Madwand (Illustrated) (29 page)

“Perhaps you’ll have another opportunity one day,” Pol said. “But thank you for this service. It was timely, and well done.”

Belphanior handed him the yellow cloak.

“Your own garments are in need of repair. Perhaps the sorcerer’s robe . . . ”

“Thanks.”

Pol took it into his hands. The light fabric felt strange, yet at the same time familiar. There was a small patch of white on the inside, below the collar. He raised it and looked more closely.

CUSTOM-MADE IN HONG KONG ran the words upon it.

He almost dropped the cloak as he was taken by a sudden chill.

“May I assist you, accurséd master?”

“No. I’ll manage.”

He drew it about his shoulders and fastened it at the neck. He straightened his legs painfully, rising upon them. The ache in his left side grew stronger. Larick, too, was attempting to rise. He extended his hand. Larick looked at it for a moment, then took it and pulled himself up. He did not release it for a moment, however, but continued to stare at the dragonmark. Then he looked up at Pol’s hair.

“I never knew,” he said at last.

“I only learned at the last possible moment myself,” Pol said.

Over his shoulder, Pol saw that Mouseglove was seated upon the windowsill, staring. A moment later, the small man shouted something out the window and dropped to the floor.

“Moonbird couldn’t follow the chair,” he called out. “It was moving too fast.”

Pol nodded. As Mouseglove came toward him, he saw that Ryle and Taisa were also approaching.

Larick turned toward the woman, smiling. She moved past him, placed her arms about Pol’s neck and kissed him.

“Thank you,” she said, at last. “I thought this day would never come, till wandering in spirit I saw you brought here. I knew somehow that you would free me.”

As he gazed past her, Pol saw a peculiar look pass over Larick’s face. He disentangled himself quickly, pushed her gently back and bowed despite his aching side.

“I am pleased to have helped,” he said, “but it was hardly my doing alone. It was simply—circumstance.”

“You are modest.”

Pol turned away.

“We’d best see to Ibal and Vonnie immediately.”

The old sorcerer looked young again but was still unconscious. Vonnie’s beauty had for the most part returned and its enhancement continued as Pol watched. She smiled up at him.

“He’ll be all right,” she said. “I just wanted to keep him from awakening until the cosmetic spell was in place. We can repair the rejuvenation spells later.”

She picked up the magic mirror and regarded herself in it. She smiled.

“Vanity, I know,” she said. “Delightful thing.”

“Let us,” Ryle said, coming up beside them, “repair to more congenial quarters. Perhaps your servant can bring Ibal, Pol.”

“That will not be necessary,” Vonnie answered, holding the mirror before Ibal’s face.

Ibal’s eyes opened. He considered his reflection, then began to rise.

“Lead on,” she said. “We will follow.”

XXIII.

Night had fallen. In a large chamber in the castle Avinconet, six jeweled figurines were grouped at the center of a series of concentric circles painted upon the floor; among these circles and about them various Words and Signs had also been executed. It had taken the entire day to situate them so, for every possible thing that could have gone wrong—from spilled paint, mispronounced Words, incorrectly drawn figures, a series of earth tremors and troops of marauding vermin who had marred the pattern—had gone wrong.

At last, however, the final spell had been pronounced, the final line drawn, the final gesture executed. Immediately, the interference had ceased. The Keys were contained.

Now Pol, Larick, Ibal, Vonnie, Ryle, Taisa, Mouseglove and Belphanior sat, reclined, stood, paced, drifted as an invisible cloud, took refreshment, rested and conferred at the farther end of the large room.

“ . . . Then I don’t understand why they didn’t help Spier,” Mouseglove was saying.

“I believe that they were helping Spier all along,” Ryle replied, “but we finally exhausted them, too, for a little while. Long enough, though. Almost.”

“You say that, theoretically, he could still open the Gate with the one Key?” Mouseglove asked.

“He told Pol that he could, and I believe that he’s right. It would probably take a lot of effort, though. I just don’t know for certain. He’s the greatest living authority.”

“What now?” Larick asked, from where he sat beside Taisa who was looking at Pol who was looking at the book he held in his lap.

“They’re neutralized now, but I will not rest until all seven Keys are destroyed,” Ryle said. “They could still be stolen or freed somehow and the thing could start all over again.”

“I can guard them against mortal thieves for a time,” Mouseglove offered.

 . . . 
And I against those of the other variety,
Belphanior said from somewhere.

“But
can
they be destroyed?” Taisa asked. “After everything we tried on them earlier . . . ”

“Everything that exists has some weakness.” Ibal said, lowering his goblet. “We will have to explore carefully.”

“It’s in here,” Pol said. “Far back, and scattered, but our father did leave some clues. I’ve already come across a few new ones. I am going to have to read through the entire thing now and put them all together. It will take a while . . . ”

“It must be done,” Larick said.

“Yes.”

“I cannot help but admire their vision,” Ibal said. “You know, if I were Madwand rather than a traditionally trained man of the Art, I don’t believe that I would be sitting here with you.”

Ryle looked at him sharply.

Ibal chuckled.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said. “You were in on it at the beginning, till you learned that one important fact. And if you had been Madwand, what then, Ryle?”

Ryle looked away.

“I can’t deny it,” he said. “It’s wrong, but I hate them as much for shattering that vision as for anything else.”

“I did not say it just to irritate you,” Ibal continued, “but as a caution: Trust no more Madwands than those here present—unless they be well-proven.”

“You think Spier may now seek allies?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I believe I am onto something,” Pol said, turning a page. “I don’t think this is going to be easy . . . ”

A feeling of tension came into the room, as if the air pressure had suddenly been raised. It built for several seconds and then subsided.

“What was that?” Mouseglove asked.

The Keys attempted to shatter their confines,
Belphanior announced.
But they failed. Your spells proved more than adequate.

“Very promising.” Larick said. “Keep reading, brother. And mark that passage.”

Later, invisible and drifting, I was the only audience save for a drowsing dragon, when Pol sat upon the ramparts of Avinconet and played his guitar, slowly, with bandaged hands. I counted myself fortunate to have gained my name and found my calling in life that day. As I listened to his song, I decided that he must not be too bad, as accurséd masters go. I rather liked his music.

Then a strange thing happened, for my perceptions are not as their perceptions and I like to feel that they are far less readily tricked. The moon broke forth from behind a cloud, infusing the land with its pale light; and falling upon him there, it made it seem for a moment that Pol’s hair was white with a dark streak down the middle, rather than the other way around. In that moment, I recalled an infant perception of my creator, and it seemed that I looked again upon the face of Det overlaying Pol’s own, masklike. The image had a more than natural strength in the impression it made upon me, and the memory it created was somehow an uncomfortable thing.

But it was gone in an instant, and the music continued. Is life a quick illusion or a long song? I asked myself, as I was in need of new philosophical pursuits.

About the Author

ROGER ZELAZNY is a Hugo and Nebula Award winning writer. His science fiction career began in 1962 with his first short story sale, and by 1965 it became clear that his was a talent to be reckoned with. He won two Nebulas that year, for "He Who Shapes" (which was expanded into the novel
The Dream Master)
and for "The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth." Zelazny's novels include
Lord of Light, Creatures of Light and Darkness, Isle of the Dead,
and the very popular Amber Series.

Mr. Zelazny lives in New Mexico.

About the Artist

JUDY KING RIENIETS, originally from Iowa, studied art at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. She says that she became a fantasy illustrator "by accident" — while selling her fine art prints at a Renaissance Fair, her work was spotted by members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, who then and there talked her into showing at the next Science Fiction WorldCon. That year in Florida she was awarded two honorable mentions in the professional division. This auspicious debut brought her a commission to illustrate one of the stories in Ace's
Dragons of Light
anthology, and one of her paintings appeared in a Tolkien Calender. When the time came to choose an illustrator for
Madwand
,
there was really only one choice.

Ms. Rieniets lives in Maryland, and is associated with the Pendragon Gallery.