The Magic Kingdom of Landover , Volume 1 (12 page)

They climbed a high ridgeline that rose above the forest trees, and Questor brought Ben to a halt. “Look down there, High Lord,” he said and pointed.

Ben looked. Several miles off, ringed in a gathering of trees, mist and shadows was a clearing that shimmered with sunlight. Colors reflected brightly, a rainbow’s mix, and there seemed to be flags waving softly in a forest breeze that did not reach to the ridge on which Ben stood.

Questor’s arm swept down again. “That is the Heart, High Lord. There you will be crowned King of Landover several days hence when the proclamation of your coming has been sent. Every King that Landover has ever had has been crowned there—every King since Landover came into being.”

They stood on the ridgeline a moment longer, staring downward into that single spot of brightness amid the haze of mist and shadows. Neither spoke.

Then Questor turned away. “Come, High Lord. Your castle lies just ahead.”

Ben followed dutifully after.

STERLING SILVER

T
he trees closed about, the mists came up, and Questor Thews and Ben Holiday were back within the forest. Shadows darkened the pathway anew, and the colors and feel of the Heart were gone. Ben pushed his way resolutely forward, keeping pace with the shambling figure of the wizard. It was not easy, for Questor covered ground rapidly despite his odd gait. Ben shifted the duffel from one arm to the other, feeling the muscles cramping with stiffness. He rubbed at his shoulders with his free hand and pushed up the sleeves of the running suit. There was sweat soaking through the back of his pullover.

One would think they could free up an escort and carriage for their new King, instead of making him hike it in, he groused inwardly. On the other hand, maybe they didn’t use carriages in Landover. Maybe they flew on winged horses. Maybe Questor Thews should have conjured up a couple of those.

He chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip, remembering Questor’s attempts at providing lunch. Maybe he was better off hiking.

They climbed toward a new ridgeline of blue spruce grown so thick that pine needles formed a carpet on the forest earth. Boughs pushed and slapped at their faces, and they bent their heads against them. Then the trees broke apart, the far side of the ridgeline dropped away into meadow, and the castle stood before them.

Ben Holiday stared. It was the same castle he had seen before—only now he could see it clearly. It sat half a mile distant within a lake upon an island just large enough to support it. The lake was iron gray, the island bare of everything but wintry scrub. The castle was a maze of stone and wood and metal towers, parapets, causeways, and walks that thrust into the sky like the fingers of a broken hand. A shroud of mist hung across the whole of the island and the waters of the lake and stirred thickly in a sunless cauldron. There was no color
anywhere—no flags, no standards, no banners, nothing. The stone and wood had a soiled look, and the metal appeared to have discolored. Though the mortar and block seemed sound and the bulwarks did not crumble, still the castle had the look of a lifeless shell.

It had the look of something out of
Dracula
.

“This is the castle of the Kings of Landover?” Ben asked incredulously.

“Hmmmmm?” Questor was preoccupied again. “Oh, yes, this is it. This is Sterling Silver.”

Ben dropped his duffel with a thud. “Sterling Silver?”

“That is her name.”

“Sterling Silver—as in bright and polished?”

Questor’s eyebrows lifted. “She was that once, High Lord.”

“She was, was she? Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I’ll bet.” A well of disappointment opened in the pit of his stomach. “She looks more like Dingy Dungeon than Sterling Silver.”

“That is the result of the Tarnish.” The wizard folded his arms over his chest and looked out across the meadow. “Twenty years she has been like this, High Lord—not so long, really. The Tarnish has done it. Before, she was bright and polished as the name implies. The stone was white, the wood clean and the metal shining. There were no mists to block the sun. The island was alive with flowers of every color and the lake was crystal blue. It was the most beautiful place in the land.”

Ben followed his gaze back to the nightmare that waited below. “So what happened to change all that?”

“The Tarnish. When the last true King of Landover died twenty years ago and no heir ascended to the throne, the discoloration began. It was gradual at first, but quickened as time passed and no King ruled. The life goes out of Sterling Silver, and the Tarnish marks her failing. No amount of cleaning or scrubbing or polishing of stone, wood, and metal can restore her.” He glanced over. “She dies, High Lord. She follows her Lord to the grave.”

Ben blinked. “You speak of her as if she were alive.”

The owlish face nodded. “So she is, High Lord—as alive as you or I.”

“But she’s dying?”

“Slowly and painfully.”

“And that is where you want me to live—in a dying castle?”

Questor smiled. “You must. You are the only one who can heal her.” He took Ben’s arm and propelled him ahead. “Come along now, High Lord. You will find her quite pleasant on the inside, where her heart is still warm and her life still strong. Things are not really so bad as they might seem. Come, now. You will find her very much a home. Come.”

They descended the ridgeline through the meadow to where the waters of the lake lapped softly against a bank of marshy grasses. Weeds grew in thick
tufts where the shoreline had eroded and stagnant pools had formed. Frogs croaked and insects hummed, and the lake smelled faintly fishy.

There was a long boat with a curved prow and knight’s head, low gunwales, and rudderless stern pulled up upon the banks. Questor motioned, and they climbed aboard. Ben moved to a forward seat while Questor sat in the stern. They had just settled themselves when the boat began to move. It lurched free of the lake shore and slipped quietly into its waters. Ben looked about curiously. He could discover no source of propulsion for the boat.

“The touch of your hands lends it direction,” Questor said suddenly.

Ben stared down at his hands as they gripped the gunnels. “My hands?”

“The boat, like the castle, is alive. It is called a lake skimmer. It responds to the touch of those it serves. You are now foremost of those. Will it to carry you and it shall do so.”

“Where shall I will it to carry me?”

Questor laughed gently. “Why, to the front door, High Lord.”

Ben gripped the gunnels and conveyed the thought silently. The lake skimmer sped swiftly across the dark waters, leaving a white swale in the wake of its passing.

“Slowly, High Lord, slowly,” Questor admonished. “You convey your thoughts too urgently.”

Ben relaxed his grip and his thoughts, and the lake skimmer slowed. It was exciting, having use of this small magic. He let his fingers brush softly across the smooth wood of the gunwales. It was warm and vibrant. It had the feel of a living thing.

“Questor?” He turned back to the wizard. The sense of life in the lake skimmer bothered him, but he kept his hands in place. “What was it you said before about my healing the castle?”

The fingers of one hand came up to rub the owlish face. “Sterling Silver, like Landover, is in need of a King. The castle fails without one. Your presence within the castle renews her life. When you make her your home, that life will be fully sustained once more.”

Ben glanced ahead to the spectral apparition with its dark towers and battlements, its discolored stone walls and vacant eyes. “What if I don’t want to make her my home?”

“Oh, I think you will,” the wizard replied enigmatically.

Think whatever you want, Ben thought without saying it. His eyes stayed on the approaching castle, on the mist and shadows that shrouded it. He expected at any moment to see something with fangs appear at the windows of the highest tower and to see bats circling watchfully.

He saw, however, nothing.

The lake skimmer grounded gently on the island banks, and Ben and Questor disembarked. An arched entry with raised portcullis stood before
them, an open invitation to be swallowed whole. Ben shifted the duffel from one hand to the other, hesitating. If anything, the castle looked worse close up than it had from the ridge crest.

“Questor, I’m not sure about …”

“Come, High Lord,” the wizard interrupted, again taking his arm, again propelling him ahead. “You cannot see anything worthwhile from out here. Besides, the others will be waiting.”

Ben stumbled forward, eyes shifting nervously upward along the parapets and towers; the stone was damp and the corners and crevices a maze of spider webs. “Others? What others?”

“Why, the others who stand in service to the throne—your staff, High Lord. Not all have left the service of the King.”

“Not all?”

But Questor either didn’t hear him or simply ignored him, hurrying ahead, forcing Ben to walk more quickly to keep pace. They passed from the entry through a narrow court as dark and dingy in appearance as the rest of the castle and from there through a second entry, smaller than the first, down a short hall and into a foyer. Misty light slipped through high, arched windows, mixing with the gloom and shadows. Ben glanced about. The wood of the supports and stays was polished and clean, the stone scrubbed, and the walls and floors covered in rugs and tapestries that had retained some of their original color. There were even a few pieces of stiff-looking furniture. Had it not been for the gray cast that seemed to permeate everything, the room would have been almost cheerful.

“You see, things are much better inside,” Questor insisted.

Ben nodded without enthusiasm. “Lovely.”

They crossed to a door that opened into a cavernous dining hall with a huge tressel table and high-backed chairs cushioned in scarlet silk. Chandeliers of tarnished silver hung from the ceiling; despite the summer weather, a fire burned in a hearth at the far end of the hall. Ben followed Questor into the hall and stopped.

Three figures stood in a line to the right of the dining table. Their eyes met his.

“Your personal staff, High Lord,” Questor announced.

Ben stared. The staff consisted of a dog and two large-eared monkeys—or at least two creatures very like monkeys. The dog stood upright on its hind legs and wore breeches with suspenders, a tunic with heraldic insignia, and glasses. Its coat was golden in color, and it had small flaps for ears that looked as if they might have been tacked on as an afterthought. The hair on its head and muzzle made it appear as if it were half porcupine. The creatures that looked like monkeys wore short pants and leather cross-belts from waist to
shoulder. One was taller and spindle-legged. The other was heavy and wore a cook’s apron. Both had ears like Dumbo and prehensile toes.

Questor motioned to Ben, and they moved forward to stop before the dog. “This is Abernathy, court scribe and your personal attendant.”

The dog bowed slightly and looked at him over the rims of the glasses. “Welcome, High Lord,” the dog said.

Ben jumped back in surprise. “Questor, he talks!”

“As well as you do, High Lord,” the dog replied stiffly.

“Abernathy is a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier—a breed that has produced a good many champion hunting dogs,” Questor interjected. “He was not always a dog, however. He was a man before he was a dog. He became a dog through a rather unfortunate accident.”

“I became a dog through your stupidity.” Abernathy’s voice was very close to a canine growl. “I have remained a dog through your stupidity.”

Questor shrugged. “Well, yes, it was my fault in a way, I suppose.” He sighed, glancing at Ben. “I was trying to disguise him and the magic made him thus. Unfortunately, I have not as yet discovered a way to change him back again. But he does quite well as a dog, don’t you, Abernathy?”

“I did better as a man.”

Questor frowned. “I would have to dispute that, I think.”

“That is because you must find some way to justify what you did, Questor Thews. Had I not retained my intelligence—which, fortunately, is considerably higher than your own—I would undoubtedly have been placed in some kennel and forgotten!”

“That is most unkind.” The frown deepened. “Perhaps you would have preferred it if I had changed you into a cat!”

Abernathy’s reply came out a bark. Questor started and flushed. “I understood that, Abernathy, and I want you to know that I don’t appreciate it. Remember where you are. Remember that this is the King you stand before.”

Abernathy’s shaggy face regarded Ben solemnly. “So much the worse for him.”

Questor shot him a dark look, then turned to the creatures standing next to him. “These are kobolds,” Questor advised Ben, who was still struggling with the idea that his personal attendant was a talking dog. “They speak their own language and will have nothing to do with ours, though they understand it well enough. They have names in their own language, but the names would mean nothing to you. I have therefore given them names of my own, which they have agreed to accept. The taller is Bunion, the court runner. The heavier is Parsnip, the court chef.” He motioned to the two. “Give greeting to the High Lord, kobolds.”