Night Mare (4 page)

The fire blazed brighter than ever in the pen, malevolently consuming her precious darkness. It sent sparks up into the sky to rival the stars. Perhaps they were stars; after all, the little specks of light had to originate somewhere, and new ones would be needed periodically to replace the old ones that wore out. The Mundanes took turns watching Imbri and dumping more wood on the fire as it waned.

Waned, she thought. That jogged a nagging notion. She wished it had waned this night, putting out the fire. Waned?
Rained;
that was it. If only a good storm would come and douse everything. But the sky remained distressingly clear.

Slowly the henchman on guard nodded. He was sleeping on the job, and she was not about to wake him—but it didn’t matter, because the fire was more than bright enough to keep her hobbled, whether he woke or slept. She might hurl a bad dream at him, but that would only bestir him with fright, making him alert again. She would have to deal with that fire first. But how, when she was hobbled?

Then she realized how to start. She approached the fire and put her front feet forward, trying to ignite the rope that hobbled her. But the blaze was too fierce; she could not get close enough to burn the rope without burning herself.

She turned about and tried to scrape dirt onto the blaze with a hind hoof. But the ground was too solid; she could not get a good gouge. She seemed helpless.

Then a shape appeared. Some large animal was stomping beyond the wall of the pen, out of the firelight. A dragon, come to take advantage of a horse who could only hobble along?

She sent an exploratory dreamlet. “Who are you?”

“Is it safe?” an equine thought came in the dream.

It was the day horse! Imbri quelled her surprise and pleasure at his presence and projected another dreamlet. “Stay clear, stallion! The Horseman is looking for you!”

“I—know,” the horse replied slowly. She wasn’t certain whether it was dullness or caution that made him seem less than smart. She understood that Mundane animals were not terrifically intelligent, and the Horseman had said as much.

“He wants to catch you and ride you again,” she sent, making her dream image resemble a centaur, so as to seem more equine while retaining the ability to speak clearly. Of course horses had their own language, but overt neighing and other sounds might wake up the henchman.

“I—hide,” the day horse replied, beginning to catch on to this mode of dialogue. He stepped up to the fence and looked over, his head bright in the firelight.

“Well, go hide now, because if that henchman wakes—”

“You—greet me,” he said in the dream, awkwardly. “I run. You—caught by man. My fault. I came—free you.”

Imbri was moved. She had pictured him in the dream as a white centaur, and he seemed to like the form. She had made sure it was a very muscular and handsome centaur, knowing that males tended to be vain about their appearance. Males of any species were foolish in a number of respects. But what would Xanth be like without them?

“I can’t get away as long as that fire burns,” her dream filly image said. “I had hoped there would be a rainstorm, but—”

“Rainstorm?”

“Water, to douse the fire,” she explained. Sure enough, he was the strong, handsome, amiable, stupid type. Fortunately, stallions didn’t need brains; they were attractive as they were.

“Douse fire!” he said, understanding. “Make water.” He jumped over the pen wall, landing with such a thump that Imbri had to jam a dream of an earthquake at the sleeping henchman to prevent him from being alarmed. Of course he was alarmed, but then she modified the dream to show that the earthquake had been weak and brief, and had cracked open the ground in front of him to reveal a treasure chest filled with whatever it was he most desired. The henchman quickly opened the chest, and out sprang a lovely nude nymph. He would remain asleep for a long time!

The day horse walked over to the burning logs, angled his body, and urinated on the flames. Clouds of steamy smoke flared up as the fire hissed angrily. It certainly did not appreciate this treatment!

The new noise disturbed the henchman despite his dream. He started to awaken. This time Imbri sent a mean dream at him, showing the merest suggestion of a basilisk the size of a horse, swinging around to glare at the man. The Mundane immediately squinched his eyes tightly closed; he knew what happened when one traded gazes with a bask! He did not want to wake and see the monster. Imbri let him drift off again, returning to his treasure-chest nymph; Imbri was as relieved as he to see him sleep.

In a moment the fire had sizzled down enough to let the shadows reach out to Imbri. She phased through her hobbles and the wall of the pen. The day horse leaped to follow her.

They ran through the forest. “Come with me to Castle Roogna!” Imbri projected, her filly image smiling gladly and swishing her black tail in friendly fashion.

But the day horse faltered. The handsome centaur image frowned. “Night—tire quickly—creature of day—must give it up.” He stumbled. “By night I sleep.”

She saw that it was so. “Then we’ll hide, so you can rest,” she sent.

“You go. I came only to free you,” he said, speaking more clearly now. He might be slow, but he did catch on with practice. “Pretty mare, black like deepest night.”

Imbri was flattered and appreciative, though he was only telling the truth. She was as black as deep night because she was a night mare. But any notice by a stallion was a thing to be treasured.

Nonetheless, she did have a mission and had to complete it without delay. “When will I see you again?”

“Come to the baobab at noon,” he said. “Nice tree. If I am near, I will be there. Do not betray me to the human kind; I do not wish to be caught and ridden again.”

“I’ll never betray you, day horse!” she exclaimed in the dream, shocked. “You freed me! I’ll always be grateful!”

“Farewell,” his dream image said. He turned and walked north as the dreamlet faded out. Imbri saw the brass circlet on his foreleg glint faintly in the moonlight.

“The baobab tree!” Imbri sent after him. She knew of that growth from her dream duties; sometimes human people camped out there, and it was conducive to bad dreams at night, a little like a haunted house. It was at the edge of the Castle Roogna estate, out of sight of the castle but impossible to overlook. She would certainly be there when she had the chance.

Chapter 3. Centycore et Cetera

B
y midnight Imbri reached Castle Roogna. She skirted it and went to Chameleon’s home, which was a large cottage cheese. Imbri had once delivered a dream here to Chameleon’s husband Bink; it had been a minor one, for the man did not have much ill on his conscience, but at least she knew her way around these premises despite lacking the seniority required to bring dreams to Kings. She phased through the hard rind and made her way—should that be whey, in this house? she wondered—to Chameleon’s bed.

But a stranger occupied that bed. Chameleon, according to the image the Night Stallion had formed, was a crone; this person was a lovely older woman of about fifty. Had she come to the wrong address?

“Where is Chameleon?” Imbri inquired in a pictureless dreamlet. Maybe this woman was visiting, and would know.

“I am Chameleon,” the woman replied in the dream.

Imbri stood back and considered. The reply had been direct and honest. The Night Stallion must have made an error, forming the image of some other woman. Imbri had never known him to make an error before, but obviously it was possible.

Something else bothered her. Chameleon was sleeping alone, yet she was a family person. Where were her husband and son?

Imbri projected a dream. It was of herself as another centaur filly, standing beside the bed. “Chameleon, I must give you a message.”

The woman looked up. “Oh, am I to have a bad dream? Why do they always come when my family’s away?”

“No bad dream,” Imbri reassured her. “I am the night mare Imbri, come to be your steed and bear a message for the King. When you wake, I will remain. I will talk to you in your sleep, as now, or in daydreamlets.”

“No bad dreams?” The woman seemed slow to understand.

“No bad dreams,” Imbri repeated. “But a message for the King.”

“The King’s not here. You must seek him at Castle Roogna.”

“I know. But I can not go to him. I will give you the message to relay to him.”

“Me? Repeat a dream?”

“Repeat the message.” Imbri was getting impatient; the woman seemed to have very little wit.

“What message?”

“Beware the Horseman.”

“Who?”

“The Horseman.”

“Is that a centaur?”

“No, he’s a man who rides horses.”

“But there are no horses in Xanth!”

“There is one now, the day horse. And there are the night mares, like me.”

“But then people don’t need to fear him. Just horses should fear him.”

That might be true; certainly Imbri would never again be careless about the Horseman. But it was irrelevant; she had to get the message through. “That is for the King to decide. You must give him the message.”

“What message?”

“Beware the Horseman!” Imbri’s image shouted, frustrated.

Chameleon’s image looked around nervously. “Where is he?”

What was this? Was the woman a complete idiot? Why had the Night Stallion sent Imbri to such a creature? “The Horseman is west of here. He may be hazardous to the health of Xanth. The King must be warned.”

“Oh. When my husband Bink comes home, I’ll tell him.”

“When will Bink be back?” Imbri inquired patiently.

“Next week. He’s up north in Mundania, working out a new trade agreement with Onesti, or something.”

“I certainly hope he works on it with honesty,” Imbri said. “But next week’s too long. We must warn the King tomorrow.”

“Oh, I couldn’t bother the King! He’s seventy years old!”

“But this affects the welfare of Xanth!” Imbri protested, getting frustrated again.

“Yes, Xanth is very important.”

“Then you’ll warn the King?”

“Warn the King?”

“About the Horseman,” the centaur filly said, keeping her tail still and her face straight with an effort.

“But the King is seventy years old!”

Imbri stamped a forefoot angrily, in both her dream form and her real form. “I don’t care if he is a hundred and seventy years old!
I
am! He’s still got to be warned!”

Chameleon stared at the filly image. “You certainly don’t look that old!”

“I am a night mare. We are immortal, at least until we die. I have a soul now, so I can age and breed and die when I’m material, but I never aged before, once I matured. Now, about the King—”

“Maybe my son Dor can tell him.”

“Where is your son now?” Imbri asked warily.

“He’s south at Centaur Isle, getting the centaurs to organize for possible war. Because Good Magician Humfrey says there may be a Wave. We don’t like it when Waves are made. But I don’t think the centaurs believe it.”

“A Wave?” It was Imbri’s turn to be confused. She knew the woman wasn’t talking about the ocean.

“The Nextwave,” Chameleon clarified unhelpfully.

Imbri let that go. She had seen the Lastwave, but that had been a long time ago. “When will Dor be back here?”

‘”Tomorrow night. Just in time for the elopement.”

Somehow the woman’s ingenuous remarks kept making Imbri react stupidly, too. “Elopement?”

Chameleon might not be smart, but she had a good memory. “Dor and Irene—she’s King Trent’s daughter, a lovely child with the Green Thumb, only it’s really her hair that’s green—have been engaged for eight years now, a third of their lives. They could never decide on a date. We think Dor’s a little afraid of the responsibility of marriage. He’s really a very nice boy.” Obviously “nice” meant “innocent” in this connection. Imbri was surprised to learn that any innocent males remained in Xanth; perhaps this was merely the fond fancy of a naive mother. “Irene is twenty-three now, and she’s getting impatient. She never was a very patient girl.” This seemed to mean that the other woman in Chameleon’s son’s life was not viewed with entire favor, but was tolerated as a necessary evil. In this attitude, Chameleon was absolutely typical of the mothers of sons. “So she’s going to come here at night and take Dor away and marry him in an uncivil ceremony, and then it will be done. Everyone will be there!”

So the pleasure of a wedding ceremony overwhelmed the displeasure of turning her son over to an aggressive girl. This, too, was normal, except—

“For an elopement?” Imbri felt more stupid than ever. Was this a human folk custom she had missed? She had understood that elopements were sneak marriages; certainly she had delivered a number of bad dreams relating to that.

“Oh, they’ll all be in costume, of course. So Dor won’t know, poor thing. Maybe Irene won’t know either. It’s all very secret. Nobody knows except everybody else.”

Imbri realized that she had again been distracted by an irrelevancy and was getting ever more deeply enmeshed in the confusions of Chameleon’s outlook. “Two days is too long for my message to wait. The Horseman is within range of Castle Roogna now, spying on the Xanth defenses. Anyway, it seems that Prince Dor will be too busy to pay attention to it. You must go to the King first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I couldn’t bother the King. He’s—”

“Seventy years old. He still needs to know. The Horseman is dangerous!”

The dream Chameleon looked at the dream Imbri with childlike seriousness. “Why don’t
you
tell him, then?”

“I can’t. My mission here must be confidential.”

Then Imbri paused, startled. Confidential? From whom was the secret of her nature to be kept? The Horseman already knew! He had ridden her and intercepted her message and forced her to tell him everything!

“I’ll go tell him right now!” Imbri said, cursing her own foolishness.

“But it’s night! The King’s asleep!”

“All the better. I’m a night mare.”

“Oh. That’s all right then. But don’t give him any bad dreams. He’s a good man.”

“I won’t.” Imbri trotted through the rindwall of the cottage, letting Chameleon lapse into more peaceful slumber. She hurried to Castle Roogna, hurdled the moat with one prodigious leap, and phased through the massive outer wall. This would be no easy castle to take by storm! She passed through the somber, darkened halls and passages, until she came to the royal bedchamber.

The King and Queen had separate apartments. Both were safely asleep. Imbri entered the King’s chamber and stood over him, exactly as if she were on dream duty.

Even at seventy, which was old for a mortal man, he was a noble figure of his kind. The lines of his face provided the appearance of wisdom as much as of age. Yet it was clear he was mortal; she detected infirmities of system that would in due course bring him to a natural demise. He had reigned for twenty-five years; perhaps that was enough. Except that if he lacked a competent replacement in Prince Dor . . .

She entered his mind in dream form, this time assuming the likeness of a nymph, bare of breast and innocent of countenance, symbolic of her intention to conceal nothing from him. “King Trent!” she called.

He had been dreaming he was sleeping; now he dreamed he woke. “What are you doing in my bedroom, nymph?” he demanded. “Are you one of my daughter’s playmates? Speak, or I will transform you into a flower.”

Startled, Imbri did not speak—and suddenly, in the dream, she was a tiger lily. She growled, baring her petals in a grimace.

“All right—I’ll give you another chance.” King Trent did not make any gesture, but Imbri was back in nymph form. Even in dreams, the King’s magic was formidable!

“I bring you a message,” she said quickly through the mouth of the nymph. “Beware the Horseman.”

“And who is the Horseman—a kind of centaur?”

“No, sir. He is a man who rides horses. He rode me—” She paused, realizing this statement did not make much sense while she was in nymph image. “I am a night mare—”

“Ah, then this is, after all, a dream! I mistook it for reality. My apology.”

Imbri was embarrassed that a King should apologize to a dream image. “But it is real! The dream is only to communicate—.”

“Really? Then I had better wake.”

The King made an effort and woke. Imbri was amazed; in all her one hundred and fifty years’ experience in dream duty, after her youth and apprenticeship, she had not seen anyone do this so readily.

“So you really
are
a mare,” King Trent said, studying her in reality. “Not a nymph sent to tempt me into foolish thoughts.”

“Yes. Not a nymph,” she agreed, projecting a spot dreamlet.

“And you do not fade in my waking presence. Interesting.”

“I am spelled to perform day duty,” she explained. “To bring my message.”

“Which is to beware the Horseman.” The King stroked his beard. “I don’t believe I know of him. Is he by chance a new Magician?”

“No, sir. I think he is a Mundane. But he is clever and ruthless. He hurt me.” She nodded at the scrapes on her flanks.

“You could not phase away from him, mare?”

“Not by day. I am now mortal by day.”

“Would this relate to the invasion the Mundanes are supposed to be mounting?”

“I think so, sir. The Horseman has two Mundane henchmen and a Mundane horse.”

“Where did you encounter this cruel man?”

“Two hours’ trot west of here.”

“South of the Gap Chasm?”

“Yes, your Majesty. At Faux Pass.”

“That’s odd. My scouts should have spotted any crossing of the Chasm, or any sea approach. You are sure of the location?”

“Quite sure. I made a bad misstep there.”

“That happens at Faux Pass.”

“Yes.” Imbri was embarrassed again.

“Then they must have found a way to sneak in.” The King pondered a moment. “Ah—I have it. A quarter century ago, Bink and Chameleon and I entered Xanth below the Gap when we departed from the region of the isthmus, far northwest of here. We somehow traversed in perhaps an hour a distance that should have required a day’s gallop by your kind. Obviously there is a magic channel under water. The Horseman must have found it and somehow gotten by the kraken weed that guards it. We shall have to close that off, devious though it may be. There are merfolk in that vicinity; I shall notify them to investigate.” He smiled. “Meanwhile, a lone man and two henchmen and a Mundane horse should not present too much of a threat to Xanth.”

“The horse is not with them any more, your Majesty. He is the day horse who fled his master and helped me escape.”

“Then we must reward that horse. Where is he now?”

“He does not want to meet with human folk,” she explained. “He is wary of being caught and ridden again.”

Again the King smiled. “Then we shall ignore him. True horses are very rare in Xanth, for there is no resident population. He might be regarded as a protected species. That will help him survive in what might otherwise be a hostile land.”

King Trent had a marvelous way of solving problems! Imbri was grateful. “I am also to serve as liaison to the gourd—the realm of the Powers of the Night and to the folk of Xanth,” Imbri said in another dreamlet, maintaining her nymph image for the purpose. “And I am to be the steed of Chameleon. But I don’t know why; she seems not very smart.”

“An excellent assignment!” King Trent said. “Evidently you do not properly comprehend Chameleon’s nature. She changes day by day, becoming beautiful but stupid, as she is at the moment, then reversing and turning ugly but intelligent. She is alone because of the exigencies of this presently developing crisis, and that is unfortunate, because someone really should be with her at her nadir of intellect. You can be with her and nudge her from danger. In a few days she will become smarter, and in two weeks she will be so smart and ugly you can’t stand her. But she is a good woman, overall, and needs a companion in both phases.”

“Oh.” Now the Night Stallion’s assignment made more sense. It also explained his seeming error: he had shown an image of ugly Chameleon, but meanwhile her aspect had changed.

“Return to her now,” King Trent said. “I will have a new assignment for you both by morning.”

How thoroughly the King took over, once he tackled something! Imbri trotted through the wall and jumped down to the ground outside. Actually, she landed in the moat, but it didn’t matter because she was immaterial; she didn’t even disturb the moat monsters. Soon she was back with Chameleon, now understanding this woman better. Appearance and intelligence that varied in a monthly cycle—how like a woman!