage-Crystals, maybe an important one. Should Realgar try for "all the marbles," for instance, it might not matter to the defense of Stil-de-grain for Helianthin to have this world's only working disk. Provided it couldn't produce much Crystal-force.

So much for that topic.

"What about you, Zwicia? Has your Weird-Disk shown any danger lurking around the corner?"

Oinking her head up from her trough, Zwicia fluttered her eyes and hands. "No see'a. No see'a."

"Anything about Pfnaravin?"

"No see'a! No see'a!"

"Thank you, Zwicia." No sense agitating the old woman with more questions. Particularly, since her answers were usually unintelligible. "No see'a," would have to do for the present.

"My plan is to return home with Ellen," John announced, to no one's particularly surprise. It wasn't the first time John had returned to Hero Castle for the purpose of taking the static-electric "bridge" between worlds. "The reason I asked about the absence of Crystal power is that, while I'm gone, the only working Crystals will be in the hands of Helianthin, and, maybe, of Cryo of Cinnabar. That's assuming that Auro is out of the picture for good. Since Mages seem to think their Crystals give them license to take over the world, I think it would be a good idea to let them believe that my Crystal is still operative. By the way, I've loaned my Disk to Golden in hopes, as a badge of authority, it will help him overthrow his uncle"

Nods all around.

"There will still be magic in the light. Fire stone magic. Healing magic. Language translation -- that kind of thing. All beneficial. Though Zwicia's Disk can be helpful -- at least hasn't been harmful -- Bandworld may be better off without Crystal Magic."

"May I ask, great Mage, will you return?" Coluth. Raw boned as ever. His weathered skin looking smoother in interior light.

"I ... don't know."

"We would all welcome you."

"Thank you. And when I've returned to my own world I'll miss the lot of you. I have more friends here than at home." Something of a revelation, even to John. About the only friend John had at home was Paul, John's feelings for Ellen complicating even that limited friendship. He would miss these people.

"You will go this day?" Golden. Always with a direct question. Dark sober eyes. Black hair cropped closer than Stil-de-grain style: the short hair of the serious athletic.

"That's the plan. Zwica to stay here at Hero Castle. Platinia, as well. Coluth to continue bringing the navy up to speed. Without Crystal-Magic, the regular military is more important than ever.

"And you, Golden, do what you must to unseat Lithoid. I think everyone in the Bands would sleep better if you were king of Malachite. Just don't get yourself killed."

"As you say," Golden answered, whatever that might mean. John had never quite figured out the multi-talented youth, not that he had to.

"Since it falls to me to strengthen the navy," Coluth said, "might I ask the secret of the magic of the fire stone ship?"

"I've given that a lot of thought, Coluth. And I think it's better if no ideas from my world are allowed to take root here."

An answer that didn't please the Admiral. "This world was started by the ideas of the Hero," Coluth countered, knowing John well enough that he could argue -- a little. "It was the Hero who, in the long ago, went to your world and returned with all this knowledge." Coluth waved his hands at the room, meaning the medieval ideas that underpinned Bandworld.

"I know. But I think that was a special case. To add additional information from my world would speed up what should be the natural development of this land. A dangerous thing to do in unforseen ways." John wasn't exactly sure what he'd just said, but thought the principal was right. Put guns in the hands of children and disaster was sure to follow.

Coluth bowed, at least seeming to understand.

"I have great confidence in all of you to run your affairs just fine without me. Then, again, I may return, if only to see how well you're doing."

"We will look forward to that day," said Golden.

Ellen, taking no part in the conversation, was none-the-less smiling, Ellen entirely well now. John's only concern was that, back in their world, Band magic might fail. A small worry, though. Nothing he'd accomplished here in the past had "evaporated" on his return to his own world.

So ended the meal. Everything of importance discussed. Time to go.

"I'll say goodbye here. At least for now," John's meaning clear; that they were not to follow him to the tower room.

Everyone at the table bowed.

Sidling along the trestle, the others doing the same, John's people -- for that was who they were -- formed a double line of honor for John and Ellen to walk through.

And the two of them were off, first to pass the fire stone warming pit, then through the long, tapestry bedecked room, and into a twisting passageway, John to keep going up as the best way to stay on track, always up.

John had learned more about the castle's halls, however, enough to find the tower room without getting lost -- more than a couple of times.

* * * * *

Down-light upon them, Platinia, dressed in black to blend with the shadows between newly lighted torches, backed away with no one noticing, to follow the Mage and the woman.

* * * * *

Though John was interested to see if he could find the tower, he made himself walk at Ellen's leisurely pace. Was she still weak from Band Sickness?

"I'll be glad to get home," Ellen said, going slower still. "But I'd like a last look at Xanthin. My tour of the city was interrupted, as you'll remember."

"Never should have let you out of my sight," John grumped.

"A medieval city. A functioning medieval city," she purred, as if she hadn't heard his complaint.

"And that's one problem I haven't solved," John admitted.

"What?"

"How this legendary hero in the 'long ago,' journeyed from the tower room in this castle, returning later with the medieval ideas on which this civilization is built."

"I don't think I follow you."

"If he left from the tower room, he'd have ended up under the stairs in my house. Or rather, in the place where the house was later constructed. Much later. When he arrived, the site of my future house must have been in open, Indian country. He couldn't have materialized in stone age America. No way he could have gotten from there to medieval Europe."

"Easy," Ellen said. "There has to be another exit point to our world. One coming out some place else."

"Why didn't I think of that," John said, chagrined.

"Because you've had too much to do. Too much to worry about. Me, for instance. And the people of Stil-de-grain."

She was giving him an out for his stupidity. Better take it. "Maybe."

"Back to the important topic," she said, smiling up at him in the fire stone light as they passed another of the corridor torches, blue eyes flashing, gold hair mirroring the saffron light. "There's got to be a place where I can get a last look at Xanthin down the hill."

"There is. If only I can remember how to get there. I know there's a door that exits to a battlement. An observation point, would be my guess. Used for the appraisal of an attacking army. Even if I can't find the door, it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get back on track."

"Well worth getting lost," Ellen enthused.

And he was off down a side corridor, one he thought he remembered blundering into on a previous "romp" through the twisted turns of the castle's corridors.

Yes. There was the door. At the end of the short hall.

The bar-way stopping them, after some strain, he was able to drag back the heavy, oak slab, the two of them stepping through the casement to find themselves on a narrow walkway; no barricade to prevent someone from taking a four story plunge to the Castle's stone courtyard.

John had a flash of insight. The former caretaker of Hero Castle was an old, blind man named Chryses. Who, according to Platinia, fell to his death off the castle wall, this the perfect spot for an accident like that.

Taking Ellen's hand, John made sure that, in her 'medieval' enthusiasm, she didn't get too close to the edge.

* * * * *

Now was Platinia's time! Chryses knew she was an Etherial. And so Chryses must die before he hurt her, like every man who'd known of her special, strengthening powers had hurt her. It was here that, picking through his mind, she had found ... weariness ... with life. Strengthening that feeling until it became despair, the old, blind man had walked off this ledge.

Platinia was sorry. But she had to protect herself from those who knew about her power.

This time, she would search through the mind of Ellen, this woman too much in the Mage's mind. Find the bad feelings there, about herself, about the world. Strengthening those feelings, Platinia would get the woman to jump off, too.

Concentrating, Platinia began to pick through the woman's mind, the woman talking on and on about the city below. How ... charming ... it was. How ... historical.

Frantically, Platinia looked for "dark" thoughts. Looked hard.

But found none.

The woman was completely happy. Happy to be well. Happy to be here. Happy to be going home.

With no bad thoughts to build into deadly ones, Platinia was helpless, Platinia giving up trying to make the woman feel so bad this Ellen would ... jump.

Drawing back, Platinia would have to find some other way to keep the Mage from leaving. To make the Mage love her.

* * * * *

"Had enough?" John asked, after what seemed to him to be forever.

"Never! But ... I'm ready to go back." She sighed. "Is it possible, what they said at dinner?"

"What?"

"That you will return here some day?"

"Maybe."

"Could a girl hitch a ride, if you do?"

"After what you've been through here?"

"I know that's true. But, knocked out as I was, I didn't suffer. Mostly, I had a great time. And I'm cured to boot."

* * * * *

Tears wetting her eyes, Platinia drew back. Turned. Ran on mouse-quiet feet to get to the room above before John-Lyon and the woman came there.

* * * * *

Round and round, rising, John led Ellen to the tower, the two of them entering that musty room with the shattered ceiling. Careful not to slip on its mossy floor, John went to the hiding place in the wall, pulling back the secret, stone door to take out the old, hand cranked Van de graff.

"Stand here beside me, Ellen," he said. "As close as you can. We both must get charged up to make the jump."

Shadows beneath the stone table hiding her where she lay -- her robe dirty from the wet-dust floor and with green stains where she had crushed the floor's moss -- Platinia had one more chance to keep the love of John-Lyon of the green, green eyes. To do that, she concentrated with all her heart and mind on strengthening his love, such strengthening working before, Platinia making John-Lyon love her. Kiss her.

Building. Building his love ....

Unexpectedly, John-Lyon took the woman into his arms and kissed her, the woman returning his kiss ....

* * * * *

"You were right," Ellen said, breathing hard but stepping back. "This place changes you. Nothing here is the same as at home. We love each other now. You love me. And I love you. Love you for more than bringing me here where I've gotten back my health, gotten back my life. I can never thank you enough. But once we're back home, we'll return to normal. We'll be friends again."

Easy for you to say, John thought ... but, of course, didn't say.

* * * * *

Platinia had lost again. Lost ... everything.

Turning her face away, she could not keep from listening to the whirring machine as it made transformation fluid.

Finally to hear nothing ... even Platnia's sobs choked to silence by the round stone room.

###

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 Ellen Under The Stairs, you'll probably also like Book #4 in the Bandworld Series: Two Worlds Under The Stairs. Book #4 (eBook) is currently available at the author's web site for $5.00.

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

Ellen Under The Stairs