Feynard (26 page)

“That is wholly unacceptable!” the Unicorn barked.

“My answer stands.”

“Kevin!” Zephyr whirled to face him. “This Faun is sworn to your service. Command him to reply!”

Kevin
felt like an unwilling prisoner being dragged to the noose. How could he disobey the Unicorn’s command? And by what right did he presume to command Akê-Akê? It would be a violation of his right to privacy, even as he had been violated in the past by Father and Brian. But he was saved from reply by Snatcher.

“On my word of honour,” rumbled the Lurk, “this Faun is no wizard. His tribal patterning–the scarification marks–proclaim it for all to see.”

Akê-Akê swore bitterly and spat, “If you know, good Lurk, then why do
you
not tell the interfering one-horn, who regards all Fauns as the dust beneath his precious hooves, what I am? Perhaps then he will be satisfied!”

“It is not my place.”

“Fine! Outlander, you command him!”

The Faun made a dismissive gesture. “Save your breath, noble Zephyr.
I am a Faun Loremaster. It is my business to know these things.”

“Order him to leave–now!”

Kevin blinked at Zephyr’s hate-filled hiss. He said, plaintively, “What? Why should he leave?”

“Loremasters conjure demons!”

“Some do,” Akê-Akê interrupted, goaded beyond silence now. “Others tame animals, heal the sick, dispense justice, and keep the tribal histories. Undoubtedly, the good Unicorn suspects me of conjuring the Scarab. Why don’t you say it outright, one-horn?”

Kevin
bleated into the frosty silence, “How did the Scarab demon know where we were?” And moments later, “Would someone kindly tell me what’s going on?”

But Zephyr suddenly looked tired and weary. “Akê-Akê, your truth shines before you as the dawn sky–I was wrong to suspect you. Please accept my humble apologies.”

The Faun looked furious. “Accepted,” he grated.

The Lurk cocked his ear. “We should hurry on, nobles all. This is no place to rest.” And he chivvied them along as a mother hen gathers its chicks,
for they were exhausted and bone-weary and cold.

*  *  *  *

Shilliabär Tower rose before them like a single mocking syllable, seamless and perfect and untouched by the ravages of time. Protected by magic, both Zephyr and Snatcher averred. One hundred feet of sparkling white marble, with no discernable doorway, protecting the lost scrolls of Shilliabär’s many wizards. It was evening of the following lighttime, and the Unicorn’s patience was long since frazzled.

Kevin
stared around the circle of Zephyr’s magic. Creatures prowled out there, growing bolder in the gathering gloom, snarling, spitting, and hissing as they circled the intruders while giving each other a respectful distance, but the shield held firm. The Unicorn had taken two turns to draw on the ground the complex runes and symbols that protected them, explaining that he needed calm in order to work. Whatever he had done, Kevin thought, was so effective that the X’gäthi to the last man had rolled into their cloaks and were sound asleep. He wished he could relax at the drop of a hat like them. But when there were three or four dozen unnameable creatures out there, each clearly as predatory and deadly as the next, he found an attitude of relaxation somewhat hard to entertain.

Over to his left, by the tower,
he saw that Zephyr, Snatcher and Akê-Akê were embroiled in a heated discussion. Once they found the tower, they found no way in. An afternoon’s frustration with gaining ingress lay at the root of their anger. The tower had resisted their every artifice. The Unicorn had evidently run out of ideas.

His eyes lit upon the green-shrouded bundle that was all that remained of Alliathiune. For her sake, he told himself.
Enough soul-searching. It was his fault the Dryad had become trapped. His fault that she was dying. Kevin could stand the inactivity no longer–the ghosts of his fears were nothing compared to the guilt that gripped him now. Were he not such a miserable little toad, then the Dryad would have been safe and smiling and no doubt giving him the rough edge of her tongue. He would infinitely have preferred her most towering fury to the sight of a devouring green pod. He would rather she had slapped him again, harder than the time they first met, than see her succumb to this insidious fate. He pushed himself to his feet.

Kevin
silently passed by the Unicorn, trotting back and forth. He stuck his hand in his pocket. Willed himself not to throw up. Touched the cool Key-Ring, fingered a couple of the larger keys, and then passed it over his wrist. A cold sweat was upon his brow–every time he had done this, a concussion had resulted. But now there was only a slight tingling. Kevin stood before the tower, expecting something to happen. Nothing did.

Slowly, he leaned forward and
touched his forehead to the cool stone. What had he expected? Magic? A low, disgusted chuckle warbled from the depths of his throat. No, he reminded himself, he was just a useless lump of outlander baggage who needed a dozen X’gäthi warriors to wipe his backside. Alliathiune would surely die. He stiff-armed himself away. All that bothering about nothing. He was no wizard.

“Hold still!” Zephyr shrilled.

“Pardon?”

In his haste the Unicorn trod on
the Faun’s ankle. He grunted in pain. “Mind your hooves.”

“Just–stand there! Stand still! Do whatever you were doing!”

Kevin scratched his chin and muttered, “Listen, old man, you’re making no sense whatsoever.” He adjusted his cloak and hung his head. “Come on, Zephyr. I feel like enough of a failure already.”

But Zephyr prodded him with his muzzle. “Go back. What were you doing? You were standing there by the wall. Were you touching it?”
Kevin sighed like a man three times his age. “Humour me, good Kevin. I’m already made a fool, why not join me?”

He could not suppress a chuckle. “Your forced entry that backfired on you?”

“Indeed.” Zephyr bared his teeth in a Unicorn smile. A blast of fire had been reflected somehow, sending him flying. “Thankfully, my magic protected me from any worse than skidding across those brambles on my haunches. Even wizards of the fourth rank have no proof against their own foolishness and impatience.”

“I don’t consider you foolish, good Zephyr.”

“Very well. Now, do whatever you were just doing.”

He leaned against the tower. “
This?”

“No
, something’s wrong.
Exactly
what you were doing before.”

Kevin
reluctantly inserted his hand through the Key-Ring, hidden in his pocket. “How’s this?”

Zephyr clucked impatiently. “Put your head against the tower.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Hold still–excellent.
Hold everything. Noble Snatcher, get your mangy hide over here and tell me what you see.”

The Lurk made a sound like the grating of a dungeon door. “Still got a thorn stuck up your rear, good Zephyr?”
Kevin shifted uneasily. At Zephyr’s impatient hiss, however, he touched his head to the cool marble once more. This was more than ridiculous, it was demeaning–but he would have put up with a thousand years of demeaning for the chance of seeing Alliathiune well again. Snatcher’s shadow loomed over him. “Unless my sight deceives me, good Unicorn,” he growled, rubbing his eyes, “I see a prismatic shield with a hole in it. I didn’t think that was possible. Good Kevin, lift your head for a moment.”

Zephyr reared in excitement, slashing the air with his hooves. “Incredible!”

“Now put your hand against the wall.” The Lurk prodded Kevin with his forefinger.

“Ouch–gently! That thing’s like a stick!”

Snatcher ignored him. “You, good Human, are a genius.”

“What’s so great about blocking–
?”

“Hold still!” Zephyr neighed. “By the holy Well itself, good outlander, I don’t know how you do it!” He explained, prancing
about, “A prismatic shield can be raised only by seven powerful wizards acting in concert, and is so named because it blocks all possible kinds of magic. It shifts and misdirects magic like a prism. Once raised, it requires a master with the right keyword or phrase, or runes, or magical symbols, to reopen it. It cannot–should not–be broken down by any external force. How do you
do
that?”

“Do what–like this?”
Kevin laid his head against the stone ore. Two gasps confirmed that he had breached the shield once more. The frightening thing was, this time he was not even touching the Key-Ring. He felt rattled. “And if I spread my arms?”

“I’ll be
hornswoggled!”

Snatcher uttered something untranslatable in Lurkish beneath his breath. His huge paw
buffeted Kevin’s shoulder. “Well done, noble Wizard. Why did you not come forward before? You have in one breath made more progress than three of us have all afternoon. A step to your left, if you please?”

“As our Mother Forest lives and breathes!” cried the Unicorn. “A door!
Yahhnïaa Tomalia aflïa!
We’ve found the door! Is it locked? Quickly, and hold still, good outlander. Can you raise your arms a little? Haste, good Snatcher, bring him something to stand on.”

Shortly,
Kevin was installed upon a small boulder, leaning his head against the lintel of a Human-sized door in the side of the tower. As long as he kept his arms raised, he could open a gap in the magical shield, which shimmered in a million colours along his arms and shoulders with a faint prickling like the beginnings of a patch of eczema. Was it not like that old Bible story he had once read? As long as their leader kept his arms upraised, the Israelites prevailed against their enemies, but when they dropped, the battle went against them. Of course that was just a legend. But he too, like that ancient prophet, soon had to have assistance to keep his arms raised–in his case two X’gäthi warriors. He was about to complain, when Zephyr abruptly announced that he had disabled the traps set into the door and they could now enter safely. Snatcher lifted his great foot and nudged it open, to a protesting groan of hinges that had not moved in a thousand seasons or more. There was a whiff of stale air–and lights came on within.

*  *  *  *

Zephyr lifted his red-rimmed eyes from the parchment he had been studying and crowed, “At last.”

Almost three
lighttimes had passed since finding the entrance to Shilliabär Tower. With the unique magic of his horn, Zephyr had neutralised the magical guards lurking within, and thereafter swept through the great library in a desperate, flustered rush. There was no time to properly examine the thousands of scrolls and manuscripts lining the walls and shelves, no opportunity to exclaim over the treasures of a thousand years of wizardry, and no need to examine the hidden sub-chambers that housed the most dangerous texts and artefacts. Magic prickled around him at every step. Every moment that passed put Alliathiune in greater danger than before. What he would not have given for a lifetime’s study here, he muttered. But the morrow’s dawn would be Alliathiune’s last, if they did not move quickly.

Zephyr’s exhausted
exclamation brought the others to their feet at once. “Attend us, you X’gäthi!” he cried. “Good Lurk, bring the Dryad. We must immerse her in the pool called ‘
Shiär-Lazûr’
, which lies at the northern edge of this square. In its healing waters, with the incantations described here, she shall be restored. It surely took too long to find this simple information.”

Kevin
trotted after them with quiet anxiety clutching his heart–lighttime by lighttime, desperation had swollen in his breast as the deadline approached and no progress was forthcoming. But now his hope–could he hope? He scrambled over the jumbled rocks and peered ahead. Surely the pool would have been ruined after so many years? Surely the sixth lighttime approached. Tomorrow she would perish.

Scrambling atop a pile of boulders, h
e groaned aloud at what he saw.

“Courage, good
Kevin! Courage, denizens of the Forest!” The Lurk’s paw steadied him, as the companions surveyed the ruin with cries of dismay. “This is a straightforward matter for a Lurk of Mistral Bog.”

The pool was dry, and filled with
the detritus of centuries. Once, seven marble columns had surrounded it, but these had collapsed into the pool, crumbling the edges and filling the centre with rubble. The water had drained away untold years before. Bushes and briars had sprung up between the stones, further entangling the whole mess, which he estimated was some thirty feet long, twenty wide, and five feet deep. Kevin could see no conceivable way of repairing it, but his companions evidently could. While three X’gäthi prowled their surrounds to keep the Glothums–or at least, their monstrous descendants–at bay, everyone else leaped to work with a will. Zephyr began to powder rocks with the touch of his horn, until Snatcher asked him to throw up a shield as he had previously, for the work might continue all darktime. The Faun and the X’gäthi ripped up bushes and removed the smaller lumps of rubble, while the Lurk flexed his muscles to shift the larger chunks. Kevin made himself useful by preparing a pot of hot, sweet skue to fuel their efforts.