Authors: Piers Anthony
Chapter 24
Dungeon Daze
SMITH STIRRED ON THE straw, rolled over, groaned, and peered through the bars and into their adjoining cell. His face twisted with pain, and beads of sweat hung on his face. He lifted his filthy water jug from the even filthier floor and put it to his cracked lips. He rinsed his mouth and spat out the water he did not swallow. He fixed his yellow eyes on them, and a hint of recognition crossed his face.
“Kian? I thought I was alone. They catch you afterward? After the battle?”
“After the fight, yes.” It was hardly a battle, Kian thought. He had been in battles, and the attack on his father’s captors hardly qualified. “Lonny Burk and I ended up in Serpent Valley. She’s still alive and free, I hope.”
“Gutsy little girl. Make you a good wife. Ohh.” He clutched his side where blood soaked his brownberry shirt.
Kian turned to his father. “Why separate cells? Why isn’t he in with us?”
His father shrugged. Then he said what Kian had been waiting for. “Son, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. You’ll have to tell me everything right from the start. You came to this frame by a slightly different means than I did, didn’t you? I blundered in on a raft. Went right into The Flaw on it, and then I was here.”
“Mother?” Kian asked. He feared to know and yet he had to know.
His father’s face looked strange, and he seemed to take the longest time with his answer. “She’s gone, Kian. Lost from the raft. Drowned, almost certainly.”
Kian hung his head and for the first time in years allowed himself to weep. Only after he felt partially recovered did he resume talking, and then there was no end to it. He went on and on, recalling every single detail of what he had witnessed and the adventures he had had. Now and then his father interrupted him, but only to ask questions. In the neighboring cell Smith seemed to be listening intently, but then the man’s eyes closed and he slept.
The big guardsman with the craggy face brought them a tray. He motioned them to the rear of the cell and then pushed it through a slot in the door. There was moldy bread and a jug of dirty water and some unappetizing cheese. Smith received the same fare.
“Can’t he have his wounds treated?” Kian asked, indicating Smith.
The guard shrugged indifferently. “What’s the point?”
Kian shuddered as the guard left. What an attitude!
But Smith was wiser than he. “They may use me to try to get your agreement to cooperate,” he said. “Torture’s a game for Rowforth, isn’t it, Guard?”
The guard took his keys and the empty tray and went back up the stairs. He had made no attempt to answer Smith’s question. Smith made an obscene gesture in the guard’s direction and lay back down.
But Kian was shaken more than Smith seemed to be. What were they in for? What would he do, in the face of torture? He had never anticipated having to face this!
*
Zanaan, queen of Hud, climbed the winding stairs to her father’s quarters. She had been thinking about the two prisoners. Something needed to be done, but she was uncertain what she could do.
The big crested door at the top of the stairs was closed, so she opened it. Zotanas was up, as he normally was with the first morning light, and feeding his bird. “Eat your seeds, Precious,” he was saying to the dovgen, and the bird was cooing and rubbing its head against his hand.
“Ah, daughter, what brings you to my quarters so early in the day?”
“You call yourself a magician, Father—don’t you know what brings me?” she teased him.
“As it seems I never cease explaining, my precognitive abilities are, if anything, negative. I know nothing about what is going to happen at any one time.”
She sighed. “The prisoners, Father. I think we should help them.”
“I agree, my child.” Zotanas fed his bird another seed. “Unfortunately, there is little that can be done at this time.”
“We could release them. Save them from my husband’s torturing.”
“We could, perhaps, but would that be wise?”
“You’re the one with wisdom!” She was becoming annoyed with him, as often happened.
“Age. I have not wisdom but age, and a little of the art.”
She glared, wanting his help but recognizing the signs. When his back was turned and he was clucking to the fat bird, she edged across the room to his collection of powders and elixirs that were positioned handily but seldom used. It was but a moment’s work to fill a tiny vial with a greenish liquid from a retort. Often he had given her the liquid when her cares became too great and burdensome. But this time the substance was not to help her sleep. This time she had a far different purpose in mind.
Thus it was that a bit later in the day she paused outside the royal dungeon and offered the king’s man there, one Sergeant Broughtmar, a refreshing sip of wine. She pretended to have imbibed freely herself, thus making her unusual action a bit plausible.
“Come on, Broughtmar, old sourpuss, have a little drinkee on your one and only queen.”
“
On
her, Your Highness?” Broughtmar asked with a straight face.
“Oh, you men!” She dug him familiarly in the ribs as she thought one of her husband’s trollops might have done. It was difficult indeed to act this way, but she considered it to be a necessary evil. “You know what I mean. Just a little drink to beat the heat.”
“I assure Your Highness, I meant no disrespect.” Because even the hint of disrespect could cause a head to be loosened from the shoulders.
“None taken. Drink?” She sloshed the bottle around, waving it just within his reach.
“Your Highness, I am not permitted to drink while I am on duty.” He did not even look tempted; he looked distinctly nervous.
“Oh, I know that! But the king isn’t permitted to bed other women, is he? Yet we know…” She shrugged, not caring to speak what all knew. “Besides, I order you to drink.”
“You order me, Your Highness?” He was having trouble assimilating this.
“Yes.”
“In that case, I have no choice.” He leaned his heavy pike against the wall, took the bottle in both hands, and lifted it to his lips. She watched as his throat worked and blue liquid streaked from his lips and got on his uniform. When he handed the bottle back, there was definitely some gone.
“Sergeant Broughtmar, aren’t you sleepy?”
“I am, Your Highness.” For of course there was more than wine in the bottle.
“Then sit down, for goodness’ sake! Take a load off. Lean against the wall here. I won’t tell.”
“Your Majesty, it is forbidden to—”
“I order you.”
Abruptly he leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor by his pike. A moment elapsed while he did eye tricks, opening and closing and then rolling them, and finally rolling them up. He snored.
She set the bottle down beside him, took his key-ring, and tiptoed past him and down the dungeon stairs.
*
No sooner had the queen vanished in the dark of the stairs than Broughtmar lifted his head, spat, and looked about for the king. The king, as he had anticipated, was only a few steps away. When he came around the corner of the castle, His Majesty had his finger to his lips and was winking conspiratorially.
“Did she guess you were faking it, Sergeant?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“You did just what I said? You swallowed none of the wine?”
“None, Your Highness. I did just what you said. I hate wine.”
“Good. I myself prefer Hud’s bleer. But you did right, Sergeant. You always follow my orders to the letter. That’s why you’re so efficient both as a dungeon guard and as a torturer. Come, now, we’ll follow very softly and see what she’s about.”
Together they tiptoed after the queen.
*
John found himself looking into Kian’s face and wondering again how such an incredibly evil person could have borne him. Kian was everything he wished he was: even-tempered and thoughtful to a degree that positively shamed Kelvin and Jon. Of all people to share a dungeon cell with, his son had to be among the best.
Kian had now gotten through all his story and answered all his father’s questions and was now starting to grieve for his mother. John wondered again if she was really dead—that beautiful, sensual creature who had bewitched him and reduced him to the depths. Thinking back now, he was convinced she had really enjoyed tormenting him. One by one, she had ordered the deaths of his men from Earth, not because they had done wrong but because he opposed her will. He remembered the way she had tossed back her red hair, smoldered his soul with her greenish stare, and said: “What, Dear Lover, you will not teach my loyal servants how to use the war toys of Earth? Then another roundear must die. And another tomorrow, and another the next day. Each and every day one must die, until there is only you left.”
“What will you do then?” he had asked. “Will you kill me as well? Will you kill Kian, your own roundear baby son?”
Her eyes had grown if anything smokier, swirling greenly and catlike in their inner depths. “You wish to try me, Lover? To push my will that far?”
He did not, for he knew there was no bluffing her down. If he did not do her bidding, she might actually destroy all of them, himself and the infant Kian as well. After all, hadn’t the sorceress Medea of Earthly lore brutally sacrificed her own children when the hero Jason left her? Queen Zoanna seemed to be cast from a similar mold.
“And so, Father,” Kian was saying, startling him back to current awareness, “I really know now that I want to marry her. I hadn’t realized it when it was what Mother wanted, but now, now that it can never be, I do. Mother was right all along. If I live to get back, I will marry her.”
“If it is to be, it is to be,” John said, wondering what he had missed. Charlain used to say that all the time, meaning it more literally than he did. Another saying of hers was “It’s as true as prophecy.” By that she meant that it was absolutely true, despite his considerable skepticism. After all, Charlain had married him, a ragged stranger, because of her confidence in prophecy. What a woman! Would he ever see her again? Would he ever hold her as he had so long ago? No, of course not, for she had remarried, believing him dead. Kelvin had told him that. It was as true as prophecy! Gods, how he wished for a prophecy that he would have her back!
“Father, do you think she’s still alive?”
“Charlain?” Damn, why had he said that!
“My mother.”
Again that Medea image. “You know it’s unlikely, son. I was too weak to have helped her.” If he would have helped her, he thought. Yet he had been bewitched by her, again, despite his break from her. He had tried to kill her, and had helped her escape instead, hating himself. “I’m sure I saw her drown. She was badly injured, hardly able to walk. She went in the water and bubbles came up and she never appeared again.”
“She couldn’t have swum away?”
“Not in that fast current.” But it hadn’t been that fast at that particular point. Yet if she had somehow gotten out, where could she have gone? No, it was most unlikely that she had done anything other than drown.
Better her than me,
he thought.
Better her than me or you a thousand times over! Medea has to be dead!
Kian nodded, his face solemn and wet with newly shed tears. “I guess you’re right, Father. Only it’s maddening, not knowing.”
Yes, it was; how well John Knight knew! It was extremely frustrating. Now that he thought about it, he wondered: could she somehow have escaped? She had known about the river and the raft, as he had not; she had guided him there. He had come to kill her, and she had tried to kill him, yet somehow they had gone together to that underground river and set off. Could there have been some good in her, manifesting once the evil situation was destroyed? Could she have wanted to save him at the end? Or had she merely been using him to save herself, because she couldn’t make it alone with her injury? Had she drowned—or had she known of some other route out, beneath the dark waters, and taken that, taking care to provide a witness to her “death” so that there would be no further search for her? In that case, could there be something yet to find, in that place that only he could locate precisely? Maybe, maybe… Oh, Lord!
Kian rose from the straw and looked toward the stairs. “Father, I think I hear someone coming.”
Smith chose that moment to groan. He had rolled over suddenly, returning to what now passed for life. “If they torture me, don’t agree to anything,” he gasped. “I’m about to die anyway. They can’t kill me more than once. Promise me you won’t do anything Rowforth wants.”
“I’ll try,” John said. But he was listening for the sound Kian had heard. It wasn’t surprising that Kian now had the better hearing, but as always, it bothered him to remember that he had aged. What had he accomplished in his life, in his travels through the frames? Could the good outweigh the evil?
After a while he heard it: very faint footsteps on the stone steps. Light tread, cautious footsteps. Someone coming to rescue them? Who? Some of the bandit Jac’s men? Perhaps Kelvin? Kelvin, his son by Charlain? No, how could Kelvin be here! Anyway, the tread was too light, almost childlike, or female. That made it baffling. No child or woman should be here.
He counted the steps. Three, four, five, six—how many had gone before? Now the person, whoever it might be, was at the very bottom of the stairs. It was dark there, even compared with the overall gloom of the dungeon, and he could not see.
Then the person stepped out into the single long ray of sunlight that was coming bravely down from high above them. The light from the barred window that was all the prisoners here ever saw of daylight. It was indeed a woman, in a gauzy night dress, finely formed. Almost like—
Her face turned toward him. Her hair was as red as the sheen of a fiery dragon. Her eyes were the color of feline magic.
“ZOANNA!” he cried, unable to restrain himself.
For to all appearances it was Zoanna. Zoanna, his lost illicit love and enemy, Rud’s terrible, evil queen! Zoanna, the mother Kian mourned.
Chapter 25
Royal Pain
YET HOW WAS IT possible? Even if Zoanna had survived, how could she be here in this frame?
She tossed back a lock of red hair. Her ears were revealed: round, not pointed. So it was Zanaan, the queen of Hud, and not Zoanna resurrected from the river and death. Kian had been talking about Zoanna, and suddenly there was her face! But it was the face of her double, the local queen—who would be good instead of evil, if the usual inversion held.
She carried a set of keys. She was coming to free them! There was the proof of the inversion!
To look so much like the woman he had foolishly loved, and to be good instead of evil—there was a dream he had not before dreamed. He had tried in his mind to resurrect the evil Zoanna, knowing it was futile, because even if she lived, she was not the type of person he could respect or even tolerate. But a good version of that woman—that was a person he could love. Indeed, already in this instant—
She extended a key. But as she did so, two figures materialized behind her. “One moment, Your Highness,” one said. It was the sergeant, the guardsman who had brought them their fare.
Zanaan jumped, startled. She turned slightly toward the stairs. She seemed stunned. The sergeant reached forward and took the ring of keys from her unresisting hand. There was no further chance for her to use them to free the prisoners. Even if she had thrown the keys into the cell, it would have been hopeless, for the guardsman was armed and strong and could have killed them all before they managed to open the gate.
“Your Highness, that was dumb,” the guard said. It was hardly the tone or the words one should use on a queen.
But the graybeard behind him, in the blue-black robe, turned out to be the king himself, His Majesty King Rowforth of Hud. There was the authority behind the sergeant’s insolence.
Now the queen’s eyes blazed at the guard, as she realized how she had been tricked. They had known of her effort all along!
To John Knight, it was as though Queen Zoanna of Rud had been affronted. Lights seemed to explode in the greenish depths, and her mouth firmed. Did she resemble Zoanna in other ways? Only Zanaan’s face was somehow softer than that of her double. Zoanna’s complexion had been nearly white marble, while Zanaan’s was that of very rich milk. The milk of human kindness? A foolish notion, yet perhaps true.
John looked at Kian to see whether he was seeing the difference. Kian was standing, staring, as if mesmerized. Yes, he appreciated the irony of this situation.
John looked back at the king. Rowforth certainly possessed Rufurt’s big nose and tannish complexion. But this face was cruel in a way that Rufurt’s had never been.
“So you sought to betray me,” Rowforth said grimly.
“You talk to me of betrayal!” Zanaan snapped. “You, with strumpets in your bed every—”
The king struck the queen hard across the face. John winced, feeling as if the blow had struck his own face, and behind him Kian gasped. In the neighboring cell Smith emitted a groan, as though he too had felt that terrible hit.
The queen touched her right cheek. The king had struck carefully, calculating, John felt sure, with the back of his hand. A large gem on each finger of his hand had torn the lovely cheek, so that it dripped blood. The queen gave no other sign of the pain she must have felt.
“Yes, Zanaan, that was very dumb,” the king said, echoing the insolence of the guard. “To think you could put something over on your lord and master. Was it your father who put you up to this?”
The queen did not speak.
“I should have you stripped and publicly whipped,” he continued. “That would give the peasants something to enjoy! And your dear daddy I should have burned!”
The queen flipped drops of scarlet from her fingers, so that they lit on the front of Rowforth’s robe. A single drop found his large nose. It was an oddly insulting gesture whose import was not lost on the king.
“You wish, then, to have me make good on my threats?”
“No.” She was unrepentant, sad.
“I thought not.” The king did not wipe away the single drop of his wife’s blood. He turned to John and said: “You have had time to think over my proposition. What is it? Are we allies? Will you or this other one lead me to your crossing place?”
John had to think of what the king wanted: for them to agree to serve him and just incidentally show him how to cross frames. What mischief that would bring! “No, we won’t,” he said. “Never!” Actually, he hardly knew how he had crossed; the best he could do would be to lead the king to The Flaw, where the king might only get himself lost without return. But Kian had come here by design, using Mouvar’s device, so it was best to keep the whole matter secret from the king.
“Never? That’s a long time. Broughtmar, you may proceed with the demonstration.”
Demonstration? For a moment John thought the king referred to his threat to strip the queen and have her whipped. But the guardsman went to the neighboring cell door, unlocking it. Then he was inside the cell, bending over Smith. The injured man groaned as the guard moved him, then spat carefully in Broughtmar’s left eye.
“Last chance to reconsider,” the king said. He spoke as if he didn’t really care. In fact, as if he preferred to make the demonstration.
“You have my answer,” John said. So it had already come to the test they had anticipated: the torture of their companion. He hated this, but knew he had to stand firm.
“Mine, too,” Kian said.
The king signaled Broughtmar with a wave of his hand. The guard took a silver tube from under his shirt, held it close to Smith’s face, and grinned.
Smith’s sick eyes widened. “No! No, don’t! Let me die clean, please! For the love of humanity, don’t!”
“Very last chance, John,” the king said. “Otherwise we demonstrate what will happen to your young companion, and you as well, if that should prove necessary.”
“No!” the queen breathed, horrified.
What was so horrible about the vial? If it contained poison, then Smith’s agony would soon be over. He felt the impulse to speak, even so, but knew that had to be overruled. If he could help Smith he would, but he would not sacrifice his adopted world for him. He would not ally himself with a king who might be as wicked as the queen of Rud had been. Nothing that could be done would ever force him to follow another Zoanna.
The portly king reached up and adjusted the silver crown on his head. “You two are wrong to defy me. Very wrong,” he said with wicked satisfaction. “You have so much to lose. You’ll see. Watch, now, what can happen to you.”
At the king’s gesture, Broughtmar pushed Smith’s head down, twisted it sideways, and held the silver tube above Smith’s left ear. He unstoppered it. Something silver oozed from the tube and flowed, undulating, into Smith’s ear.
Smith’s eyeballs rolled back until only the whites showed. He screamed.
The king formed a ghastly smile that was all the more horrible for being on King Rufurt’s face. “Silver’s not so nice, now, is it, Smith? Now that the little beastie’s chewing in you?”
John Knight experienced a new and uglier chill.
Something alive had been put in Smith’s ear!
Smith shook from head to toe. His arms and legs spasmed. He screamed again and again while John shuddered.
“He’s going to scream like that until his vocal cords quit,” King Rowforth said. “Then for days and nights he’ll feel that tickling, chewing sensation in his head. Into his brain, chew, chew, chew, tunnel, tunnel, tunnel. Not much pain, there in the brain. Just his mind. And he’ll go mad.”
“You put a—” John was too overcome by the horror to speak.
“Broughtmar put a tiny serpent in this man’s ear. It’s just like the big serpents but hasn’t lived yet for centuries. It’ll eat its way out, all the way out, and emerge from the farther ear. By then you’ll be half mad yourselves, just watching your friend. Before then you’d better declare yourself my ally. We can begin making plans and you can move upstairs and be my honored guests. You will have anything you desire. Indeed, my lovely wife here will be directed to cater to your every whim, of any nature. That should be easy for her, since she evidently likes you.”
John felt horror of another nature. Did the king know of his affair with the king’s wife in the other frame? Did he know how phenomenally appealing John found the queen? That Kian saw in her a better edition of his lost mother? Surely he suspected—and had abused the queen in John’s presence deliberately. The queen herself was hostage to John’s cooperation!
“As a symbol of your appreciation, you will lead me to your crossing place from the other world,” Rowforth continued blithely. “I could ask the flopears, my allies, but they are conservative and reticent on ancient matters.”
“I am, too,” John said, though fundamentally shaken. How could he even think of unleashing this monster in another frame—any frame? He could see the king going back the way Kian had come, leading an army. He could see King Rufurt of Rud and Kelvin and the Crumbs fighting for their freedom all over again. He could see terrible carnage and misery for those he had tried to help.
No, he would not slacken. No way, ever, would he tell that monster anything. No way, ever, would he allow him to win!
But if the silver serpent was next to go into Kian’s ear? He looked at Kian’s shocked expression and felt himself shake. The king didn’t know that Kian was the only one who truly knew the route between the frames. If he killed Kian, Rowforth would throw away his chance to cross the frames. But could that irony make up for the horror of Kian’s demise? Could he, John Knight, stand by and allow that to happen? Or would the mere threat cause him to capitulate? He dreaded the answer.
“Suit yourself,” Rowforth said. He faced the queen. “Move it, bitch. Your turn will come.”
Yet again, John felt a surge of horror. What did the king mean by that? That there would be a serpent in the queen’s ear, too, if John did not cooperate? He was very much afraid that this was exactly what the king meant.
Smith’s screams continued without pause as Rowforth and Broughtmar ascended the stairs. Ahead of them walked the weeping, now hideously pale queen. Kian stood as if dead and cold on his feet, staring blankly.
The screaming went on and on and on. Gods, as Mor Crumb would say in his own frame, would it ever truly end?
*
“Cousin Gerta,” Herzig said to his companion. Both were in astral form at the moment. “It would seem that our appointed hero has found the weapon.”
“Yes, Cousin. But can he use it?”
“He must, Cousin, if disaster is not to strike and the frames to fall.”
“Disaster now?” Gerta referred to Kelvin, who was holding the weapon but remained frozen by the stare. The ancestor, unfrozen and unreasoning, was about to incorporate the man’s substance. Nearby the girl was also motionless, as were the two mortals outside.
“Observe the gauntlets, Cousin Gerta. They helped make this mortal a hero in his home frame.” He paused, then addressed the gloves:
Gauntlets, danger threatens! Use the weapon!
Who speaks? Not a mortal?
Correct. An immortal.
What weapon? The sword?
The weapon you hold. A Mouvar weapon.
The gauntlets were confused.
Mouvar programmed us to fight with swords and spears. This is of a different order. We can enable the mortal to aim it as he would a bow; the principle is the same. But we cannot use it ourselves. We only guide our wearer; that is our limit.
Yes, the weapon is of a different order. But you can still act. You can stimulate the nerve of the finger resting on its trigger mechanism, causing that finger to convulse. Act now, Gauntlets, to save your host.
Still there was doubt.
We cannot fight immortals. We cannot fight magic. We cannot take the initiative in such a case. It is not in our program. We must have the directive of a mortal.
The Mouvar weapon will fight magic. The Mouvar weapon will resist even immortals. You need not take the initiative; you need do only what you know the mortal must do to survive. To fail in this is to betray the trust Mouvar put in you.
Click-click, clack-clack.
The gauntlets struggled with the concept.
We cannot. We cannot. We cannot.
You must, you must, you must! Herzig directed them.
Now and henceforth. You must reinterpret your program to enable you to do this.
A drop of digestive juice fell from the ancestor’s open jaw as the reptilian head was poised ready for engulfing. The drop lit on a gauntlet, and the gauntlet screamed as its substance burned. The cousins shook from the force of the scream that permeated all the ether around them. He could almost feel the agony, but Herzig ignored the pain in his desperation.
You must, Gauntlets! You must! The destinies of not one but two frames depend on it!
The corrosive fluid ate through the gauntlet, adding urgency to the decision. The gauntlets had to decide: suffer destruction, or do what the immortal directed. To revise their program in a way they had never done before.
Click-click, clack-clack…