Tales of Wonder (20 page)

The giant's fingers were large and stubby, and he broke more flowers than he could twist together. But the dwarf's fingers were quick and eager. And Lann's fingers, used to plucking a lute string, were the most facile of all. In less time than it takes to tell of it, they had twined a flower rope the length of three tall men.

“Now, I shall hang from one end, near the gander,” said the giant. “And you, Coredderoc, and you, Lann, shall balance me on the other end, close to the goose.”

The three friends helped the goose and gander slip the rope around their bodies like a halter. Then, positioning themselves as Jared had instructed, the giant, the dwarf, and the minstrel took hold of the rope. The goose and gander picked up the ends in their beaks.

“Hold fast, friends, and never lack courage,” called out Jared, though he was the one who was most afraid.

The wild goose and gander began to pump their wings; up and down, up and down they beat together. Slowly the goose and then the gander rose in the air, the rope tight around their bodies, the ends in their beaks. And more slowly still, the rope stretched taut between the friends and pulled them into the air. As each one left the earth—first the dwarf, then Lann, and finally the giant—they said silent prayers for the safety of the others. And Lann said a special farewell to his mother.

Once fully in the air, though their burden was heavy, the goose and gander moved with ease. Their mighty wings beat steadily, silently, swiftly.

But the arms of the three friends were pulled nearly free of their sockets. And the three were soon weary beyond wondering.

Jared lost the grip of one hand less than halfway. Dangling dangerously and screaming mightily, the giant was borne through the air.

Coredderoc never said a word the entire trip across the lake. His two heads gazed soulfully at one another as if some important message were passing between the eyes of the two.

Lann, his unstrung lute across his back, crossed with his eyes closed the entire way. And whether he was singing to himself or praying, only the goose could have told, for she was the only one who might have heard.

But the rope stayed taut between them, and the goose and gander, bearing their heavy burden over the perilous lake, crossed the three friends to the castle that awaited them like a giant bird of prey.

9. The Slaying

The goose and gander lowered the rope with the three friends hanging from it to the crenelated castle wall.

The minute his feet touched the stones of the castle, Lann let go of the flower rope. He reached over to remove the halter from the goose's body.

After a moment, Jared did the same for the gander.

As for the dwarf, he knelt and kissed the stones with both his heads. Then he stroked the wall. “There is something familiar about this castle,” said the first head.

“Yes, something like—yet not like,” said the second head.

“It reminds me of my own castle,” said Jared sadly. “But then, I suppose all castles are something alike.”

Lann thought a bit. “It may be yet another seeming,” he said.

“Is all wizardry seeming?” asked Jared.

“No, my friends,” said a dark and sinuous voice. “The slaying is real. It is very real.”

The three friends and the two birds turned slowly toward that voice, as if they did not want to know who had spoken. Or as if they knew and did not want to see. The goose began to weep real tears, which fell silently to the castle stones.

It was Bleakard. For so Jared and Coredderoc said together. But even if they had not, Lann would have known him. It could have been no other.

Bleakard was dressed in a long, billowing, blood-red robe. On his head was a crown of iron. On his fingers, dully gleaming, were iron rings. A large bone flute hung from a linked chain around his waist. His golden mustache and beard were streaked with gray and ran together down his face. His eyes were like two hollows and so deeply set that Lann thought he could see neither their color nor their size, though he knew they were black. And when Bleakard spoke, his words sounded like the hissing of a great snake.

Lann was afraid. But when he saw the goose weeping, every tear pushed him to action. “Hold, friend wizard,” he said.

At that the wizard laughed. “I am no friend of yours, boy. But speak, as if words would help you. You are mine to do with as I will.” As he spoke, Bleakard moved toward them. And though he raised neither his voice nor his hand, there was such menace in his every move that they all stepped backward until their backs crowded the wall.

Lann spoke then, braver than he felt. “Before every step there must be a chance,” he said. “There was a chance for us before the singing. And a chance before the seeming ended. We
must
have a chance before the slaying. Magic is always fair. That I know, for so my mother taught me.”

“
Feh!
What do mothers know of magic?”

Lann looked calm. He even felt calm. He put his hand on his amulet and said, “My mother is Sianna of the Song. And all I know, she has taught me.”

The wizard looked startled for a moment. Then the sneer crept back on his face. “And you think she has taught you well, young master? For if there is any who comes even near to me in magic, it is she, Sianna of the Song. But you are not she. No son is ever the same as his sire nor the equal to his dam.”

Lann knew that so many words were meant to keep him from his purpose. So therefore he knew what his mother had taught him was right. For one who is assured of his purpose does not need words to spur him on. He took a step forward and spoke again. “What is our chance, then, Bleakard? Tell us that we may at least try.”

“You no longer call me friend?” the wizard asked.

“No, I now see you are no friend of mine, nor are ever likely to be.”

“Well said. And truly said. I would be no friend to such weak, pitiful creatures as you. Hear me, then, Sianna's son. A single note is not a song. And you are not your mother. However, if you or one of your motley company will give up what is most precious to him, then you are all free. And I am slain. If not …” Bleakard lifted his right hand to his beard and stroked it slowly. “If not, you will join the gray-green rocks below. Alive, yet not alive. Slain, yet not quite dead. To come and to go at my call.”

“What does he mean?” asked one of Coredderoc's heads.

“I am afraid I know,” said the other.

“I mean—friends—” said Bleakard, “that you will
become
gray-green rocks, as have others who have incurred my wrath or displeasure.”

The friends turned and looked down to the lake. Each felt he could see the shape of a man or woman in the rocks that lay broken and still in the water. As if in chorus, the three friends and two birds shuddered.

“Come, then,” said Bleakard, “the little game begins. And what have you to offer—that which is most precious?”

“That is easy,” said Lann, not daring to look at the goose as he said it. “Here is my lute. It is my most precious possession.” He unslung the instrument from his back and handed it to the wizard.

“If it is easy,” said the wizard, taking the lute and breaking it across his knee, “then it is not so important at all. A minstrel without a lute can still be a lover.” He looked darkly and meaningfully at the goose, and swept the broken lute aside with his foot.

Lann looked down at the shards of his instrument. He felt doubly shamed. He had known that Bridda meant more to him than any lute. And so he had hoped to fool the magic, though he knew that magic does the fooling and is never fooled. He put his hand to his eyes and wept, and did not care who saw him weep.

“There, lad,” said one of the dwarf's heads.

“There is yet a chance,” said the other.

“Ah, what have we here?” asked the wizard with a laugh. “A two-faced friend. A counselor with no one to counsel? Well, counsel me. What have you to offer?”

The first head spoke softly, “Take my other head.”

The second head snapped, “Wait, you can't give
me
away, I give
you
away.”

“Both right and both wrong,” sneered the wizard. He laughed louder still. “You cannot give someone else away. One person cannot own another. This game is funnier still.”

Coredderoc's heads looked at one another. Then the eyes of the first head softened and the head spoke to its twin. “I am sorry. I mean it truly. You are precious to me. You
are
me.”

The second replied, “It is true. We are both precious to each other.”

The wizard fingered his bone flute with one hand and stroked his beard with the other. “Come now, I lose patience. You, giant, what have you to offer? Your marvelous feet?”

The giant looked down at his feet and shook his head miserably. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but fear closed it again.

The wizard smiled slowly and said, “And this is a company of friends. A fine rocky company you will make, too.”

Lann looked around at his friends. He could scarcely see their faces in the gathering gloom. He realized that the sun had already gone down behind the cliff, as if to hide its face from what must surely happen to them in a moment. Darkness was fast coming on.

So Lann reached into his shirt and pulled out a silver button on a chain, the Magic Three. For the past seven years he had lived with it on his neck, and though often he had had a need to use its power, he had never tried its might. Briefly he remembered his mother's words those seven long years before. “Its consequences may be too hard to bear,” she had said. Yet what could be worse than the certain living death of all his company? To lie forever by his beloved's side and be unable to reach out to her, a gray-green rock in a fog-bound pool? So he twisted it in his hand, first left, then right, then right again. And as he twisted it, he said the words “Magic Three, Magic Three, grant this boon I ask of thee.”

From out the darkened sky there came the sound of thunder. And the button twisted by itself in his hand.

A precious gift give us to give,

That all this company might live.

Lann spoke the words in a whisper. There was another loud crash of thunder, and the magic button ran like quicksilver through his fingers and was gone.

Suddenly the two birds gave a moan and began to change. First the feathers on their heads turned to hair. Their faces changed from birds to those Lann knew so well—his beloved Bridda and her brother. Then the feathers, soft and white on their wings, dissolved, and the wings turned into arms.

Even before the change was complete, Bred had moved over to his sister. He took her wing in his and placed it in Lann's hand. Then he knelt before the wizard.

“I give you what is most precious to me,” he said.

“And what can be most precious to a man who is part bird?” mocked the wizard.

“I give you what is most precious to any—man or bird,” said Bred. “For these my friends, I give you my life.”

10. And After

The wizard still sneered. But deep in his hollow eyes, for the first time there was fear. It was fear born of certain knowledge.

Lann felt his heart contract with pain and relief. He felt ashamed of such a feeling and glanced at the others. He read the same thoughts in their eyes.

The wizard reached down for the bone flute that hung at his side. And while the horrified friends watched, the flute grew in size until it was as large as an ax, and as sharp.

“
No!
” cried Lann. He leaped toward the wizard and Bred. But he was too late.

With a swift, vengeful movement, Bleakard brought the sharp edge of the flute down on Bred's bared neck. At the blow there was the red of blood and the black of night. And the entire castle moved as if shaken by an invisible hand.

When the darkness cleared, Lann looked around him in amazement. Of giant or dwarf, of goose or gander, of the wizard and his bone flute, there was no sign. The castle itself was changed. No longer were the rocks gray-green in color, but a soft, warm brown. And instead of being on the cold tower walk, Lann was lying on a fair bed hung with velvet curtains.

Slowly he set his feet on the floor and got up. A small arched window beckoned to him. He walked over to it and peered out. Instead of night it was noon, and the sun's light was warm and full. The lake had disappeared, and in its place was a great meadow with cows and sheep grazing and a company of herdsmen nearby.

Lann looked about him again, wondering if it had all been simply a seeming after all, a tale to while away an afternoon, a magic entertainment planned by his mother. But then, on a chest at the foot of the bed, he saw the pieces of his broken instrument. Picking the pieces up sadly, he shook his head. His life, he felt, was as broken as the lute. His friend's solitary death was, indeed, a consequence he could scarcely bear.

It was then Lann saw the open door. He went through it and found himself in a long hall hung with rich tapestries.

At the hall's end was yet another door. And when he opened it, Lann found himself in a large, pleasant room filled with well-dressed people. As he walked through the door, the people all bowed.

“Hail, Lann, Sianna's son,” they said at once.

Lann looked about him wonderingly and approached the people. For surely someone there could explain the things that had happened to him and help him find his company of friends.

Yet as he approached, the people fell back, bowing and opening up a pathway. At the end of the path was a throne. On the throne sat a kindly man who seemed tall as a giant, for he sat straight and proud. He was dressed in royal robes, yet beneath his golden crown was a face that was familiar.

“Jared!” cried Lann.

“It is indeed I,” said Jared.

To his right stood a small man in robes of blue. A gold medallion hung around his neck. He was a counselor who looked at Lann with an expression he recognized at once.

“Coredderoc, too?” asked Lann.