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Seven: Hope Never Comes

 

1

The lowermost dungeon at Quern lay far underground, an odious cavern carved out centuries ago from the living rock. The darkness was absolute, the air unbreathable, and water dripped constantly. Sanitation was left to natural seepage. Once a day a squad of soldiers delivered food under the direction of the chief jailer. It was the most unwelcome assignment in the fortress.

Torches sputtered, emitting foul fumes and casting evil shadows on the rough walls. The chief jailer peered cautiously through the iron bars of the gate, making sure the corridor beyond was unoccupied. Then he jangled keys and set to work on the rusty locks—five of them. At his back, soldiers were gagging already in the stench.

The gate creaked open unwillingly. With swords drawn, the squad advanced through it and then halted while it was locked behind them. And then they advanced again, down the slanted passage, until they reached the dungeon itself.

The chief jailer peered around appraisingly in the flickering light—two djinns, three dwarves, two of those green monsters, one imp, one female jotunn. All correct and accounted for. All lying on their backs, their legs held upright by fetters in the walls, all unspeakably fouled. They all had their eyes closed against the unaccustomed light.

"Move if you can!" he growled.

Hands moved. They were all still alive.

He cautiously around the cell with his basket, precarious on the slimy footing, staying as far as possible from the cesspool in the center. Every day he came to distribute stale loaves and scraps of vegetables to the inmates. For water they could sit up and lick the rock. It was something to occupy their time.

A few groaned. Nobody spoke. But all still living! They were a tough bunch, this. Three days was standard life expectancy in the lowermost dungeon.

The squad moved out again and he followed. Locks and bars clanged. Darkness returned. Silence returned.

"It's a dull job but somebody has to do it," Raspnex remarked.

A cool breeze brought scents of pinewoods and fresh grass. Sunlight or something like it shone bright on leather chairs and lavish carpeting, potted flowers, a sparkling fountain in a marble pond. Paintings and stags' heads ornamented the timbered walls; the wide windows looked out on meadows and snowy peaks, or seemed to. The dungeon was not merely much larger than it had been a few moments ago, it was now transformed into a comfy saloon, combining varied hints of ship's cabin, men's clubroom, village meetinghouse, and officers' mess hall.

Moon Baiter and Frazkr resumed their game of thali on a table of ebony inlaid with ivory. Shandie picked up his book. Raspnex poured himself a tankard of ale at the bar.

The two djinns set to work sharpening their scimitars again. The sorcerers had promised them the chief jailer.

Shandie tossed his book aside and heaved himself out of his armchair. "Did you learn anything new?"

The dwarf paused in his departure, tankard in hand. "Not much. Those nonentities won't be told anything significant The army has left and not returned. The town's a graveyard."

"Arrgh! How much longer must we endure this?"

Raspnex frowned ominously. "Until Longday. You know." The little man was better dressed than Shandie had ever seen him, in a dark suit with colored piping on the lapels and trousers, silver-buckled shoes. By dwarf standards, he was an astonishing dandy. Even his iron-gray beard looked neat and trim. "Anything more you need, your Majesty?" he inquired sarcastically.

Shandie gritted his teeth. "I have a horrible suspicion that I am imagining all of this! I am convinced I am actually chained to a wall by my ankles."

The goblins were leering at him. Even the dwarves seemed amused. The two djinns were listening intently, though. Like him, they were mundane.

"Well, you're not!" the warlock said with all his old grumpiness. "What you see may not be all real, but it's a lot closer to reality than what the jailer sees. If you want anything, just ask—wine? Roast pheasant? A woman, maybe?"

Before the imperor could answer, the taller of the two djinns roared, "Is that possible?" His red eyes shone like hot coals.

Raspnex turned a sour gaze on him, having to look up although he was standing and the djinn was sitting on a soft divan. "Strictly speaking, no. But we can arrange it so you won't know the difference."

Both djinns leaped to their feet.

The dwarf sighed and waved a shovel hand at the door that led to their quarters. "Go ahead, then."

The djinns vanished at a run and the door slammed.

"Last we'll see of them for a while!" Moon Baiter remarked with a leer of fangs.

"You organize it, then," Raspnex growled. "Give you a chance to be inventive! You, too?" he demanded of Shandie.

For a moment the imperor thought of Eshiala, but his heart screamed at the thought of associating her with this vile dungeon, even an illusionary Eshiala.

"No. But I do want to know what's happening to Inos!"

Raspnex scowled and looked away. "She'll be all right! Azak knows her of old and she's Rap's wife. Even the caliph won't dare hurt Inos! Expect she's living in real luxury, not just this occult artifice."

"You don't know that!"

"No. But I know that anything we do about it is more likely to make things worse than better for her. Don't accuse me of cowardice, imp!"

Shandie clenched his fists. "I still don't see why we can't risk sending out a scout! I can walk through the shielding. If you made me some tools I could pick the locks—"

"You'd be the only imp at large in the city and the Covin may still be watching. I've told you—we stay here until Longday. Then we'll break out in force and join in whatever's happening. Until then, read your damnable poetry."

Raspnex turned on his heel and stamped off into the quarters he shared with Jarga. The door clicked shut.

Shandie sat down angrily, avoiding the amused looks on the others' faces.

Come to think of it, what was the old warlock up to with the jotunn? Shandie hadn't seen her in days.

 

 

2

Bluerock had been a major city until the hurricane of 2953 caused the Pearlpool River to change its course and find a new mouth several leagues to the south. The harbor silted rapidly. Sailors departed first; merchants soon followed. Finding themselves without clientele, the artists and artisans went, also, and so did the harlots and the clergy. Teachers failed to find scholars, doctors ran out of patients. Within a generation, Bluerock shriveled from a great trading port to a shabby fishing town. Within another it was almost deserted.

Many of its buildings stood empty, inhabited only by bats and vermin, until the great hurricane of 2999 flattened them, and thereby completed the work the earlier storm had begun.

 

On the morning after the hurricane. Sister Chastity was out gathering windfalls—bananas, oranges, breadfruit, and many others.

The grounds of the convent were a shambles of branches and toppled trees, steaming in the hot sun and reeking of mulch. One chicken coop had disappeared and the dairy had lost half its roof, but the main building had survived unscathed. It had seen many hurricanes, for the Refuge of Constant Service had originally been built as a fortress. Its walls were cubits thick and its roof lead-coated. The Sisterhood had taken it over when shifting tides of politics had made a fortress at Bluerock unnecessary, some centuries ago. Since then the Refuge had served as a home for the religious and a hospice to the needy.

Chastity straightened and rubbed her aching back. To clear up this mess and restore the grounds to tidiness was going to take months. It was a task for an army of able-bodied gardeners, not eight aging women. She stooped with a grunt to lift her laden basket. There must be some good in hurricanes, for Holy Writ insisted that there was good in everything. There must be some good in all this waste and destruction, if she could only see it. Perhaps the exercise would be beneficial. The ways of the Gods were inscrutable. That was what faith was for.

Picking her way through the debris, she headed for the root cellar. The basket seemed to grow steadily heavier with every step. At the gate of the herb garden she paused to catch her breath, resting her burden on the wall.

She was disconcerted to discover that she could see the river from there, as the floral hedge had totally vanished. Oh, dear! The estuary was a swamp of floating wreckage. Beyond it stood the remains of the city. It was too far off to make out much detail, but many temple spires had disappeared. Tragedy!

"It's a mess, isn't it?" boomed a hearty voice.

Chastity turned, carefully not loosing her grip on the basket. Sister Docility was approaching, a rake slung over her shoulder. Docility was a large and energetic woman, with an infectious cheerfulness. She was just a teeny bit wearing at times, but no one could dislike Sister Docility.

"It is a disaster!" Chastity said. "I keep feeling that we should be over there, ministering to the injured."

Sister Docility guffawed. "And just how do you propose to get there?"

"You don't mean the bridge is down?"

"So Sister Humility says."

Oh, dear! Sister Humility was a mere forty-five, the youngest of the eight remaining Sisters. She had the best eyesight of any of them, and reminded the others of it at every opportunity.

"But . . . Then we are cut off from the city?"

"What city?" Docility demanded, standing her rake upright and leaning on it. "Bluerock hasn't been a real city since I was a girl, and even then it was failing. There's precious little left of it now."

"But if the bridge is down, then there will be no travelers coming by!"

The big woman shrugged. "We had two visitors last year and none the year before. I doubt the difference will be noticeable."

Chastity sighed. What use was a Refuge without refugees, or oaths of service when there was nobody to serve? What good did eight elderly women do when they sang praise to the Gods and nobody heard? The Gods Themselves surely did not need to be reminded of Their goodness. When the sick were out of reach there could be no healing. When no new initiates came there could be no teaching—and there had been no initiates at the Refuge for many, many years. Chastity felt guilt at thinking such negative thoughts, but Constant Service seemed to be serving no useful purpose at all now. If the bridge was down, it was virtually cut off from the entire world on its little headland.

"Why," Docility demanded in a stem voice, "are you out here anyway?"

"Why are you?" Chastity inquired with mild reproof.

The big woman pulled a face. Then her eyes twinkled. "To build up an appetite, I suppose."

Chastity suppressed an unseemly snigger. Docility was not merely tall, she was buxom, also, and she enjoyed her food. Today was Sister Virtue's turn to be Mother Superior. Virtue enjoyed cooking, so she almost always assigned herself kitchen duties, usually with disastrous results. Chastity was the most skilled cook among the eight of them—that was not vanity, it was acknowledged fact. She enjoyed cooking, which possibly was vanity. But the Acting Mother Superior had told Sister Chastity to gather up the deadfall fruit before it rotted, so that was what she must do, bound by her vows of obedience.

She must not complain at that, because yesterday she herself had been Mother and had sternly kept everyone at work when they had all been tempted to stand and stare out the windows at the hurricane.

It was seven years since old Verity had died. The sisters had written to the Matriarch of their order, asking her to name a replacement Mother Superior. The letter had perhaps gone astray, but at any rate no answer had ever come, so the sisters had continued to rotate the office among themselves ever since. Seven years ago, each sister had been Mother every fifteenth day. Now it was every eighth. One day there would be only one of them left and she could be Mother all the time.

The arrangement worked quite well and no one ever suggested changing it. If the sisters ever did decide to choose a permanent leader, it would certainly be Docility. She was the only one of them with any real knack for leadership. She always took charge when there was a crisis. Like coping with yesterday's hurricane, for instance—Docility had done all the thinking and planning and then dropped hints to Chastity so she could give the actual orders.

"I was instructed to tidy the grounds!" Docility remarked manfully. She flexed an ample arm. "Stand aside, lest I rake you up by mistake."

"I shall be very careful!" Chastity promised, smiling. "But perhaps you could begin by clearing a path to the quinces? There must be a million quinces on the ground, and I can't get to them. I can make marmalade with them tomorrow."

"Excellent thinking!" Docility boomed. "Want me to take that load in for you?"

Chastity would love to have her burden taken from her, for her back was already promising to keep her awake all night, but she said, "Oh, I can manage, thank you." She was just about to resume her journey when—

"Sisters! Daughters, I mean!" Acting Mother Superior Virtue came hurrying along the path. Virtue was elderly and petite. Her hair now was as white as her skin, although of course she kept it hidden under her headcloth. She must have been a beauty in her youth, and her face was still striking. At sixty-seven, she was the oldest of the eight, but spry enough that she seemed likely to outlast most of them. During her days as leader, she tolerated no backtalk.

"Mother?" Docility and Chastity spoke in perfect unison.

Virtue was perturbed. There were pink splotches on her cheekbones. Curiously, she was clutching a coil of rope.

"A boat is approaching the headland!"

Docility propped her rake against the wall and rubbed her hands. Her eyes gleamed. "Mariners in need of succor, Mother?"

"That would seem to be a logical presumption!" Virtue barely came up to the large woman's shoulder, but her manner left no doubt that today she was in charge. She had known whose help to enlist when there was trouble, though. Chastity was involved only because she happened to be in Docility's vicinity.

"It has been many years!" Chastity said. No ships called at Bluerock now.

"That is no reason to delay," the Mother of the day said. "You may come, also, in case we need to summon more help." She swept off in a swirl of black cotton robe. Docility followed with long strides.

"But?" Chastity said to the empty air. Rope, yes, but should they not also take blankets and medicines and water bottles? Apparently not, because she was already alone. She would be sent back to fetch them, most likely. She lowered her basket painfully to the ground and hobbled off after the other two.

 

The cliff path was a morass of treacherous mud. Holding skirts up, the three ladies picked their way down it circumspectly, despite the urgency of their mission.

Chastity could just barely remember the last ship to be wrecked below the Refuge, although such disasters had been common when Bluerock was a busy port. Virtue must have assisted at several rescue efforts in her youth. The danger was Scalpel Rocks. If a vessel struck those, then the crew had little chance of survival. If it cleared them safely, it would be swept into the bay and run aground on the sand. The odds were better there, especially when the tide was out, as now.

Puffing, the three reached the flat grassy lookout at the point of the headland and stopped to take stock. The wind had dropped, but the sea was still troubled. Dangerous green swells marched shoreward, bursting in white breakers below the lookout, hurling spray skyward. Masses of floating brown kelp testified to the violence of the storm; the air smelled clean and salty.

The boat was a tiny dinghy, half awash. It had already cleared Scalpel Rocks and was being swept around the headland, almost directly under the watchers. It contained a single mariner, sitting on a thwart, clutching the bare mast with both arms and leaning against it. From the look of him, he was alive, but in a weakened condition, barely conscious, perhaps unaware that he was about to be shipwrecked.

Chastity held her breath until she almost choked. Then she glanced sideways at the other two. They did not seem to have noticed what she had noticed.

"Excellent!" Virtue said, as if she had arranged matters herself. She raised a hand to her eyes and stuck her neck out, peering. "Er—isn't he wearing black? You don't suppose he could be a priest, do you?"

Neither of the others spoke. A strange flush showed now on Docility's pale cheeks. So she had noticed!

"We must head for the beach, Daughters."

"But—" Chastity said. Her heart was pounding unbearably.

"I do hope he doesn't require medical help," Virtue continued. "Or one of us is going to have a long walk. Come."

"Just a moment!" Docility barked. "We had best decide what we are going to do while we can still think clearly."

Chastity did not think she was thinking very clearly at all. Her head was spinning, her knees trembled. If a mere glimpse at this distance could upset her like this, then what would happen at close quarters?

"What?" Virtue turned to peer in surprise at the big woman.

"He is a mainlander!"

Mother Superior said, "Oh, damn!"

The three stared at one another in appalled silence. The boat had passed the headland and was into the bay.

"What can we do?" Verity wrung her hands.

A strange gleam shone in Docility's silver eyes. "It will be all right! No other men ever come here! With the bridge down, we shall probably never have visitors ever again!" She glanced defiantly from Virtue to Chastity and back, as if daring them to disagree.

"But our vows!" Virtue whimpered.

"It is not a sin!" As always in emergencies, the big woman had taken command. "The Church recognizes the impossibility of resisting the curse. Or are you ordering us to let the man drown. Mother?"

"No, of course not! But what of ourselves? I mean . . . Well, we shall quarrel! Fight, even! It will be awful!"

Chastity shivered, having a momentary nightmare of Sister Docility wielding her rake against all seven of her sisters. There were butcher cleavers in the kitchen. The possibilities were appalling!

Docility drew herself up to her full height. Cotton seemed to strain over her ample bosom in a way Chastity had never noticed it doing before. "We are not mad children! We are mature women. Holy ladies! It will be a test of our commitment, of course, but we have all lived together in harmony for many years. Surely we can agree on, er . . ."

Even Docility could not quite put it into words.

"Share him, you mean?" Chastity whispered.

"We shall have to. Just as we share the leadership."

"Really!" Virtue protested.

"Well . . ." she added.

"Indeed!" she concluded triumphantly. "You are perfectly right, Daughter. We cannot let him drown, and we cannot escape the consequences. The two, er, duties will have to go together, and today I am Mother." She beamed excitedly.

"No, Mother!" Docility said firmly. "Duty and, er, pleasure . . ." She cleared her throat harshly. "I mean, one cannot supervise the work schedules and—ahem!—tend the visitor at the same time. We must establish some other rule."

Virtue's eyes flashed. "I think it is my prerogative to settle this matter, as I am Mother Superior at the moment."

"Your responsibility is a grave trial. Mother," Docility said with what seemed to be a severe effort. "But would it not make more sense if we assigned the, er, hospitality duty to another day? Fewer distractions?"

"The following day!" Chastity exclaimed. "The day after being Mother. A reward!"

"Reward?" Her companions turned shocked stares on her.

"Well, er . . . Well, yes! Why not be honest about it?" Chastity was astonished to find herself arguing with them like this, but her heart had not thumped so ferociously in years. She thought she might burst into tears if they refused her now.

"I suppose that does make sense," Virtue admitted, wringing her hands. "I mean, tomorrow is not so very long to wait."

"Seven days?" Docility moaned. "I shall be the last!"

"A real test of your commitment!" Chastity snapped.

"Indeed!" Docility bit her lip. "Of course, if he is young and hale . . . and strong . . ."

"Muscular, you mean?" The strange visions floating up from Chastity's imagination were probably cause for a three-day contrition.

"Not necessarily, although I hope, I mean, some men can, are capable of, like to . . . One a day is not necessarily the limit."

Docility's flush darkened as me other two eyed her with open suspicion.

"As long as he plays no favorites!" Virtue conceded.

"Exactly what I was trying to say," Docility agreed with relief. "After all we must consider our, er, guest's wishes, also. If we explain the problem, he may be able to satisfy—" Her eyes widened.

The other two spun around and then uttered shrieks of alarm. The dinghy was very close to the beach already.

"No, wait!" Docility's big hand settled on her Superior's shoulder. "The surf is not extreme. Perhaps Sister Chastity can handle . . . I mean, she will not require assistance. You and I, Mother, should go and warn the others of what we, you that is, have decided."

Without waiting for further encouragement or the results of the argument. Chastity lifted her skirts and ran.

* * *

Hopelessly out of breath, she reached the beach just as the boat did. It slued sideways and tipped. The next wave hurled it over. She saw the occupant fall clear before it turned turtle. She plunged into the water, struggling to run as waves tugged at her skirts, beat against her knees, her thighs, her waist. The boat rolled and bounced, its mast leaping alongside in a tangle of ropes. Chastity went down and was submerged. A wave rolled her and thumped her on the seabed; she swallowed water; choked. Then she sat up and found her head above the surface. She coughed. A big green wave curled up before her.

Strong hands grabbed her and pulled her erect. The sailor! She clung to him as the wave broke around them. Then the two of them stumbled awkwardly shoreward together, holding each other, gazing at each other in joyful wonder.

He was not young—about her own age. Thin silver hair was streaked over his face and scalp, white stubble adorned his cheeks. But his face was a wonderful tan color and his eyes a wild, mysterious black. And he was a priest! Any lingering doubts about sin could be forgotten if a priest was involved, and he certainly was involved. He seemed even more frantically eager than she.

"Wet clothes!" she said. She must get him out of his wet clothes before he caught a chill, and apparently he had the same idea about hers. She was fumbling with the buttons on his back before the two of them were even out of the water, then her patience gave out. His clerical habit was tattered already—she ripped it apart. He might not be young and muscular, but he had a wonderfully hairy chest. He wore some sort of packages strapped around his waist, and she had trouble getting them off him because he was busy with her underwear and the two of them kept getting in each other's way. He was moaning with frustration and impatience.

Then it was done, all except for his socks, which didn't matter. He might be scrawny-limbed and pot-bellied, but oh, how beautiful he was! His lips pressed against hers. She clasped him to her, hairy chest against breasts. They sank to the sand together. As her last rational thoughts were swirled away by storms of passion. Sister Chastity realized that the doubts she had felt earlier had been answered.

There was much good in hurricanes.

 

 

3

Rap hit the water with an impact that half stunned him. In a moment he became aware that his clothing was slowing his descent into the depths, but already the light had faded to green darkness and he was choking. He tried to kick, fought against panic as his boots resisted, watched the daylight grow slowly, slowly brighter. Saltwater filled his nose and mouth. At the last possible moment he broke surface and gasped life-saving air before he went under again.

He tugged his right boot off; seized another breath, then set to work on the left. After that he took a brief rest, treading water, before he began tugging at sodden garments. By the time he had stripped to his breeches, he already felt exhausted.

He had been a strong swimmer twenty years ago. Now he was twenty years older and had not swum a stroke since. Blue-green swells raised him, lowered him, and there was nothing but sea anywhere. He snorted water out of his aching nose. This might all be some sort of elvish prank, but more likely Thume's occult defenses had skewed the sorcery and deflected him.

How far? If he was as much as a league out to sea, then he would never make it. And which way? North was usually landward in the Summer Seas. Calling up blurred memories of charts, though, he recalled that the coast of Thume trended almost north-south, so he ought to head eastward—unless he'd been bounced right over the land and come down in the Morning Sea instead. The water felt warmish, so he'd best assume he hadn't. The early sun would lie roughly southeast . . . except that he'd gone a long way east and the sun would be higher here.

Time for sorcery! He must remove his body shielding and use farsight—and hope that the defenses, whatever they were, did not make him forget where he was supposed to be going, and also hope that the Covin had not detected a hint of his arrival and set watch for more power in use.

His shielding would not budge, he remained mundane.

That was ridiculous! He stopped treading water for a moment, letting himself sink as he tried again, but again his power failed to operate. No one could make a spell so strong he could not undo it! It was impossible. This must be more

Thumian mischief. No help for it, though, he would just have to swim.

He kicked back to the surface, turned until the sun was over his right ear, and began.

* * *

Sometime in the long ordeal that followed, he worked out what had happened to his sorcery. Three of the four words he knew were feeble wraiths of words, words that Inos had crippled years ago by broadcasting them to a multitude of listeners. The only effective word of the four was the one she had never known, the one he'd bullied Sagorn into sharing with him, long ago.

So now he knew what had happened in the sky tree after he had been sent on his way. Obviously, Lith'rian had unraveled the sequential spell in order to administer justice on Darad. Thrown to the winds, the warlock had said, and no imagination was needed to understand what that meant in a sky tree. The jotunn was probably dead already. He had attempted a massacre and might have slaughtered everyone present had he not been balked by sorcery. Killing had been a reflex to him, he had been a wild beast. Rap could not find it in his heart to mourn.

He felt no sorrow, only guilt. In retrospect, he saw that he had let personal gratitude blind his judgment. He had been wrong to include Darad in the meld when he replaced the sequential spell. He should have left the jotunn out and transported him to Nordland, where his behavior would have been controlled by others of his own kind.

Yet who could say what Darad might have done then? Free of the time limits of the spell and knowing a word of power, he might easily have won himself a thanedom and led murderous raids southward to ravish the coasts of the Impire. "Might have been" was not a game for mortals.

Lith'rian had not harmed the others. Sagorn, Thinal, Jalon, and Andor must at least be alive, for they were Rap's problem. The word of power must now serve five where it had once served only two. He could not remove his own spell. He was even less of a sorcerer than he had been before.

He was a lot less of a swimmer, too. He kept up a slow, leisurely stroke, telling himself that he was conserving his strength and trying to avoid a killer cramp. In fact, of course, it was all he was capable of.

He was going to drown.

There were worse ways to die. It was better than falling into Zinixo's clutches, for a start. His biggest regret was that Inos would never know what had happened to him. He wished he had been less brusque when they said good-bye, three-quarters of a year ago. He had walked out of her life without warning and she would never know that his corpse had fed fish in the Sea of Sorrows.

He began taking rests, floating on his back. The rests grew longer and more frequent.

 

He had no memory of the end of the swim. Suddenly he was in surf, and his knees hit sand. He rolled, scrabbling vainly with his fingers to resist the undertow. Then he was lying on a beach with shallow water racing away around him. Behind him, he could hear the next wave coming.

His limbs would not take his weight. They were made of dough. Froth surged over his legs, lifting him, bearing him landward. Again he grounded and dug fingers in the sand to fight against the back flow. He dragged himself a span or so up the beach and the next surge did not move him.

So he was in Thume. Or perhaps the Keriths, or almost anywhere. He was deadwood; he could not lift his head. He needed a drink. He needed shade, for the sun was a furnace on his back. He was going to go to sleep. Sleep was death. Couldn't help it.

A flapping sound made him open his eyes. A large gull had settled near him and was busily tucking its wings back into storage. It studied him with one cruel yellow eye.

"Go away!" he mumbled through salt-cracked lips. "Shoo."

The gull tried the other eye.

Another gull flapped down on his other side, his left side, out of sight.

"I'm not dead yet. Come back in an hour or two."

The first gull waddled two steps forward.

Humiliation! To be so weak that a stupid seagull could peck his eyes out! He wanted to weep with frustration. "Shoo! G'way!"

More gulls shrieked overhead. They would swarm over him like flies. If he could only have a drink of fresh water, he might find the strength to move. Drinking seawater drove a man insane, didn't it? He had probably lowered the level of the oceans perceptibly. His head was spinning and his belly was racked with cramps.

The gull spread its wings and began to flap madly. It took off, low above the sand. What had scared it? Over the rumble of the surf. Rap heard a voice, a human voice, shouting.

With a mumble of relief, he contrived to turn his head and look to his left. A girl was running over the sand toward him. She had long black hair, like Kadie.

He made out the word she was shouting as she ran.

He must be delirious already. He was having delusions.

 

 

4

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy . . ."

Delirious or not, by the time the apparition reached him, Rap had managed to struggle to his knees. It could not possibly be Kadie, and yet it looked just like Kadie—thinner, perhaps, than he recalled, but a juvenile imp with trailing black hair and emerald eyes. She wore a long striped skirt and a white cotton blouse. And a sword? Obviously it was an illusion! But it sounded like Kadie. It stopped just out of reach and regarded him nervously.

"Papa?"

He held out trembling arms and tried to speak her name. What came out was a strangled croak: "Water?"

She backed away a couple of steps and looked around. No, that was never Kadie! Rap slumped limply to the sand. There was another girl . . . woman? Sorcery? No, for magic could not penetrate his shielding. Delirium!

Then a beaker of cool water was thrust at him and hands helped him hold it to his mouth. He drank and drank. He threw it all up and then drank more.

"Why are you shielded?" a woman's voice asked. "If you remove that shielding, I can help you."

"I can't."

"Oh. There isn't much to it. There!"

Occult strength poured new life into him. His pain vanished, his head cleared. He blinked and returned to reality with a rush—gritty sand, baking sun, saltwater, and the rumble of the sea.

Two girls. One could only be a pixie. Her eyes were elvish, big and slanted, but gold. Her ears were even more pointed than an elf's, but her hair was hazel, her skin fawn, her nose wide. She was very young, unless pixies, like elves, did not show their age. The other was either his older daughter or an exact double.

"Kadie! Is it really you?" He scrambled to his feet in joy.

Kadie flinched at his approach. She went rigid in his embrace and did not respond. When he released her, she stepped quickly to the other girl's side, looking horrified.

"Kadie?"

"She has had a harrowing experience, your Majesty."

Only now did Rap register the ambience. It was a ghostly shadow of the ambience he had known, indicating his loss of power, but the pixie was rock solid in it. She must be a very powerful sorceress.

He bowed unsteadily to her. "I am Rap, of Krasnegar."

"I am Archon Thaïle of the College," she said aloud. "Your daughter was a prisoner of the goblins," she added privately. "They did not harm her physically, but she has not yet recovered from the ordeal. Perhaps more clothes would calm her—she seems to mistrust men with bare chests. May I assist?"

"I'm very glad to see you. Papa," Kadie said uncertainly. "Oh!"

Rap had said, "Please," to the pixie, and been immediately clothed in shirt and long trousers and sandals, with loose, cool cotton replacing his sodden wool breeches.

"Kadie, my darling!" Again he offered his arms, and this time she seemed more willing to be hugged, now he was no longer a half-naked castaway. Yet again she returned quickly to the pixie, her smile unconvincing and troubled. Where was his little minx, the juvenile harridan who tried to run the entire kingdom? Where was the irrepressible tormentor who battled her wits with her father in make-believe revolutions? Had reality so damaged the starry-eyed storybook princess? Tears sprang to his eyes. Oh, Kadie, Kadie!

"Who did this? And what?"

"She was a prisoner of goblins for many months," the sorceress said sadly. "Dawn alone will not banish such nightmares."

"Kadie—your mother?"

Kadie blinked uncertainly and surreptitiously clasped the other girl's hand, as if in need of reassurance. "Mama and Gath went off with the imperor. Papa. I don't know what happened to them."

"Kinvale? The goblins took Kinvale?"

She nodded, edging even closer to the pixie. "They burned it and they were going to kill the imperor but Gath saved him I mean Mama did because Gath told her who he was and then Death Bird took me as hostage and was going to marry me to his son Blood Beak and the other three were sent off with the dwarves." She blinked fearfully at him.

Marry her? Dwarves? Where did dwarves come into this? Rap clamped a hold on his tongue. As the Thane girl had said, Kadie was obviously in a state of distress. Sorcery could heal damaged bodies, but not bruised souls. Oh, my fledgling!

"I'm so glad that you're safe, anyway!" he said, forcing a smile.

She returned the smile doubtfully. "And you. Papa. I kept hoping you would come and rescue me but you never did. I prayed to the God of Rescues. Is there a God of Rescues?"

His heart felt as if it were being squeezed. "I don't know, Kadie. But someone rescued you?"

"Thaïle did!"

"She was at Bandor, your Majesty."

"She saw the massacre?"

"She was the only survivor. I detected her sword."

Sword? What sword? Rap peered in bewilderment at his daughter. He remembered that he had seen her wearing a sword a moment ago. Oh! Yes, there was indeed a rapier hanging at her side, but now it was fuzzy and hard to make out. How had Kadie ever acquired a magic sword? And Kadie the only survivor of that appalling destruction, his child?

He took a very deep breath. Then he looked around, concentrating. The three of them stood at the water's edge on a long white beach. Inland lay grassy dunes and clumps of trees, and low hills beyond them. The serenity of the land was as palpable as the sunlight. Thume. He was in Thume. With Kadie.

The other girl—woman—was regarding him anxiously.

"So this is the Accursed Land?" he said, trying to believe it. "I knew that there were people still, because my wife visited here, many years ago. I suspect that there was sorcery. I had trouble making anyone else agree with me. The inattention spell is extraordinarily potent."

"I know about your wife. Very few come and depart safely, your Majesty."

"Please call me Rap. And your title—Archon? Are you a ruler here, then?"

The young face was solemn. "Thume is ruled by the Keeper, and I have to take you to her at once."

Mm! His wild hypothesis seemed to have been proved correct. There was sorcery in Thume, much sorcery. That did not mean that he would be a welcome visitor, of course. Kadie had definitely flinched at the mention of the Keeper, whoever she was.

But Kadie was safe, if not quite unharmed, and that was wonderful. Yet, like him, she was an intruder in a closed land.

A long time ago a God had warned him that he must lose a child. Kadie? He had a horrible feeling that part of Kadie had been lost, perhaps forever.

Or Gath? And where was Inos?

Perhaps the Keeper, whoever she was, would have some answers.

 

 

5

Like some gigantic millipede, the caliph's army crawled along the coast of the Morning Sea. On one hand rose the barren crags of the Progistes Mountains, on the other white foam washed the cliffs. Only seabirds kept vigil in the vast bleak terrain.

This no-man's land was unmapped, but there were old records of Imperial armies invading Zark across these borders, so a return journey must be possible. At times progress was halted by the need to bridge wadis or scout a passable route, and water was strictly rationed. By and large, though, the expedition was proceeding on schedule.

The caliph was pleased. So Zarga said.

Azak had carried through on his promise to bring Inos back to Thume. She journeyed in a screened wagon with six of his women. It creaked and rocked and tortured her with nausea. Its heavy drapes cut out all view of the world and made the interior insufferably hot. Drawn by oxen, unsprung, the cumbersome vehicle tossed its unfortunate passengers around on their silken mattresses. At times it would lurch bodily sideways and they would all slide together, ending as a screaming heap of cushions and nubile female djinn. And Inos. Often she would wrench her twisted shoulder in these scrimmages, or bang her swollen face, and at such times she was hard put not to express her true feelings about the mighty Azak.

This was one of three wagons used to transport the royal seraglio when the caliph campaigned—a small part of the royal seraglio, apparently. Only the most favored concubines had been selected. They were all greatly impressed by the honor. They were all very young and lovely. Except Inos.

She gritted her teeth as she listened to their inane chatter. She kept her own council when they praised their lord the caliph and congratulated themselves on their good fortune in being allowed to serve him. Inos puzzled them greatly. She answered all their questions—and told them nothing, because they had not known what to ask. They were barely aware that there was a world beyond the harem walls, or people other than djinns.

At times they puzzled Inos. They could be as vicious as adders in their talk, and once in a while would fly at one another with nails slashing, yet there was a strange innocence about them. They were pets, like fish in a bowl. Since childhood they had been taught to believe that their only purpose in life was to please the caliph and breed him sons. They saw no world beyond Azak. He was their God. How could they possibly be happy with minds so stunted? But they were happy. By and large, Inos had never met a group of people so content.

She preferred the company of these juvenile rabbits to that of their supervisor—Nurkeen, keeper of the caliph's women. Nurkeen was almost certainly one of Azak's innumerable sisters, and she was a poisoned prune of a hag. Nurkeen was no rabbit. Nurkeen and Inosolan were fire and oil. Fortunately, at the moment Nurkeen was riding in one of the other wagons.

There had been a brief stop at noon. Zarga, who was all of fifteen, had been summoned to the caliph's tent. Now she was reporting to her companions. He had been very happy with the progress of the army. He had been jovial, also very energetic and demanding. That was always a good sign. She had pleased him and given him great satisfaction. He had said so.

They always said that. Mindless little idiots!

He might even send for her again this evening. They always hoped that—twice in one day was a lifetime triumph.

He had wrapped the emerald sash around her naked body before he coupled with her. That was a very great honor. The others all hastened to claim that he had done that with them, too, many times.

The wagon rumbled forward, tipped, straightened, lurched. Outside, in the fresh air and sunshine, soldiers were singing a marching song as they trudged. Its theme was the glory and invincibility of the caliph.

Zarga glanced pityingly at Inos. "It is very foolish to resist him," she said primly.

"I daresay," Inos retorted through her swollen lips. "It was because I would not resist him that he struck me."

The others all looked puzzled. "But if he told you to resist, then why did you not resist?"

"Just chicken, I guess," Inos said grimly. Her shoulder was the worst, but she had other sore places and few of them were the fault of the wagon. "Is it true he uses magic to maintain his virility?"

Squeals of shocked denial . . .

No one had ever suggested such a treasonous idea in Inos' hearing, but the remark was enough to bring the conversation around to sorcery. She was a captive and must endure what her captor dealt out, but in the process she was taking the opportunity to learn as much as she could about Azak and Azak's rise to omnipotence in Zark and Azak's use of sorcery. Azak would probably have been very surprised to know how much his concubines could reveal of his affairs when Nurkeen was not around.

What use this information might ever be, Inos had no idea, but one thing she knew for certain—some day she would get even with Azak ak'Azakar ak'Zorazak. One rape on a desk and two in his tent, and the tally sheet was likely to grow longer before this journey was finished.

 

 

6

For months Rap had lived in a world where sorcery must be handled like gold in a back-street tavern, hoarded and concealed, to be expended only in dire need. Thume was not like that. The Thaïle girl had already flaunted power around him—to restore his strength and clothe him—and now she released it in a thunderbolt.

The sun-baked beach vanished and the sounds of the sea were cut off as if by an ax. He staggered with shock as he found himself within a massive jungle, a giant tangle of ancestral tree trunks and sodden undergrowth. The air was as clammy and heavy as a wet sponge, the light a faint greenish glow in primordial gloom, all sound muffled. He heard Kadie whimper close by and wanted to grab her up in his arms, but he resisted the impulse. Kadie was going to need slow care and love and much patience. At the moment she seemed happier with the Thaïle girl than with him; that rejection tormented him, but he would not distress her more by interfering.

Dimly he made out his two companions, and then a cliff of ancient, crumbling masonry, shrouded in moss. The pixie was already entering down a slippery ramp of humus, leading Kadie by the hand.

Rap followed, into a wet, black crypt. Two corner doorways led through into another chamber, which was brighter only because it was not entirely dark. The flagstones were cold and gritty under his sandals. Blank walls soared up into darkness. He paused, awestruck by the grim majesty of this ancient shrine. Here was sanctity, and sadness, and unutterable authority. Whatever he had expected in Thume, it was not this. He could not have expected this anywhere.

"What is this place?" His voice came out in a whisper, as if afraid to ruffle the dread stillness.

"It is the Chapel," Thaïle murmured. "I think Kadie and I had best wait here, King Rap. You are expected."

Indeed he was. He had an eerie sensation that the building itself was conscious of his presence. Its windows were gaping wounds, irregularly shaped and positioned, toothed with broken fragments of stone tracery. The proportions were all wrong, somehow sinister. As his eyes adjusted to the faint glow penetrating the jungle outside, he saw that there were no furnishings within the Chapel, other than one small chair in a far corner. An indistinct figure sat there, waiting for him. With a conscious effort, he began to walk.

Then he located the core of the mystery, the source of all this sanctity and power. Sorrow poured out from the fourth corner, radiating from the ground itself. His hair stirred as he registered the anguish and undertones of rage. Whatever it was, it knew he was there. It resented him.

With measured step he approached the woman on the chair. Had he not been told to expect a woman, he would not have known her sex. She was muffled in a dark robe and cowl, and she did not show in the ambience at all—strange indeed! He could not explain that, but he remembered Shandie's story of the woman who had appeared to him with word of Wold Hall, and he knew that the circle had closed. That mystery was solved at last.

When he had met Lith'rian they had bantered with the ritual greetings of various races. Who could know the greetings of the pixies, which had not been heard in a thousand years? And who could ever use levity in this awful place?

He stopped a respectful distance from her and bowed low. "My name is Rap. I come in peace." If she was mundane, why did his farsight not penetrate her garb? If a sorceress, why was she not visible in the ambience? What was she?

For a long moment she sat silent. Then her voice came like a whisper of wind in trees. "I am the Keeper." She lifted a hand from her lap and laid back her hood.

Instantly Rap knew what she was. The haggard face, the tortured eyes, the raw suffering—he had never seen their like, but he recognized them at once. Things became much clearer.

He sank to his knees and bowed his head in homage.

She sighed. "You know me for what I am."

"Lady, I do. I also knew five words once."

"For how long?"

"A few months." He cringed at the memory. "And you?" he whispered.

When her reply came at last, it was even softer. "Seven years."

He could not imagine what seven years of such an ordeal would be like, nor what they would do to a living being. Her every moment must be torment, a struggle merely to continue existing within the suffering flesh. A demigod never slept.

"You are not welcome here," she said.

"But you know why I have come."

"The follies of the Outside do not concern us."

"You spoke to the imperor, telling him of the preflecting pool."

She sighed again. "It was a misjudgment and it did no good."

"I think mayhap it did. Lady." Shandie had found Sagorn, and Rap. According to Kadie, Gath had recognized the imperor in time for Inos to save him from the goblins. Ylo had remained loyal to Shandie in the hope of seducing his wife and had thereby made possible his escape from Hub—all these things because of the visions in the pool.

"Mayhap it slowed the fall," the Keeper conceded in her leathery whisper, "but it will not change the outcome for the better. I may have incurred the enmity of the Gods by overstepping the limits They set for Keef."

"Keef?" he queried. Then he turned his face to look at the dark miasma of anguish rising from the floor in that other corner.

"The first Keeper lies there. Your presence here awakens ancient malice, Rap of Krasnegar."

"I mean no harm."

"Indeed you do!" The Keeper straightened; fury flamed around her. "You hope to enlist our help in your vain struggle against the one who calls himself the Almighty. You would have us discard a thousand years of sacrifice and renunciation. You would tear down walls that generations have lived to defend."

Rap was shaken by the vehemence of her rejection. "Is not the battle against the Evil a duty for all mortals?"

"Do not presume to lecture me on what is evil!" Her voice rang louder, and bitter. Echoes stirred. "The sufferings that the world inflicted upon Thume cleared any debt—that was the concession Keef wrung from the Gods. We may keep the world away, but never meddle."

"Then you do not know what is happening out there."

"I know very well. The Keeper is allowed to watch—even, in some cases, to send others to appraise. But knowledge must not stray into action."

She was as open to argument as a granite pillar. His cause was hopeless.

"Then tell me how things stand."

At once he wondered if he had been wise to ask that. Her gruesome, wizened face writhed into a cryptic smile. Before he could summon courage to withdraw the question, she answered it.

"They do not stand. They crumble even as you breathe. Every day his power waxes. Even I, with all my powers, dare not venture now beyond the boundaries of my domain lest I be discerned."

"If we can gather all the free sorcerers of the world together—"

"You will not come close to matching the Covin."

There was a dread finality about that judgment. If it was true, then the war was lost. If it was true. Rap felt the cold despair of the Chapel chilling his heart. He struggled against the ancient negation he sensed in this strange place, the stark hopelessness, a thousand years of denial.

"With respect—can you know this?"

"I can. I do. I have watched this evil grow since long before the wardens knew of it, and I have its measure."

"Add to those few sorcerers, then, the many I suspect you have here in Thume. Add also yourself, the paramount power of a demigod. How then does the balance seem. Lady?"

"Closer," she admitted, "but still not a fair fight. And you shall not draw on our powers. All we have is needed to preserve our security. We will not throw it away in a hopeless cause."

His quest was doomed! Angrily Rap rose to his feet. He was handily the taller, yet so great was her might that he still felt prostrate before her.

"How can you hope to keep your presence secret? You know the dwarf's mind. As his powers grow, so do his fears. If he rules all the world but Thume, then he will feel required to rule Thume, also. He will find you and he will crush you in your turn!"

"The land is hidden from him and will remain so," the Keeper said with icy finality.

"Then may I take my child and depart in peace?"

The Keeper's hollow eyes glittered. "No. I told you I may not meddle. I have answered your questions. To release you with what you know would be to influence events."

He had suspected that. "You lay subtle traps!" he said bitterly.

"But unequivocal. You and the girl will remain. You will find life here tedious, perhaps, but it will be better than the torment Zinixo would impose upon you. And when you die. Sorcerer, you will deed us your words of power in payment for your board."

"But—"

"Such is my decree." The Keeper and her chair faded like smoke into the dark, leaving the Chapel empty. The grave in the corner continued to pour forth its thousand-year lamentation.

 
Hope never conies:
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flam'd; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover signs of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.

Milton, Paradise Lost, I, 60

 

 

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