Ellen Under The Stairs (9 page)

"Disoriented?"

She nodded, her gold hair sheened by
reflections from the shaft of yellow light pooling the floor to her
left.

Ellen was dressed in the same clothing
she'd been wearing when she'd come to consult John. Not bad,
actually. Rather "robe" looking. When she'd recovered a little
more, he'd have Platinia take her into a room off the hall to get
her dressed in the genuine Stil-de-grain robe Platinia
brought.

"I feel ... airy." Ellen floated her
arms over her head, like a dancer in a classical ballet.

"Do you remember me telling you that's
the way you'd feel? Because of lighter gravity, you are lighter.
Also stronger than you'd be at home. At least for awhile. You get
used to gravitational changes in time. That's all it takes.
Time.

"Other than weightless, how do you
feel?" She just shook her head.

At least Ellen had understood this
question, floating a light-weight hand to her forehead. "I ...
can't tell. I think I feel ... better ....

Better, but not well, John thought. If
the doctors of his own world couldn't cure her, John had to hope
that the healing magic in this world's light -- over time -- would
eliminate what was causing her fever.

Meanwhile, John would see that
Platinia was settled in before John and a healthy Ellen returned to
their own world.

With Ellen well again, Paul would also
recover.

Leaving the final question: whether
John's plan to restore Ellen's health was motivated by altruism or
by the desire to win Ellen's gratitude and affection. A question
John refused even to consider -- much less try to
answer.

* * * * *

Feeling better that the castle didn't
seem to be under the control of Pfnaravin, it was time to move on.
"Platinia, will you take Ellen to one of the side rooms," -- he
motioned to the corridor -- "and help her into the robe you
brought?"

The girl nodded, John suppressing a
smile about the difficulty he'd had explaining to little Platinia
how to put on his world's clothing.

By this time adjusted to his transfer
through the "static electric tunnel," John turned to Ellen, Ellen
doing better in light gravity but still looking ... feverish ...
her hair damp with sweat. He hadn't known how fast she'd get well
in the magic light of Bandworld, but had hoped to see immediate
improvement.

"How do you feel?"

"In general?"

"No. How's your fever?"

Ellen paused to think. "With all the
other feelings of ... strangeness ... it's hard to sort them out."
Again that introspective look, "A little better, maybe."

"Since people here never get sick, I
have no idea how long it will take to get you well. I do seem to
remember people saying their throat got dry in the night. That they
would cough. But at up-light, these symptoms went away."

"I'm ready for my symptoms to go
away," Ellen said, her smile just ... off.

"First things first. We need to have
you look more like a native. Platinia has brought something for you
to wear. Can you walk?"

A nod.

"Follow Platinia, then. Be careful,
the floor is slippery. It rains here every night. Fog at
down-light, light rain at night, more fog in the early morning.
Night time drizzle comes through the hole in the roof," he pointed,
"making the floor slippery. Promotes the growth of moss and mold.
This room doesn't seem to be in general use, so is never
cleaned."

Another nod, Ellen turning to face
Platinia, Platinia leading Ellen into the mouth of the twisting
corridor, John waiting, Platinia finally back to say they were
ready.

John knowing this part of the castle,
he took the lead, at the first opportunity removing one of the
hall's wide-spaced torches, using that torch to light the women's
way through dark patches, taking them down, and ever down, headed
for the first floor.

Sooner or later, he'd hook up with a
slavey (slaveys "belonging" to the castle) and order up some food.
In spite of that hard to remember rule about "feeding either a
fever or a cold," it had to be a good strategy to keep up your
strength.

Down and twisting down, through
irregular shaped corridors, all stone, most dripping with condensed
moisture.

At last reaching first, crossing one
of the many rooms that John thought of as entrance ways, they were
headed for the banquet area with its board trestle table when John
put up his hand for quiet.

A noise. The sound of several people,
laughter, John unable to get the women behind one of the hanging
tapestries or back of a thick column before soldiers strolled into
the food area, coming to a surprised stop when seeing John's
party.

Stil-de-grain soldiers -- white tunics
with gold piping -- one of them an officer, a gold sash angled
across his torso.

"Who ...?" said the officer, either a
First or a Second, John never able to sort out Stil-de-grain
rank.

Peering through the high-window gloom,
the officer ... grinned. Turned to his men. "It's him. Just like
she predicted!" a cheer going up from the little band, smiles on
their faces, the soldiers approaching to stand at
attention.

"Welcome great Mage," the leader said,
saluting with one arm slanted up across his chest. "We have longed
for your arrival. Have done our best without your leadership, but
now will follow your every command!"

Excellent! Someone who recognized
John, John receiving fawning treatment from anyone realizing he was
a Crystal-Mage. Time to run the bluff.

"And you are?"

"I am Pom, Head Second." Again, the
salute.

"Thank you for your welcome. First, we
are in need of something to eat. Can you arrange that?"

The Head Second snapping his fingers,
a soldier with a narrower chest band pulled a cord against one wall
-- the way to summon slaveys, John remembered, an old woman
appearing silently, head bowed.

"Will you bring some food and drink?"
John asked, his wish a command. "We're not particular about what.
Speed, would be nice, however."

And she was scurrying off at a
frightened pace.

Crystal-Mages. Men to be feared by
high and low alike.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. I've been gone
awhile."

"Yes, sir. But have now returned at a
most fortunate time."

"First, you seemed to know of my
coming?"

"Yes sir. It was the old woman who
told me."

"Old woman?"

"The Weird of the castle,
sir."

"Zwicia?"

"I believe that is correct, sir.
Though a Malachite," a disgusted twist of the mouth, "at times,
useful."

"She's here ... in the
castle?"

"Yes sir. Never leaves her room." He
pointed down, as if stabbing into the bowels of the
building.

"Are you saying she had a
Crystal-prediction that I was to return?"

"I ... don't know. I stay away from
those kind of magic people -- pardon me," he finished blushing. "No
offense intended."

"None taken."

Zwicia in the castle. Crystal gazing.
Able to predict John's return.

This was a sensitive topic. "The last
time I was here," -- John didn't want to emphasize that he'd been
run out by Pfnaravin -- "there was another Mage and, if I recall,
some of his soldiers."

A wide grin. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me what happened?"

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, you and your men can
relax. No need to stand at attention."

"Thank you, sir." Deep sighs from the
soldiers. They were not going to be roasted alive where they stood,
apparently. (Not a stupid worry, given the tricky and violent
nature of Crystal Mages.)

Holding up his hand to delay the
soldier's story, John motioned for Platinia to take Ellen to the
table; to get her seated so she could rest, Platinia understanding,
leading Ellen, the soldiers making a path for her to get to the
table by the shortest way.

The women seated, John nodded to the
Head Second.

"A slavey came to me in the night.
Said the old women -- a Weird -- wanted to see me.

"I followed her to this ... room. And
there she was. Old. Wild looking, if that is not to give offense.
In purple. Before her on a table was a round piece of stone. A foot
across. She was ... petting it. It took a long time for her to even
know I was in the room, the old lady muttering to herself. But then
she looked up. Said that the Mage, John-Lyon, would soon come back.
That I was to make the castle safe for his -- your --
return."

"Go on."

"I knew what she meant, being here
when the other Mage -- of Malachite -- had ...." The man stuttered
to a stop. He didn't want to recall the time Pfnaravin had John in
an iron cage, either.

"That was then. This is now," John
said, using what cops in the other world would call his "good cop"
voice.

The soldier grinned. He had not
offended a man of power.

"Well, as you know -- Mages knowing
all things -- the other Mage had not that many Malachites here in
the castle. Many more Stil-de-grain soldiers, only following his
orders because they must. So, by surprise, in the night, we
captured the Malachites."

Of course in the night, magic
unavailable after dark, taking away a lot of Pfnaravin's
power.

"Unfortunately, we were unable to
capture the other Mage." Not that they worked that hard at it,
would be John's guess, Mages frightening everyone.

"We chained the Malachite soldiers in
the dungeon. The castle is entirely yours, great Mage!"

"You have done well. All of you," John
said, including the Head Second's men -- high praise coming from
the Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain!

Crystal Mage -- without the Crystal
that gave him both authority and power. Fortunately, there were few
occasions when a Mage had to display his Crystal, allowing John to
pretend to be wearing the Gem.

The conversation at a lull, slaveys
hurried in, pots of food in their hands, the women of the castle
not wanting to offend by interrupting important
"doings."

The food brought to the table, dished
out on wood trenchers, Platinia and Ellen began to eat.

Good.

"I want to see these Malachite
soldiers," John said, needing to be sure they couldn't get loose.
He'd done some time in one of this world's dungeons, "strong man"
John finding a way to escape.

The women taken care of for the
moment, it was down and down again, round and round through the
amazing twists of Hero Castle, John allowing himself to be led, at
the same time on guard against a possible trap. He had no weapons.
Didn't know how to ask for them. Wouldn't know how to use sword and
shield if he did. His only protection was his surprising strength
-- surprising to the natives -- a strength advantage he could use
for fight or flight.

Down.

Down and around, until well below
ground, the soldiers halted at a heavy, iron braced door, a guard
there at a small, torch-lit table.

Rising, bowing at the introduction of
the Mage, the sentry produced a massive key with which he unlocked
the door.

Sliding back a metal bar, the man
groaned in the door.

Dungeon, all right. The door said as
much. The smell said more.

Torch thrust forward, the door guard
entered, the Head Second and his men following, John coming in
last.

Chained to the dank walls were
Malachite soldiers -- light green uniforms with green striping --
fastened hand and foot, Malachites so much stronger than the men of
Stil-de-grain, coming as they did from a "heaver pulling"
Band.

Torch held high, John "reviewed" the
prisoners, the captives standing at the approach of the announced
Mage.

Yes! John knew three of them. Iscu.
Sassu. Renn -- grossly deformed. Formally bandits of the Realgar
Marsh. Enemies, first of Golden, then of John -- Pfnaravin making
them officers in the Malachite army. John hadn't liked his stay in
one of these medieval dungeons. Felt sorry that even the worse of
men must be penned up under such foul conditions.

In addition to Pfnaravin's newly
captured guard, the dungeon held what looked like ordinary felons.
And ....

Leet!

"That man is to be released at once!"
John ordered, pointing at Leet, the door guard jumping to
obey.

"Thank you, sir," Leet said, now
unchained, bowing, his paralyzed arm flopping forward.

"Though a Malachite," John announced
to the others, "this is Leet. Loyal to Stil-de-grain and my
personal friend and guard.

"Sir," the old soldier said, bowing
his most formal bow, "I am delighted to see that you are well. But
am embarrassed to be in your presence in this ...
condition."