May, Julian - Trillium 3 - Sky Trillium

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Sky Trillium by Julian

May

PROLOGUE

THE old madman had fallen unconscious at last, prone on the dining room table

amidst the remains of the meal. The prisoner let his glittering glass blade

descend until its point touched the dark, wrinkled skin of the Archimage's neck.

One thrust. A single movement of his arm and it would be ended.

Do it!

But the prisoner held back, cursing himself for a sentimental coward, his mind a

storm of conflicting emotion. The cup of poisoned wine lay upset near Denby's

flaccid brown hand. Dregs puddled on the shining gondawood surface, slowly

whitening the varnish beneath. The magnificent table, more than twelve

thousand years old, was probably ruined; but its insane owner would survive. At

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the last, standing over the helpless form of the Archimage of the Firmament with

the razor-sharp fruitknife in his hand, the prisoner found it impossible to kill his

captor.

Why do I hesitate? he asked himself. Is it because of the old man's crotchety

good humor, or his awesome office, that he neglects so scandalously? Do I hold

back because Denby Varcour spared my life, even though he sentenced me to

share his grotesque exile? Or is magic at work here, protecting this ancient

meddler even though he lies vulnerable as a sleeping child before me?

Never mind all that. Do it. Kill him! The poison has only rendered him senseless.

Kill him now before it is too late!

But he could not. Not even the power of his Star sufficed to drive the blade

home. Denby lay there snoring gently, a smile on his furrowed lips, quite safe,

while his would-be murderer fumed and fretted. The reason for the failure was

unfathomable but the impossibility remained.

Shaking his head in self-disgust, the prisoner replaced the glass knife on the

platter of juicy ladu that was to have been their dessert. With a last uneasy

glance at the unconscious madman, he hurried out of the room.

It took only a moment to snatch up the sack of warm clothing and stolen magical

implements he had secreted in a cupboard in the salon anteroom. Then he was

off, running down the dim, silent corridors toward the chamber of the dead

woman, located nearly two leagues away in another quadrant of the Dark Man's

Moon.

The prisoner knew he had no time to waste. The sindona messengers and bearers

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were withdrawn into the Garden Moon as usual, but there was no telling when

one or another of the terrible living statues might decide to cross over and seek

out their lunatic master on some cryptic errand. Should a sindona find Denby

drugged, it would know in an instant what had happened and call out the

sentinels.

And if those beautiful demons caught up with the prisoner, he would die. The

sentinels would discover the new empowerment of his Star, and not even

Denby's senile whimsy would suffice to spare his life.

The fleeing man paused for an instant. Clasping the heavy platinum medallion

engraved with a many-pointed image that hung around his neck, he called upon

its magic to survey his prison. The Star reported that the aged enchanter was still

unconscious and no sindona were abroad. The only things that moved in the

Dark Man's Moon were the tenders, those odd mechanical contrivances that

crept about on jointed legs like great metallic Hngits, doing domestic chores.

One of these machines confronted the prisoner now, coming suddenly into view

around the corridor's sharp curve. It carried a basket of flameless lamp-globes

and moved patiently along, "sniffing" with one of its armlike appendages,

seeking burned-out ceiling lights that might require replacement.

"Out of my way, thing!" The prisoner barged past the bulky device, nearly

upsetting it and causing its collection of glowing globes to spill onto the floor.

His foot landed on one of the lights and he lost his balance and fell to his knees.

"I beg pardon, master," the lamp-tender said humbly. "Are you injured? Shall I

summon one of the consolers to treat you?"

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"No! Don't! I forbid it!" Sweat broke out on the prisoner's brow. He struggled

upright and managed to speak in more normal tones. "I am not hurt. I command

you to go about your normal duties. Do not summon assistance. Do you

understand?"

Four inhuman eyes studied him. Denby's weird creations were the most

solicitous of servants, quite capable of forcing him to accept the medical

attention of a sindona consoler against his will if he actually needed it.

Dark Powers! he prayed silently. Don't let it call a sindona. Don't let all my

careful planning come to naught and my life be forfeit because of a witless

machine!

"It is true that you are unhurt," the light-tender said at last. "I will resume my

work. I regret any inconvenience I have caused." It blinked its eyes in salute and

began to pick up its scattered load.

The prisoner walked off in a semblance of nonchalance; but when the lamp-

tender was out of sight he began to run again, feeling fear swell within him.

What if the cursed machine called the sindona anyway? What if the sentinels

were already in pursuit?

He was racing flat out now, his formal dining robes flapping and his boot-shod

feet thudding on the resilient corridor floor. A lump of cramping dread knotted

his belly and every breath was now like a sword cut. Dwelling in this damned

place for two years had robbed him of his bodily strength and crippled his

resolution. But he would mend if he could elude the sindona and finally take

advantage of the dead woman's second gift…

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He was in the disused part of the Dark Man's Moon now, a silent warren of

empty galleries and parlors, uninhabited bedroom suites, and abandoned

workshops and libraries. It was here that the rearguard of the Vanished Ones had

lived twelve times ten hundreds ago while they strove hopelessly to stem the

advance of the Conquering Ice.

Denby had willingly given him permission to explore the ghostly rooms,

apparently unmindful of what might be found there. Early in his incarceration,

the prisoner had come upon the chamber of the dead woman and received her

first precious gift. With its help, he had collected his small trove of magical

devices; but they were useless, of course, so long as he remained Denby's

captive. The Dark Man was invulnerable to ordinary magic.

A long time later, after he had discovered the truth about himself and about the

world's imbalance, the prisoner had found the dead woman's second gift: the

means to escape this strange prison and its demented jailer. Her third and last

gift, without which the other two were useless, he had found just two days

earlier. There was no magic in this gift at all, and for that reason Denby had

succumbed. The old man had not died, as the prisoner had hoped, but if the

profound swoon only lasted a short while longer—

Star Man, where are you going?

Merciful Dark Powers, the sentinels had found him! Their voices rang in his

brain like great brazen bells.

What have you done to the Archimage of the Firmament? What stolen goods do

you carry in that sack? Answer us, Star Man!

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At any moment they might materialize in the corridor with him. They would

point their fingers in judgment—and his life would end in a puff of smoke while

his naked skull bounced hollow on the floor.

Star Man, this is your final warning. Stop and explain yourself!

But he only continued to flee. Suddenly they appeared out of thin air, four of

them, less than ten ells behind him and striding purposefully in pursuit. The

sindona that were called Sentinels of the Mortal Dictum resembled living statues

of ivory, taller than a man and more beautiful than any human being. They wore

only crossed belts of blue and green scales and iridescent crown-helms, and they

carried golden death's-heads that symbolized their lethal duty. The pace of the

sentinels was ponderous and deliberate and he kept well ahead of them, but he

was nearly spent. His heart seemed about to burst and his legs were faltering and

would not bear him much farther.

Where was her chamber? He should have reached it long ago! But the eerie

corridor seemed endless, and the sentinels were drawing closer moment by

moment. His vision reddened, then began to dim.

I am finished, he said to himself, and pitched forward toward blackness, losing

his grip upon the sack. As he fell he took hold of his medallion in a last gesture

of futile appeal. The Star seemed to lend him fresh strength. Lying there, he was

able to lift his head and open his eyes.

He saw the four pale sindona, golden skulls cradled beneath their left arms,

marching toward him. And he also saw that a miracle had been vouchsafed. He

lay before a door, massively fashioned of solid metal, marked with a huge,

tarnished likeness of the same many-rayed silvery Star he wore around his neck.

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The portal had neither latch nor keyhole. It was only a few paces away.

Like a dying thing, he crawled with agonized slowness, then lifted his medallion

on its chain and touched it to the door.

No! cried the sentinels. Their right arms rose in unison to point annihilation

toward him.

The door flew open. There within was the dead woman, seeming to turn her head

and smile at him, silently offering sanctuary.

Somehow he was drawn swiftly inside and the door clanged shut behind him. He

was enveloped in night—a night spangled with unblinking stars. The room was

so cold that the breath was torn from his heaving lungs in a frosty cloud and the

sweat coursing down his face turned to crackling ice. An involuntary moan

escaped his stiffening lips. He had forgotten that one visited the dead woman

only on her own terms.

Near paralyzed with pain and the intense cold, he pulled a cloak from his sack,

flung it about himself, and drew up the hood, muffling his face to the eyes. Then

he fumbled to pull on fur-lined gloves. Staggering to his feet, he stood with his

back pressed to the locked door, fighting to reclaim control of his mind and body.

Would the sindona be able to break in and capture him?

The dead woman smiled serenely and seemed to say, No. Not without the explicit

command of the Dark Man himself, and he is still bereft of his senses.

She sat in a thronelike chair, not really looking at him at all. One entire wall of

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her chamber was a gigantic window, and her glazed eyes, wide open, seemed to

stare with rapt fascination at the scene outside. A shining blue-and-white sphere

hung in the midst of a million untwinkling stars. The Garden Moon and the

Death Moon were out of sight, tracing their course in the heavens somewhere

behind the abode of the Dark Man, so there was nothing to detract from the heart-

wrenching beauty of the vision. Uncounted leagues distant, the World of the

Three Moons hovered like a massive clouded aquamarine.

The imperiled world. The world that was his home, that he alone could save. The

world that had certainly been her home as well, twelve thousand years agone.

She had died with her eyes fixed longingly upon that blue orb, with one hand

clasping a Star hanging on jeweled links at her breast and the other holding a

curiously wrought little glass phial with a few frozen droplets remaining in it.

Her body was perfectly preserved in the deep cold, dressed in rich garments of

mournful black. Her hair was dark, streaked with silver. She had been middle-

aged but of surpassing beauty, a prisoner like himself. The archives of the Dark

Man had told him some of her tragic story:

Her name was Nerenyi Daral, and she had been the founder of the mighty Star

Guild. One who loved her beyond all reason and loyalty had "saved" her from

the fate that had befallen most of the other members of her group, only to see her

voluntarily relinquish life rather than evade the Conquering Ice in his despised

company. The loss of Nerenyi had driven Denby Varcour, greatest hero of the

Vanished Ones and Archimage of the Firmament, out of his mind.

The prisoner bowed deeply before her body, trying to control his shivering. He

could not live long in this rigorous place. If the dead woman's second gift proved

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inoperative after aeons of disuse, he would surely freeze to death before Denby

awoke and ordered the sentinels to seize him.

"I could not kill him after all, Star Lady," he confessed to her. "Perhaps his

magic protected him. But I suspect it was my own soul that demurred, unable to

take his life in such a craven manner as he lay smilingly unconscious, replete

with good food and wine. Should another day come when he and I meet in

honorable magical combat, man-to-man, I will not hesitate to destroy him. Will

that suffice?"

The voice that might have been hers replied, It will. Have you found the basic

instruments of enchantment—those that will enable you to resume your work?

"I have." He lifted the sack. "My Star eventually led me to all of them, even

though it took some time. I am ready now to return to the world, regain the three

pieces of the Sceptre of Power, and perform the task you have commanded."

The Three will do their best to prevent you.

"Lady, no human being will stop me—not even the one I love. I swear it on the

Star."

When he had first found Nerenyi Daral, some instinct bade him touch his own

medallion to hers… and the ancient magic of her Guild had done its work,

granting him the full power of the Star at last. It was the dead woman's first gift.

The second gift was a viaduct, one of those wondrous passageways that the Dark

Man and the sindona used in order to travel instantly from place to place about

the hollow moons. But this particular viaduct, invisible now, as its kind always

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were until an adept commanded their opening, led from the Dark Man's Moon

back to the world below. Its existence had been revealed to the prisoner on one

of his later visits.

Nerenyi Daral had warned him that the Archimage of the Firmament would

know instantly if anyone attempted to use the viaduct. And then Denby would

either lock it or bid it convey the prisoner to some ghastly new place of captivity.

Only if the Dark Man were killed or disabled would the passage lead to freedom.

A tiny glass container in Nerenyi's hand had been her third gift. Sheer

happenstance had finally drawn the thing to his attention two days ago and

caused him to ask what it contained. When he found out about the poison, he

began at once to plan his escape.

"I am ready to go now," he told her. "Star Lady, I beseech you to open the world-

viaduct for me."

Do you swear on the Star to re-create my Guild and carry out its great purpose,

restoring the balance of the world?

He grasped his medallion with one gloved hand. His fingers were losing

sensation and the deadly cold was fast penetrating the cloak as well.

"I do swear," he said.

Then take my own Star, dear adopted son and heir, and give it to one in whom

you place your utmost trust. With the help of the reborn Guild, reclaim the

Sceptre of Power. It is still capable of banishing the Conquering Ice. Learn to

control its perilous faculties and let the Sky Trillium shine again.

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