[Magic Kingdom of Landover 05] - Witches' Brew (3 page)

The next morning, the sunrise still a crescent of silver brightness on the eastern horizon and the land still cloaked in night's shadows, Willow jerked upright from her pillow with so violent a start that it woke Ben from a sound sleep. He found her rigid and shaking; the covers were thrown back, and her skin was as cold as ice. He drew her to him at once and held her close. After a moment the shaking subsided, and she allowed herself to be pulled gently down under the covers once more.

“It was a premonition,” she whispered when she could speak again. She was lying close and still, as if waiting for something to strike her. He could not see her face, which was buried against his chest.

“A dream?” he asked, stroking her back, trying to calm her. The rigidity would not leave her body. “What was it?”

“Not a dream,” she answered, her mouth moving against his skin. “A premonition. A sense of something about to happen. Something terrible. It was a feeling of
such blackness that it washed over me like a great river, and I felt myself drowning in it. I couldn't breathe, Ben.”

“It's all right now,” he said quietly. “You're awake.”

“No,” she said at once. “It is definitely not all right. The premonition was directed at all of us—at you and me and Mistaya. But especially you, Ben. You are in great danger. I cannot be certain of the source, only the event. Something is going to happen, and if we are not prepared, we shall be …”

She trailed off, unwilling to say the words. Ben sighed and cradled her close. Her long emerald hair spilled over his shoulders, onto the pillow. He stared off into the still, dark room. He knew better than to question Willow when it came to dreams and premonitions. They were an integral part of the lives of the once-fairy, who relied on them as humans did on instincts. They were seldom wrong to do so. Willow was visited in dreams by fairy creatures and the dead. She was counseled and warned by them. Premonitions were less reliable and less frequently experienced, but they were no less valuable for what they were intended to accomplish. If Willow thought them in danger, then they would be wise to believe it was so.

“There was no indication as to what sort of danger?” he asked after a moment, trying to find a way to pin it down.

She shook her head no, a small movement against his body. She would not look at him. “But it is enormous. I have never felt anything so strongly, not since the time of our meeting.” She paused. “What bothers me is that I do not know what summoned it. Usually there is some small event, some bit of news, some hint that precedes such visits. Dreams are sent by others to voice their thoughts, to present their counsel. But premonitions are faceless, voiceless wraiths meant only to give warning,
to prepare for an uncertain future. They are drawn to us in our sleep by tiny threads of suspicion and doubt that safeguard us against the unexpected. Paths are opened to us in our sleep that remain closed while we are awake. The path this premonition traveled to reach me must have been broad and straight indeed, so monstrous was its size.”

She pressed against him, trying to get closer as the memory chilled her anew.

“We haven't had anything threaten us in months,” Ben said softly, thinking back. “Landover is at peace. Nightshade and Strabo are at rest. The Lords of the Greensward do not quarrel. Even the Crag Trolls haven't caused trouble in a while. There are no disturbances in the fairy mists. Nothing.”

They were silent then, lying together in the great bed, watching the light creep over the windowsills and the shadows begin to fade, listening to the sounds of the day come awake. A tiny brilliant red bird flew down out of the battlements past their window and was gone.

Willow lifted her head finally and looked at him. Her flawless features were pale and frozen. “I don't know what to do,” she whispered.

He kissed her nose. “We'll do whatever we have to.”

He rose from the bed and padded over to the washbasin that sat on its stand by the east-facing window. He paused to look out at the new day. Overhead, the sky was clear and the light from the sunrise was a sweeping spray of brightness that was already etching out a profusion of greens and blues. Forested hills, a rough blanket across the land's still-sleeping forms, stretched away beyond the gleaming walls of Sterling Silver. Flowers were beginning to open in the meadow beyond the lake that surrounded the island castle. In the courtyard immediately below, guards were in the middle of a shift
change and stable hands were moving off with feed for the stock.

Ben splashed water on his face, the water made warm by the castle for the new day. Sterling Silver was a living entity and possessed of magic that allowed her to care for the King and his court as a mother would her children. It had been a source of constant amazement to him when he had first come into Landover—to find a bath drawn and of perfect temperature on command, to have light provided wherever he wished it, to feel the stones of the castle floor warm beneath his feet on cold nights, to have food kept cooled or dried as needed—but now he was accustomed to these small miracles and did not think much on them anymore.

Although this morning, for some reason, he found himself doing so. He toweled his face dry and gazed downward into the shimmering surface of the washbowl's waters. His reflection gazed back at him, a strong, sun-browned, lean-featured visage with penetrating blue eyes, a hawk nose, and a hairline receding at the temples. The slight ripple of the water gave him wrinkles and distortions he did not have. He looked, he thought, as he had always looked since coming over from the old world. Appearances were deceiving, the saying went, but in this case he was not so sure. Magic was the cornerstone of Landover's existence, and where magic was concerned, anything was possible.

As with Mistaya, he reminded himself, who was constantly redefining that particular concept.

Willow rose from the bed and came over to him. She wore no clothes but as always seemed heedless of the fact and that made her nakedness seem natural and right. He took her in his arms and held her against him, thinking once more how lucky he was to have her, how much he loved her, how desperately he needed her. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a
prejudice he was proud to acknowledge, and he thought that her beauty came from within as much as from without. She was the great love he had lost when Annie had been killed in the old world—so long ago, it seemed, that he could barely remember the event. She was the life partner he had thought he would never find again, someone to give him strength, to infuse him with joy, to provide balance to his life.

There was a knock at the sleeping chamber door. “High Lord?” Abernathy called sharply, agitation in his voice. “Are you awake?”

“I'm awake,” Ben answered, still holding Willow against him, looking past her upturned face.

“I am sorry, but I need to speak with you,” Abernathy advised. “At once.”

Willow eased free from Ben's arms and moved quickly to cover herself with a long white robe. Ben waited until she was finished, then walked over to open the door. Abernathy stood there, unable to disguise with any success either his impatience or his dismay. Both registered clearly in his eyes. Dogs always imparted something of an anxious look, and Abernathy, though a dog in form only, was no exception. He held himself stiffly in his crimson and gold uniform, the robes of his office as Court Scribe, and his fingers—all that remained of his human self since his transformation into a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier—fidgeted with the engraved metal buttons as if to ascertain that they were all still in place.

“High Lord.” Abernathy stepped forward and bent close to assure privacy. “I am sorry to have to start your day off like this, but there are two riders at the gates. Apparently they are here to offer some sort of challenge. They refuse to reveal themselves to anyone but you, and one has thrown down a gauntlet in the middle of the causeway. They are waiting for your response.”

Ben nodded, stifling half a dozen ill-conceived responses. “I'll be right there.”

He closed the door and moved quickly to dress. He told Willow what had happened. Throwing down a gauntlet in challenge sounded quaint to a man of twentieth-century Earth, but it was no laughing matter in Landover. Rules of combat were still practiced there, and when a gauntlet was cast, there was no mistaking the intent. A challenge had been issued, and a response was required. Even a King could not ignore such an act. Or perhaps, Ben thought as he pulled on his boots,
especially
a King.

He rose and buttoned his tunic. He paused to grip the medallion that hung about his neck—the symbol of his office, the talisman that protected him. If a challenge had been issued, the battle would be fought by his champion, the knight called the Paladin, who had defended every King of Landover since the beginning. The medallion summoned the Paladin, who was in fact the King's alter ego. For it was Ben himself who inhabited the body and mind of the Paladin when it fought its battles for him, becoming his own champion, losing himself for a time in the other's warrior skills and life. It had taken Ben a long time to discover the truth about the Paladin's nature. It was taking him a longer time still to come to terms with what that truth meant.

He released the medallion. There would be time enough to speculate on all that later if this challenge was to combat, if the Paladin was required, if the danger was not imagined, if, if, if …

He took Willow's arm and went out the door. They moved quickly down the hall and climbed a flight of stairs to the battlements overlooking the castle's main entry. On an island in a lake, Sterling Silver was connected to the mainland by a causeway Ben had built—and now rebuilt several times—to permit ready access
for visitors. Landover was not at war, had not been at war since Ben had come over to assume Kingship, and he had decided a long time ago that there was no reason to isolate her ruler from her people.

Of course, her people were not in the habit of casting down gauntlets and issuing challenges.

He opened the door leading out onto the battlements and crossed to the balcony that overlooked the causeway. Questor Thews and Abernathy were already standing there, conversing in low tones. Bunion skittered along the parapets to one side, swift and agile, his kobold's claws able to grip the stone easily. Bunion could walk straight down the wall if he chose. His bright yellow eyes were menacing slits, and all his considerable teeth were showing in a parody of a smile.

Questor and Abernathy looked up hurriedly as Ben appeared with Willow and hurried over to meet him.

“High Lord, you must resolve this as you see fit,” Questor said in typically succinct fashion, “but I would advise great caution. There is an aura of magic about these two that even my talents cannot seem to penetrate.”

“What irrefutable proof!” Abernathy observed archly, dog's ears perked. He gave Ben a pained look. “High Lord, these are impertinent, possibly demented creatures, and offering them some time in the dungeons might be worth your consideration.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Ben greeted them cheerfully. “Nice day for casting down a gauntlet, isn't it?” He gave them each a wry smile as he moved toward the balcony. “Tell you what. Let's hear what they have to say before we consider solutions.”

They moved in a knot onto the overlook and stopped at the railing. Ben peered down. Two black-clad riders sat on black horses in the middle of the causeway. The larger of the two was dressed in armor and wore a
broadsword and had a battle-ax strapped to his saddle. His visor was down. The smaller was robed and hooded and hunched over like a crone at rest, face and hands hidden. Neither moved. Neither bore any kind of insignia or carried any standard.

The armored rider's black gauntlet lay before them in the center of the bridge.

“You see what I mean,” Questor whispered enigmatically.

Ben didn't, but it made no difference. Not wanting to prolong the confrontation, Ben shouted down to the two on the bridge, “I am Ben Holiday, King of Landover. What do you want with me?”

The armored rider's helmet tilted upward slightly. “Lord Holiday. I am Rydall, King of Marnhull and of all the lands east beyond the fairy mists to the Great Impassable.” The man's voice was deep and booming. “I have come to seek your surrender, High Lord. I would have it peaceably but will secure it by force if I must. I wish your crown and your throne and your medallion of office. I wish your command over your subjects and your Kingdom. Am I plain enough for you?”

Ben felt the blood rush to his face. “What is plain to me, Rydall, King of Marnhull, is that you are a fool if you expect me to pay you any mind.”

“And you are a fool if you fail to heed me,” the other answered quickly. “Hear me out before you say anything more. My Kingdom of Marnhull lies beyond the fairy mists. All that exists on that side of the boundary belongs to me. I took it by force and strength of arms long ago, and I took it all. For years I have searched for a way to pass through the mists, but the fairy magic kept me at bay. That is no longer the case. I have breached your principal defense, Lord Holiday, and your country lies open to me at last. Yours is a small, impossibly outnumbered army. Mine, on the other hand,
is vast and seasoned and would crush you in a day. It waits now at your borders for my command. If I call, it will sweep through Landover like a plague and destroy everything in its path. You lack any reasonable means of stopping it, and once it has been set in motion, it will take time to bring it under control again. I do not need to speak more explicitly, do I, High Lord?”

Ben glanced quickly at Willow and his advisors. “Have any of you ever heard of this fellow?” he asked softly. All three shook their heads.

“Holiday, will you surrender to me?” Rydall cried out again in his great voice.