Brooks, Terry - Landover 5 - Witchres' brew
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Witches' Brew
A Magic Kingdom of Landover Novel
Terry Brooks
ISBN 0-345-38702-3
[1.1 - 09 april 2002 - quotes and spelling corrected]
[2.0 - 15 may 2002 - dashes/hyphens corrected]
To Lisa. For always being there.
&
To Jill. Because you must never give up on yourself.
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew
was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another
flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs.
Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This
was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up.
You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.
J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Mistaya
The crow with the red eyes sat on a branch in the towering old white oak where the leafy
boughs were thickest and stared down at the people gathered for their picnic in the sunny clearing
below. That was what Holiday called it, a picnic. A brightly colored cloth was spread out on the
lush spring grass, and the contents of several baskets of food were being emptied onto it. The
food, if you were human and possessed of an appetite, would have pleased and delighted, the crow
supposed. There were platters of meats and cheeses, bowls of salad and fruit, loaves of bread, and
flasks of ale and chilled water. There were plates and napkins set around for each participant and
cups for drinking and utensils for eating. A vase of wildflowers had been placed at the center of
the feast.
Willow was doing most of the work, the sylph with the emerald tresses and small, lithe form.
She was animated, laughing and talking with the others as she worked. The dog and the kobold
helped her: Abernathy, who was Landover's Court Scribe, and Parsnip, who did most of the castle's
cooking. Questor Thews, the ragtag white-bearded wizard, wandered about looking in amazement at
sprigs of new growth and strange wild-flowers. Bunion, the other kobold, the dangerous one, the
one who could spy out almost anything, patrolled the clearing's perimeter, ever watchful.
The King sat alone at one end of the bright cloth. Ben Holiday, High Lord of Landover. He
was staring out into the trees, lost in thought. The picnic was his invention, something they did
in the world from which he came. He was introducing it to the others, giving them a new
experience. They seemed to be enjoying it more than he was.
The crow with the red eyes sat perfectly still within the concealment of the branches of the
old oak, cognizant of the adults but really interested only in the child. Other birds, some more
dazzling in their plumage, some more sweet with their song, darted through the surrounding woods,
flitting from here to there and back again, mindless and carefree. They were bold and heedless;
the crow was purposefully invisible. No eye but the child's would be cast; no attention but the
child's would be drawn. The crow had been waiting more than an hour for the child to notice it,
for its unspoken summons to be heeded, for its silent command to be obeyed, and for the brilliant
green eyes to be drawn upward into the leafy shadows. The child was walking about, playing at this
and that, seemingly aimless but already searching.
Patience, then, the crow with the red eyes admonished. As with so much in life, patience.
Then the child was directly below, the small face lifting, the dazzling green eyes seeking
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and abruptly finding. The child's eyes locked on the crow's, emerald to crimson, human to bird.
Words passed between them that did not need speaking, a silent exchange of thoughts on being and
having, on want and loss, on the power of knowledge and the inexorable need to grow. The child
stood as still as stone, staring up, and knew there was something vast and wondrous to be learned
if the proper teacher could be found.
The crow with the red eyes intended to be that teacher.
The crow was the witch Nightshade.
* * *
Ben Holiday leaned back on his elbows and let the smells of the picnic lunch bring a growl
to his empty stomach. Breakfast had been hours ago, and he had been careful to refrain from eating
anything since. Thank goodness the wait was almost over. Willow was unpacking the containers and
setting them out, aided by Abernathy and Parsnip. Soon it would be time to eat. It was a perfect
summer day for a picnic, the sky clear and blue, the sun warming the earth and the new grasses,
chasing memories of winter's chill into the past once more. Flowers were blooming, and leaves were
thick again in the trees. The days were stretching out farther as midsummer neared, and Landover's
colored moons were chasing each other for increasingly shorter periods of time across the darkened
heavens.
Willow caught his eye and smiled at him, and he was instantly in love with her all over
again, as if it were the first time. As if they were meeting in the midnight waters of the Irrylyn
and she was telling him how they were meant for each other.
"You might lend a hand, wizard," Abernathy snapped at Questor Thews, interrupting Ben's
thoughts, obviously peeved that the other was doing none of the work in setting out the lunch.
"Hmmm?" Questor looked up from a strange purple and yellow wildflower, oblivious. The wizard
always looked as if he were oblivious, whether in fact he was or not.
"Lend a hand!" Abernathy repeated sharply. "Those who don't do the work don't eat the food--
isn't that how the fable goes?"
"Well, no need to get huffy about it!" Questor Thews abandoned his study for the more
pressing need of appeasing his friend. "Here, that's not the way to do that! Let me show you."
They went back and forth for a few more moments, then Willow intervened, and they settled
down. Ben shook his head. How many years now had they been going at each other like that? Ever
since the wizard had changed the scribe into a dog? Even before? Ben wasn't sure, in part because
he was the newcomer to the group and the history wasn't entirely clear even now and in part
because time had lost meaning for him since his arrival from Earth. Assuming a separateness of
Landover from Earth, he amended, an assumption that was perhaps more theoretical than factual.
How, after all, did you define a boundary that was marked not by geographical landmarks or proper
surveys but by fairy mists? How did you differentiate between soils that could be crossed in a
single step, but not without words or talismans of magic? Landover was here and Earth there,
pointing right and left, but that didn't begin to explain the distance between them.
Ben Holiday had come into Landover when his hopes and dreams for a life in his old world had
dried to dust, and reason had given way to desperation. Purchase a magic kingdom and find a new
life, the ad in Rosen's Christmas catalogue had promised. Make yourself King of a land where the
stories of childhood are real. The idea was unbelievable and at the same time irresistible. It
called for a supreme act of faith, and Ben had heeded that call in the manner of a drowning man
reaching for a lifeline. He had made the purchase and crossed into the unknown. He had come to a
place that couldn't possibly exist and had found that it did.
Landover had been everything and nothing like what he had expected. It had challenged him as
he had not thought anything could. But ultimately it had given him what he needed: a new
beginning, a new chance, a new life. It had captured his imagination. It had transformed him
completely.
It continued to baffle him, though. He was still trying to understand its nuances. Like this
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business of time's passage. It was different here from his old world; he knew that from having
crossed back and forth on more than one occasion and finding seasons out of synch. He knew it,
too, from the effect it had on him--or the lack thereof. Something was different in the way he
aged over here. It was not a progressive process, a steady rate of change, minute by minute, hour
by hour, and so forth. It was difficult to believe, but sometimes he did not age at all. He had
only suspected that before, but he was certain of it now. This was a deduction arrived at not from
observing his own rate of growth, which was not easily measured because he lacked objectivity and
distance.
No, it was from observing Mistaya.
He looked over for her. She stood in front of a massive old white oak, staring upward into
its branches, her gaze intense. His brow furrowed as he watched her. If there was one word he
would use to describe his daughter, that was probably it. "Intense." She approached everything
with the single-mindedness of a hawk in search of prey. No lapses in concentration or distractions
were allowed. When she focused on something, she gave it her complete attention. Her memory was
prodigious and perhaps required that she study a thing until it was hers.
It was strange behavior in a small child. But then, Mistaya herself was strange.
There was the question of her age. It was from this, from his study of her rate of growth,
that Ben was able to see more clearly that his suspicions about himself were not unfounded.
Mistaya had been born two years ago, measured by the passing of Landover's seasons, the same four
seasons that Earth saw in a year's time. That should have made her two years old. But it didn't.
Because she wasn't anywhere close to two years old. She seemed almost ten. She had been two years
old when she was two months old. She was growing quite literally by leaps and bounds. In only
months she grew years. And she didn't do it in a logically progressive fashion, either. For a time
she would not grow at all--at least, not noticeably. Then, she would age months or even an entire
year overnight. She would grow physically, mentally, socially, emotionally, in every measurable
way. Not altogether or even at the same rate, but on a general scale one characteristic would
eventually catch up with the others. She seemed to mature mentally first; yes, he was convinced of
that much. She had been talking, after all, when she was three. That was months, not years.
Talking as if she were maybe eight or nine. Now, at two years or ten years or whatever standard of
reference you cared to use, she was talking as if she were twenty-five.
Mistaya. The name had been Willow's choice. Ben had liked it right from the first. Mistaya.
Misty Holiday. He thought it a nice play on words. It suggested sweetness and nostalgia and
pleasant memories. It fit the way she had looked when he had first seen her. He had just escaped
from the Tangle Box; she and her mother had escaped from the Deep Fell, where Mistaya had been
born. Willow would not talk about the birthing at first, but then, they had both harbored secrets
that needed revealing if they were to stay true to each other, and in the end they had both
confessed. He had told her of Nightshade as the Lady; she had told him of Mistaya. It had been
difficult but healing. Willow had dealt better with Ben's truth than he had with hers. Mistaya
might have been anything, given the nature of her birth. Born of a tree as a seedling, nourished
by soils from Earth, Landover, and the fairy mists, come into being in the dank, misty deadness of
the Deep Fell, Mistaya was an amalgam of worlds, magics, and bloods. But there she was that first
time he had seen her, lying in the makeshift coverings, a perfect, beautiful baby girl. Dazzling
green eyes that cut to your soul, clear pink skin, honey-blond hair, and features that were an
instantly recognizable mix of Ben's and Willow's own.
Ben had thought from the first that it was all too good to be true. He began to discover
soon enough that he was right.
He watched Mistaya shoot through infancy in a matter of several months. He watched her take
her first steps and learn to swim in the same week. She began talking and running at the same
time. She mastered reading and elementary math before she was a year old. By then his mind was
reeling at the prospect of being parent to a phenomenally advanced child, a genius the like of
which no one in his old world had ever seen. But even that didn't turn out the way he had
expected. She matured, but never as rapidly in any one direction as he anticipated. She would
advance to a certain point and then simply stop growing. For instance, after she mastered
rudimentary math, she lost interest entirely in the subject. She learned to read and write but
never did anything more with either. She seemed to delight in hopping from one new thing to the
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next, and there was never any rational explanation for why she progressed as far as she did and no
farther.
She evidenced no interest in childish pursuits, not once, not from day one. Playing with
dolls or toys, throwing and catching a ball, and jumping rope were for other children. Mistaya
wanted to know how things worked, why they happened, and what they meant. Nature fascinated her.
She took long walks, much longer than Ben would have thought physically possible for a child so
young, all the time studying everything around her, asking questions about this and that, storing
everything away in the drawers and closets of her mind. Once, when she was very young, only a few
months old and just learning to talk, he found her with a rag doll. He thought for just an instant
that she might be playing with it, but then she looked at him and asked in that serious voice and
with those intense eyes why the maker of the doll had chosen a particular stitching to secure its
limbs.
That was Mistaya. Right to the point and dead serious. She called him "Father" when she
addressed him. Never "Dad" or "Daddy" or some such. "Father." Or "Mother." Polite but formal. The
questions she asked were serious, important ones in her mind, and she did not treat them lightly.
Ben learned not to do so, either. When once he laughed at something she had said that struck him
funny, she gave him a look that suggested that he ought to grow up. It wasn't that she couldn't
laugh or find humor in her life; it was that she was very particular about what she found funny
and what not. Abernathy made her laugh frequently. She teased him unmercifully, always quite
serious as if not intending to put him on at all, then breaking into a sudden grin just as he
caught on to what was happening. He bore this with surprisingly good humor. When she was very
small, she used to ride him about and tug on his ears. She was not mean about it, only playful.
Abernathy would not have tolerated this from another living soul. With Mistaya, he actually seemed
to enjoy it.
For the most part, however, she found grown-ups dull and restrictive. She did not appreciate
their efforts to govern and protect her. She did not respond well to the word "no" or to the
limitations that her parents and advisors placed on her. Abernathy was her tutor, but he confessed
in private that his prize student was frequently bored by his lessons. Bunion was her protector,
but after she learned to walk he was hard pressed to keep her in sight much of the time. She loved
and was affectionate toward Ben and Willow, though in that strange, reserved way she cultivated.
At the same time she clearly thought them mired in conventions and attitudes that had no place in
her life. She had a way of looking at them when they were offering an explanation that suggested
quite clearly that they didn't understand the first thing about her, because if they did, they
wouldn't be wasting their time.
Adults were a necessary evil in her young life, she seemed to believe, and the sooner she
was fully grown, the better. That might explain why she had aged ten years in two, Ben often
thought. It might explain why, almost from the time she began to talk, she addressed all adults in
an adult manner, using complete sentences and proper grammar. She could pick up a speech pattern
and memorize it in a single sitting. Now, when Ben conversed with her, it was like carrying on a
conversation with himself. She spoke to him in exactly the same way he spoke to her. He quickly
abandoned any attempt at addressing her as he might a normal child or--God forbid--talking down to
her as if she might not otherwise pay attention. If you talked down to Mistaya, she talked down to
you right back. With his daughter there was a serious question as to who was the adult and who the
child.
The one exception to all this child and adult business was Questor Thews. The relationship
she shared with the wizard was entirely different from the ones she shared with other adults, her
parents included. With Questor, Mistaya seemed quite content to be a child. She did not talk to
him as she did to Ben, for instance. She listened carefully to everything he said, paid close
attention to everything he did, and in general seemed content with the idea that he was in some
way her superior. They shared the kind of relationship granddaughters and grandfathers sometimes
share. Ben thought it was mostly the wizard's magic that bound the two. Mistaya was fascinated by
it even when it didn't work the way in which Questor intended, which was all too frequently.
Questor was always showing her some little bit of sorcery, trying out something new, experimenting
with this and that. He was careful not to try anything dangerous when Mistaya was around: Even so,
she would follow him about or sit with him for hours on the chance that he might give her a little
glimpse of the power he possessed.
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At first Ben worried. Mistaya's interest in magic seemed very akin to a child's early
fascination with fire, and he did not want her to get burned. But she did not ask to try out
spells or runes, did not beg to know how a bit of magic worked, and she listened respectfully and
uncomplainingly to Questor's admonitions concerning the dangers of unskilled practice. It was as
if she had no need to try. She simply found Questor an amazing curiosity, something to study but
not emulate. It was odd, but it was no stranger than anything else about Mistaya. Certainly her
affinity for magic was consistent with her background, a child born of magic, with an ancestry of
magic, with magic in her blood.
So what would come of all this? Ben wondered. Time passed, and he found himself waiting for
the other shoe to drop. Mistaya was not the child he had envisioned when Willow had told him that
he was going to be a father. She was nothing like any child he had ever encountered. She was very
much an enigma. He loved her, found her intriguing and wondrous, and could not imagine life
without her. She redefined for him the terms "child" and "parent" and made him rethink daily the
direction his life was taking.
But she frightened him as well--not for who and what she was at present, but for what she
might someday be. Her future was a vast, uncharted journey over which he feared he might have
absolutely no control. What could he do to make certain that her passage went smoothly?
Willow did not seem bothered by any of this. But then, Willow took the same approach to
child rearing that she did to everything else. Life presented you with choices to make,
opportunities to take, and obstacles to overcome, and it presented them to you when it was good
and ready and not one moment before. There was no sense in worrying about something over which you
had no control. Each day with Mistaya was a challenge to be dealt with and a joy to be savored.
Willow gave what she could to her daughter and took what was offered in return, and she was
grateful. She would tell Ben over and over that Mistaya was special, a child of different worlds
and different races, of fairies and humans, of Kings and wielders of magic. Fate had marked her.
She would do something wondrous in time. They must give her the opportunity to do so. They must
let her grow as she chose.
Yes, all very well and good, Ben thought ruefully. But it was more easily said than done.
He watched his daughter as she stood staring up into the branches of that great oak and
wondered what more he should be doing. He felt inadequate to the task of raising her. He felt
overwhelmed by who and what she was.
"Ben, it is time to eat," Willow announced, her voice a gentle interruption. "Call Mistaya."
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing the troubling thoughts from his mind. "Misty!" he
called. She did not look at him, her gaze fixed on the tree. "Mistaya!"
Nothing. She was a statue.
Questor Thews came up beside him. "Lost in her own little world again, it seems, High Lord,"
He gave Ben a wink, then cupped his hands about his mouth. "Mistaya, come now!" he ordered, his
reedy voice almost frail.
She turned, hesitated a moment, then hurried over, her long, blond hair shimmering in the
sunlight, her emerald eyes bright and eager. She gave Questor Thews a brief smile as she darted
past him.
She barely seemed to see Ben.
Nightshade watched the child move away from the oak to rejoin the others. She kept still
within the concealing branches in case one among them should think to take a closer look. None
did. They gathered about the food and drink, laughing and talking, heedless of what had just taken
place. The girl was hers now, the seeds of her taking planted deep within, needing only to be
nurtured in order that she be claimed. That time would come. Soon.
Nightshade's long-anticipated plan was set in motion. When it was complete, Ben Holiday
would be destroyed.
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The crow with red eyes remembered--and the memories burned like fire.
Two years had passed since Nightshade's escape from the Tangle Box. Bitter at the betrayal
worked upon her by the play-King, stung by her failure to avenge herself against his wife and
child, she had waited patiently for her chance to strike. Holiday had carried her down into the
Tangle Box, trapped her in the misty confines of the Labyrinth, stolen her identity, stripped her
of her magic, broken down her defenses, and tricked her into giving herself to him. That neither
of them had known who he or she was, nor who the other was, did not matter. That the magic of a
powerful being had snared them both along with the dragon Strabo was of no concern. One way or the
other, Holiday was responsible. Holiday had revealed her weakness. Holiday had caused her to feel
for him what she had long ago sworn she would never feel for any man. That she had hated him
always was even more galling. It made acceptance of what had happened impossible.
She kept her rage white-hot and close to the surface. She burned with it, and the pain
kept her focused and certain of what she must do. Perhaps she would have been satisfied if she had
been given the child in the Deep Fell following its birthing. Perhaps it would have been enough if
she had claimed it and destroyed its mother in the bargain, leaving Holiday with that legacy as
punishment for his betrayal. But the fairies had intervened and kept her from interfering, and all
this time she had been forced to live with what had been done to her.
Until now. Now, when the child was old enough to be independent of humans and fairies alike,
to discover truths that had not yet been revealed, and to be claimed by means other than force.
Mistaya--she would be for Nightshade the balm the Witch of the Deep Fell so desperately needed to
become whole again and at the same time the weapon she required to put an end to Ben Holiday.
The crow with red eyes looked down on the gathering of family and friends and thought that
this was the last happiness any of them would ever know.
Then she lifted clear of the leaf-dappling shadows and winged her way home.
Rydall of Marnhull
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
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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,
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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
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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.
Ben turned back. "I think not. Maybe another day. King Rydall, I cannot believe that you
came here expecting me to do what you ask. No one has heard of you. You bring no evidence of your
office or your armies. You sit there on your horse making threats and demands, and that is all you
do. Two men, all alone, come out of nowhere." He paused. "What if I were to have you seized and
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thrown in prison?"
Rydall laughed, and his laugh was as big and deep as his voice and decidedly mean. "I would
not advise you to try that, High Lord. It would not be as easy as it looks."
Holiday nodded. "Pick up your gauntlet and go home. I'm hungry for breakfast."
"No, High Lord. It is you who must pick up the gauntlet if you do not accept my demand for
surrender." Rydall eased his horse forward a step. "Your land lies in the path of my army, and I
cannot go around it. I will not. It will fall to me one way or another. But the blood of those who
perish will not be on my hands; it will be on your own. The choice is yours, High Lord."
"I have made my choice," Ben answered.
Rydall laughed anew. "Bravely said. Well, I did not think you would give in to me easily,
not without some proof of my strength, some reason to believe that your failure to do as I have
commanded will cause you, and perhaps those you love, harm."
Ben flushed anew, angry now. "Making threats will not work with me, Rydall of Marnhull. Our
conversation is finished."
"Wait, High Lord!" the other exclaimed hurriedly. "Do not be so quick to interrupt--"
"Go back to wherever it is you came from!" Ben snapped, already turning away.
Then he saw Mistaya. She was standing alone on the parapets several dozen feet away, staring
down at Rydall. She was perfectly still, honey-blond hair streaming down her narrow shoulders,
elfin face intense, emerald eyes fixed on the riders at the gate. She seemed oblivious to
everything else, the whole of her concentration directed downward to where Rydall and his
companion waited.
"Mistaya," Ben called softly. He did not want her there where she could be seen, did not
want her so close to the edge. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. His voice rose. "Mistaya!"
She didn't hear or didn't want to hear. Ben left the others and walked to her. Wordlessly he
grabbed her around the waist and lifted her away from the wall. Mistaya did not resist. She put
her arms around his neck and allowed him to set her down again.
He kept his annoyance hidden as he bent close. "Go inside, please," he told her.
She looked at him curiously, as if puzzling something through, then turned obediently, went
through the door, and was gone.
"High Lord Ben Holiday!" Rydall called from below.
Ben's teeth clenched as he wheeled back to the wall one final time. "I am finished with you,
Rydall!" he shouted back in fury.
"Let me have him seized and brought before you!" Abernathy snapped.
"A final word!" Rydall called out. "I said I did not expect you to surrender without some
form of proof that I do not lie. Would you have me provide that for you, then, High Lord? Proof
that I am able to do as I have threatened?"
Ben took a deep breath. "You must do as you choose, Rydall of Marnhull. But remember this--
you must answer for your choice."
There was a long silence as the two stared fixedly at each other. Despite his anger and
resolve, Ben felt a chill pass through him, as if Rydall had taken better measure of him than he
had of the other. It was an unsettling moment.
"Good-bye for now, High Lord Ben Holiday," Rydall said finally. "I will return in three days
time. Perhaps your answer will be different then. I leave the gauntlet where it lies. No one but
you will be able to pick it up. And pick it up you shall."
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