Question Quest (14 page)

Then the image of that face in the mirror returned to me. I knew that the mirror had no certain obligation to show the truth, especially since I had not actually asked it a question. It might have been the image of the most beautiful woman the mirror had seen in the past fifty years, and she could now be buried in that cute little graveyard where I had found the mirror. I suspected that the mirror didn't like me, so this might be its cruel joke. It was probably just trying to bug me, to deprive me of my peace of mind until I had to play its game and ask about the woman. I had known that ail along. But if that was its game, it was working.

But I refused to give the mirror the satisfaction of knowing how effective its ploy had been. I simply let that image be in my mind, enjoying it. I knew that there was a whole lot more to know about a woman than just her face, and I hated being so moved so foolishly, but in this respect I was a typical man. So I would complete my present mission, locate Castle Roogna, then see what to do about that woman, assuming she existed. Then I slept.

In the morning I got up, used another meal ticket— they were quite handy when camping out—looked for water again, but only blundered into another nature bush. Thus I did not complete the particular function I had sought. I would just have to get clean when the opportunity came.

Before me was a dense forest of large trees. Now at last I was in familiar territory, as it were, for I knew that Castle Roogna was surrounded by just such trees. If these moved their branches to intercept an intruder—

I stepped forward. The trees on either side of the avenue I was going toward swung their branches around to bar the way. There was no doubt of it now: this was what I was looking for.

Excellent. I had come prepared for this. I had not known that there were other defenses around the castle, but the orchard was part of the history that E. Timber Bram had written up. In fact it was his history that had reminded me of this missing aspect of Xanth and aroused my ever-ready curiosity.

I retreated, removing my pack. I brought out a vial of elixir and anointed myself with it. This was a familiar potion: it made the wearer smell familiar. Since trees neither saw nor heard very well as a rule, they depended on ambience: the general odor and attitude of the creature who approached. If they smelled cold iron in the possession of an evil-smelling man, they became defensive, because the thing they hated most was the axe.

I approached again, whistling. This time the branches gave way before me. I acted and smelled familiar. When it came right down to it, trees were generally not the smartest creatures in Xanth. But they did excellent service protecting the grounds.

I came to the inner orchard, where there were all manner of fruit, nut, pie, and other useful trees, surely the greatest collection of them in Xanth, because they had been assembled by King Roogna. It was a lovely place, and looked surprisingly well kept considering that it had been neglected for almost three centuries. Technically, from 677 when Magician Yang assumed the throne and left the castle, until now, 971. It looked just as if someone had been tending this orchard yesterday. Roogna had certainly been a competent Magician.

Now I came to the grand old castle itself. What a sight! It was roughly square, with mighty square turrets at each corner and substantial round ones midway along the walls. It was surrounded by a formidable moat. To my amazement I saw that the water was clear, not scummy with neglect, and there was a moat monster there!

Could it be that Castle Roogna was occupied? This was astonishing. How could it be occupied, yet forgotten?

I walked up to the edge of the moat. A monster serpent lifted its head out of the water and hissed at me.

My serpent repellent had worn mostly off by this time, but I had more if I needed it.

Then the drawbridge cranked down and landed with a clank. The portcullis lifted. The gate opened. A woman appeared, looking tiny amidst the huge fortifications. She was evidently a princess, for she wore a small gold crown set with tiny pink pearls and pink diamonds. There was a rather large square shaped pink crystal at her bosom. Her hair was like dew-bedazzled rose petals. Her skin was so creamy it seemed almost possible to drink it, and her eyes were shades of leafy green. She was attired in a low-necked gown made of translucent full silk gauze in wide stripes of deep rose and stripes of cream silk and cloth of gold. Her slippers and pantaloons were cloth of gold too, and seemed to be fastened together with delicate thorns. Her long cape and hood were of dated design but excellent quality heavy watered silk of deepest rose color, embroidered in seed pods made of pearls, musical shards of pink crystals, and small pieces of rose-colored jade carved in the shape of rose buds. There was a frog closure of shimmering gold in the shape of a living frog prince. These were all pretty good signs of royalty.

It was the woman of the mirror, every bit as lovely in life as in image, and the rest of her was as aesthetic as her face. “Don't hurt him, Soufflé”,“ she said to the moat monster. ”I know you can't let him in, but I'll go out to meet him." The huge serpent nodded and sank slowly back out of sight. It was evident that he regarded her as the mistress of the castle. That was another excellent recommendation, because moat monsters generally made very sure of their employers. It just would not do to make an error and swallow the proprietor instead of an intruder. It was against the code of guardianship.

Then she walked across the bridge toward me. I remembered that I was garbed in mud and a seeweed loin covering. I had had no idea that I would thus abruptly encounter the woman of my fancy. I tried to back away, but came up against a nearby gallan-tree that prevented me from withdrawing from the princess’ exquisite presence.

“Uh, hello,” I said, feeling very little of the intelligence I was supposed to have.

“Hello, Humfrey,” she said. “I am the Princess Rose.”

Somehow I had known that would be her name. But how had she known mine? “Uh—”

“I think I love you,” she continued blithely. “And that presents a problem. I am here to marry a Magician who will become king, while you are the reverse: a king who will become a Magician. Castle Roogna is most upset. But I think we can make it work, if you are willing.”

How did she know so much about me, even that I wasn't a true Magician but had been king? How could she speak of love, when we had only just met? “Uh-”

Then she smiled at me, and all my doubt wafted away. I was in love.

It was a bleak hour in the history of Xanth. Things had started to decline during the reign of King Gromden, who had been seduced by a demoness and sired a half-breed named Threnody, who was banned from Castle Roogna lest it fall asunder. She married Gromden's successor, King Yang. Therefore, King Yang set up residence away from Castle Roogna, to the castle's chagrin. He governed Xanth from the West Stockade. Four years later Threnody suicided and became a ghost, Renee. In life she had been banned from Castle Roogna, but in death she was able to enter it, and she kept company with her true love, Jordan the Ghost.

King Yang, not one to bemoan spilled milk pods, remarried, and two years later sired a son. The son lacked Magician-class magic, so could never be king. He was established at a separate estate, becoming Lord Bliss, He grew up and married the Lady Ashley Rose, and their child was Princess Rose Pax of Bliss. Her grandfather was an evil king, and her father an indifferent man, and Xanth was sinking further into its Dark Age, but Rose was a really sweet child. She had a talent for growing roses, and they were everywhere around her. A rose by another name did not smell as sweet as the rose that Rose grew.

When Rose was just fourteen, her grandfather Yang died. He had been evil but healthy; his sudden demise was a shock. Another Magician, Muerte A. Fid, took the throne. There was a suspicion that this Fid had poisoned Yang, for his talent related to alchemy, and he could make potions do sinister things. He was the most evil man known in Xanth. But there was no proof—and who would dare accuse the King? So those who had misgivings kept them mostly to themselves and muddled on. They really didn't expect much better from a Dark Age. Good kings limited their tenures to bright ages.

Lord Bliss, being the son of the former King and a halfway decent man with a wholly decent wife, did grumble a bit. That was perhaps his mistake. A grumble or two escaped the house and may have managed to reach the ear of the King. It was an evil ear, covered over by skin so that it did not project from his head, and most of what it heard was bad. The King's malicious mind may have started to percolate, and the results of such percolations were inevitably foul. The longer that brain oozed, the worse it festered, until at last the awfulness had to find its nefarious expression.

When Rose was sixteen, her father received a poison-pen letter. The poisoned thorn fell out of the envelope and pricked his hand when he opened it. Gotcha! the text of the letter said. It was unsigned, but only the King knew how to make such poison. So Rose had a notion who might have sent it, but no proof. There just never seemed to be proof for what most of Xanth knew was true.

The poison was slow but sure. At first Lord Bliss merely slowed down a bit, while his hand turned deepening shades of purple; but then he slowed down a bit more, and the pain of it showed around the edges of his face despite his effort to conceal it. Rose dedicated herself to helping him, for her mother was busy trying to maintain the household.

As autumn waned in a burst of rose-scented air and waxy white orange blossoms, Rose knew that her father did not have much time left. Each day the ruby and garnet colored sands of time slipped lower in the grandfather clock. That clock would stop entirely, never to run again, on the day he died.

Lord Bliss was resigned to his fate. If he had any regrets at all, it was that he was leaving behind one royal descendent, his daughter, the Princess Rose. She could never be king, because she was female and lacked sufficient magic, but she deserved better than what she faced. Even now as she sat beside his sickly bedside she was a great comfort to him and to the Monster Under the Bed. The monster was a childhood friend who had returned to keep him company during his last hours. The young and the old were similarly close to the ends of their lives, going in different directions, and monsters related well to that.

His dear and loving daughter kept her nimble fingers ever busy with her needle, working with the yarns and threads and needlepoint. He took her silence as a subtle reproach to the selfishness of his deep and abiding love for her, for Rose should have been married long ago. A beautiful Princess could readily find a match by the time she was seventeen, but she had remained single to better dedicate herself to his welfare. Now she was twenty, the blush of her youth past. Yet he had been unable to part with her, this child he loved above all people, and it was evident that she returned the sentiment.

But he could not forestall death further. “My daughter,” he rasped with what was left of his dying breath. “You must marry. But I fear that marriage. The King—”

Rose was appalled. “The King wouldn't marry me!” she protested.

"Yes he would—to secure his seeming legitimacy.

You are of the blood of the genuine King. Your grandfather was an evil man, but he had a good side. King Fid has none. He may seek to stifle objections to his terrible reign by requiring the support of the most beautiful, nice, and innocent Princess available."

“Father!” she protested, blushing in a beautiful, nice, and innocent fashion.

“You must hide from the King,” he continued. “Only my life can protect you, and it is almost done. The moment I am gone, you must go too—to where the King can not find you.”

“Yes, of course, dear Father,” she agreed, chilled.

Then Lord Bliss expired. Rose knew it was so, because the big clock stopped ticking. She covered his face with the sheet and went to tell her mother about this and her need to hide. But as she did so, two royal soldiers walked up to the door. They had evidently been listening for the clock's final tick and lock. “No!” Rose cried, but Lady Rose was already opening the door, not realizing.

“We have come for the Princess Rose Pax of Bliss,” the men said.

“But she has done nothing bad in her life!” the Lady Rose protested.

“Precisely. The King wishes to see her.”

So it was that Rose had to go with the King's three horsemen of hate, fraught with trepidation. She had had no idea the King would act so swiftly. In fact, before the past hour, she had had no idea he even knew of her as other than nothing.

All too soon she was brought before King Muerte A. Fid. His presence was as ugly as his name. He was known as a black-hearted creature who delighted in giving pain. He would have oozed evil from his pores, had he had any pores. He derived his energy from the chaos that war and similar mischief brought.

His mouth was a cruel slit. He normally opened it only to lie, belittle, or harshly criticize. It was said that when he lost control and began to rant, bellow, and scream, his eyes would turn yellow and sparks would fly from them, while noxious fumes issued from his nostril slits. The prevailing theory was that he was the unnatural bastard son of a priestess who was into a lewd stage act with well-trained reptiles. It was quietly bruited about that no stork had brought him, all of them being too revolted by his aspect; he had been delivered by a large basilisk with a clothespin on its nose. Rose had not believed any of that, of course, but now, gazing into his cold black double-lidded eyes, she began to believe. She felt her innocent girlish heart thudding in her throat, and feared there would be an echo from the walls.

The King was naked to the waist. On his head, below a cap of greasy black curls, he wore a thin spiked crown of some unnatural metal, perhaps because gold would have eroded from the contact of that flesh. His skin gleamed everywhere with shades of purple, matching the hues of Lord Bliss's thorn-pricked hand. Glowing crystals were fastened to his feet, his chest, his neck, his face, and his tail. On his curls more crystals glimmered like baleful eyes: diamonds and purple dragon seeds.

He smiled, and this was worse. “We shall be married next week, when the preparations have been made,” he said. “Too bad your father will not be able to attend.”

Her worst fear had been realized. Marriage to this monster would be worse than death.

That realization gave her a perverted kind of courage. “It is customary to ask the lady first,” she said, her voice sounding marvelously false: i.e., cool and controlled.

His eyes narrowed for an instant into snakelike slits. "Oh, did I forget that technicality? Rose Pax of Bliss, will you consent to marry your King?”

She nerved herself for her ultimate act of defiance. She opened her mouth and forced out the dread word. “No,”

His lack of surprise was chilling. “You will return for the night to your home to reconsider your response. In the morning you will have your personal belongings packed and ready for transport here.” He turned and swept away, literally: his tail made a sweep of the floor, stirring up an irritated cloud of dust.

“Oh, Mother, what is to become of me?” Rose wailed when they were alone at home. She had hardly been conscious of her trip back; doubt, indecision, misgiving, and uncertainty swirled around her pretty person, drawing it inexorably down into a gloomy quandary where brooding monsters of despair lurked. To have to marry the King—surely death would be kinder than this!

“Your father and I had thought to dress you as a farmer's daughter and place you in a distant village,” the Lady Ashley Rose said. “But now that is impossible, for the King with ruthless cunning will have the paths watched. We may trick him for an hour or even a day, but not for longer. He will know if any farmer acquires a sudden grown daughter. No, we can not hide you among the people, and you would not like the life of a peasant maid anyway. The local yokels would treat you exactly as the King proposes to treat you. There is only one recourse: I will take you to the single place where the King can not go.”

“Where is that, Mother?” It had not occurred to Rose that there might be some escape other than death, but the idea appealed to her.

“Castle Roogna.”

“But that has been lost since Grandfather deserted it!”

“No, only largely forgotten. Your father and I have kept the memory. But we did not want to send you there, because there is a problem.”

“A problem, Mother? Worse than the one we face with the King?” It did not seem that such a thing could be possible, but Rose's confidence in goodness had been severely shaken, and she feared that there might indeed be a worse horror, whose very mention might further pollute her maidenly innocence.

“No, hardly worse than that! It is that I can not accompany you there, and you can not leave it of your own volition.”

“But that would be a prison!” Yet she was heartened, for to be imprisoned alone would be better than to be imprisoned with the King. At least her tender body would not be savaged by his constantly evil gaze.

“Of a sort, dear. You will be excellently cared for, for you derive from the blood of the last legitimate King, as I do not. But you will be alone, until a good Magician comes to claim you and make you his queen of Xanth. That may be some time, unfortunately.”

“Time? How long?” Rose was continuing to brighten, faintly. Good care? A good Magician to marry? That should be worth waiting for.

Her mother shrugged. “Perhaps ten years. Perhaps longer. We do not know. It depends on the Magician.”

"But if I grow old, he will not want me to be his queen!” She suffered a distressing mental picture of a tall, handsome, robust young Magician striding up to the castle to discover a wizened old ancient hag of a maid. She could hardly blame her fantasy man for his reaction; it was well known that a woman's quality depended on her youth. Ten years would make her thirty, and at that moment her prospects would brutally decline. No woman had a right to pass thirty unless she was already married, and even then it was chancy. Some survived it with a certain grace, as had her mother, but they never spoke of it.

"You will not grow old, my dear. Now dress like the lowliest peasant, for we must sneak you rapidly out of here.”

Rose was unable to question her mother further, understanding the need for haste. She dressed in the most ragged and dirty clothing she could find, but she still looked too pretty for her own good. Her face shone with muted beauty, her body pushed the shirt out here and here and the skirt out there, and they had to stuff her midriff with material to make her slender waist look ordinary. Finally her mother brought out the scissors and threatened her glorious swirling rose-petal-hued hair.

Rose screamed. “No, Mother, anything but that!” For it would hurt her physically to cut her hair. She knew, because she had severed a lock of it once as a child, and the cut end had oozed pained sap and the rest of the hair had darkened to brown for a day in distress.

Her mother sighed. “It would be a terrible shame, I agree. I shall do what else I can.” She braided her daughter's long tresses, and bound the braids in a circle around her head, and poured ashes over them. This succeeded mainly in making the ashes pretty. Finally she applied a battered old man's hat, jamming it down over the works. She smudged some dirt on Rose's sweet red cheeks.

Rose looked in the mirror. She looked almost merely ordinary now, if not inspected too closely. It would have to do. Maybe she could hunch over to enhance the effect.

They looked out the window. There was a soldier watching the house. It seemed that the King was alert for attempted escape; that was of course the way his sinister mind worked.

“Your father, bless his bones, anticipated this,” Lady Ashley said. “In an hour the men will come to carry him away in his coffin. You must be brave.”

“Brave?”

Her mother led her to the room where the coffin had been set. Lord Bliss lay there in state. He seemed almost to be sleeping, but the ravages of the poison remained on him, and the atmosphere of death hung close. Rose felt her tears coming; for a brief time the dawning horror of her own situation had eclipsed that of his, but now she knew how terrible it was to lose the one who had loved her most. All because her dear father had grumbled legitimately about the terrible King, and a grumble had escaped to reach the evil royal ear and delve into the dire royal mind.

Rose glanced at the clock, but of course it no longer operated. Her world now seemed timeless, in an awful way.