Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
[IF
5kat M.andu
Horris Kew might have been a Disney artist's rendering of Ichabod
Crane. He was tall and gawky and had the look of a badly assembled
puppet. His head was too small, his arms and legs too long, and his
ears, nose, Adam's apple, and hair stuck out all over the place. He
looked harmless and silly, but he wasn't. He was one of those men
who possess a Hide bit of power and'handle it badly. He believed
himself clever and wise and was neither. He was the proverbial
snowball who always managed to turn himself into an avalanche. As a
result, he was a danger to everyone, himself included, and most of
the time he wasn't even aware of it.
This morning was no exception.
He came up the garden walk to the swinging gate without slowing,
closing the distance in huge, loping strides, slammed the gate back
as if annoyed that it had not opened of its own accord, and
continued on toward the manor house. He looked neither left nor
right at the profusion of summertime flowers that were blooming in
their meticu-
2 THE TANGLE BOX
lously raked beds, on the carefully pruned bushes, and along the
newly painted trellises. He did not bother to breathe in the
fragrant smells that filled the warm upstate New York morning air.
He failed to give a moment's notice to the pair of robins singing
on the low branches of the old shagbark hickory centered on the
sweeping lawn leading up to the manor house. Ignoring all, he
galloped along with the single-mindedness of a charging rhino.
From the Assembly Hall at the base of the slope below the manor
house came the sound of voices rising up like an angry swarm of
bees. Horris's thick eyebrows furrowed darkly over his narrow,
hooked nose, a pair of fuzzy caterpillars laboriously working their
way toward a meeting. Biggar was still trying to reason with the
faithful, he supposed. Trying to reason with the once-faithful, he
amended. It wouldn't work, of course. Nothing would now. That was
the trouble with confessions. Once given, you couldn't take them
back. Simple logic, the lesson a thousand charlatans had been
taught at the cost of their lives, and Biggar had somehow missed
it.
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Horris gritted his teeth. What had that idiot been thinking?
He closed on the manor house with furious determination, the shouts
from the Assembly Hall chasing after him, elevated suddenly to a
frightening new pitch. They would be coming soon. The whole bunch
of them, the faithful of so many months become a horde of
unreasoning ingrates who would rip him limb from limb if they got
their hands on him.
Horris stopped abruptly at the foot of the steps leading up to the
veranda that ran the entire length of the gleaming home and thought
about what he was losing. His narrow shoulders sagged, his
disjointed body slumped, and his Adam's apple bobbed like a cork in
water as he swallowed his disappointment. Five years of work gone.
Gone in an
Terry Brooks 3
instant's time. Gone like the light of a candle snuffed. He could
not believe it. He had worked so hard.
He shook his head and sighed. Well, there were other fish in the
ocean, he supposed. And other oceans to fish.
He clumped up the steps, his size-sixteens slapping against the
wooden risers like clown shoes. He was looking around now—looking,
because this was the last chance he would get. He would never see
this house again, this colonial treasure he had come to love so
much, this wonderful, old, Revolutionary American mansion, so
carefully restored, so lovingly refurbished, just for him. Fallen
into ruin on land given over to hunting and snow sports deep in the
Finger Lakes region of upstate New York, not fifty miles off the
toll road linking Utica and Syracuse, it had been all but forgotten
until Horris had rediscovered it. Horris had a sense of the
importance of history and he admired and coveted things
historical—especially when yesterday and today could be tied
together for his personal gain. Skat Mandu had allowed him to
combine the two, making the history of this house and land a nice,
neat package tied up at Horris's feet waiting to be opened.
But now Skat Mandu was history himself.
Horris stopped a second time at the door, seething. All because of
Biggar. He was going to lose it all because of Biggar and his big
mouth. It was inconceivable. The fifty acres that formed the
retreat, the manor house, the guest house, the Assembly Hall, the
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tennis courts, the stables, horses, attendants, cars, private
plane, bank accounts, everything. He wouldn't be able to salvage
any of it. It was all in the foundation's name, the tax-sheltered
Skat Mandu Foundation, and he couldn't get to any of it in time.
The trustees would see to that quick enough once they learned what
had happened. Sure, there was the money hi the Swiss bank accounts,
but that wouldn't make up for the collapse of his empire.
4 , THE TANGLE BOX
Other fish in the ocean, he repeated silently—but why did he have
to go fishing again, for pity's sake?
He kicked at the wicker chair next to the door and sent it flying,
wishing with all his heart that he could do the same to Biggar.
The shouts rose anew from the Assembly, and there was a very clear
and unmistakable cry of "Let's get him!" Horris quit thinking about
what might have been and went quickly inside.
He was barely inside the house when he heard the beating of wings
behind him. He tried to slam the door, but Biggar was too quick. He
streaked through at top speed, wings flapping wildly, a few
feathers falling away as he reached the banister of the stairway
that curved upward from the foyer to the second floor and settled
down with a low whistlel
Horris stared at the bird hi bleak appraisal. "What's the trouble,
Biggar? Couldn't get them to listen?'
Biggar fluffed his feathers and shook himself. He was coal black
except for a crown of white feathers. Quite a handsome bird,
actually. A myna of some sort, though Horris had never been able to
determine his exact lineage. He regarded Horris now with a wicked,
gleaming eye and winked. "Awk! Pretty Horris. Pretty Horris. Biggar
is better. Biggar is better."
Horris pressed his fingers to his temples. "Please. Could we forgo
the dumb-bird routine?"
Biggar snapped his beak shut. "Horris, this is all your fault."
"My fault?' Horris was aghast. He came forward threateningly. "How
could this be my fault, you idiot? I'm not the one who opened his
big mouth about Skat Mandu! I'm not the one who decided to tell
all!"
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Biggar flew up the banister a few steps to keep some distance
between them. 'Temper, temper. Let us remember something here,
shall we? This was all your idea, right?
Terry Brooks 5
Am I right? Does this ring a bell? You thought up this Skat Mandu
business, not me. I went along with the program b&-. cause you said
it would work. I was your pawn, as I have been the pawn of humans
and humankind all my life. A poor, simple bird, an outcast ..."
"An idiot!" Horris edged closer, trying unsuccessfully to stop the
clenching of his hands as he imagined them closing about the bird's
scruffy neck.
Biggar scooted a bit farther up the railing. "A victim, Horris
.Kew. I am the product of you and your kind. I did the best I
could, but I can hardly be held to account for my actions based on
your level of expectations, now can I?"
Horris stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Just tell me why you did
it. Just tell me that."
Biggar puffed out his chest. "I had a revelation."
Horris stared. "You had a revelation," he repeated dully. He shook
his head. "Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds."
"I see nothing ridiculous about it at all. I am in the business of
revelations, am I not?"
Horris threw up his hands and turned away. "I do not believe this!"
He turned back again furiously. His scarecrow frame seemed to fly
out in half-a-dozen directions at once as he gestured. "You've
ruined us, you stupid bird! Five years of work out the window! Five
years! Skat Mandu was the foundation of everything we've built!
Without him, it's gone, all of it! What were you thinking?"
"Skat Mandu spoke to me," Biggar said, huffy himself now.
"There is no Skat Mandu!" Horris shrieked.
"Yes, mere is."
Horris's broad ears flamed and his even broader nostrils dilated.
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"Think about what you're saying, Biggar," he hissed. "Skat Mandu is
a twenty-thousand-year-old wise man that you and I made up in order
to convince a bunch of fools to part with their money. Remember?
Remember
6 THE TANGLE BOX
the plan? We thought it up, you and I. Skat Mandu—a
twenty-thousand-year-old wise man who had counseled philosophers
and leaders throughout time. And now he was back to share his
wisdom with us. That was the plan. We bought this land and restored
this house and created this retreat for the faithful—the poor,
disillusioned faithful— the pathetic, desperate, but well-heeled
faithful who just wanted to hear somebody tell them what they
already knew! That's what Skat Mandu did! Through you, Biggar. You
were the channeler, a simple bird. I was the handler, the manager
of Skat Mandu's holdings in the temporal world."
He caught his breath. "But, Biggar, there is no Skat Mandu! Not
really, not now, not ever! There's just you and me!"
"I spoke to him," Biggar insisted.
"You spoke to him?"
Biggar gave him an impatient look. "You are repeating me. Who is
the bird here, Horris?"
Horris gritted his teeth. "You spoke to him? You spoke to Skat
Mandu? You spoke to someone who doesn't exist? Mind telling me what
he had to say? Mind sharing his wisdom with me?"
"Don't be snide." Biggar's claws dug into the banister's polished
wood.
"Biggar, just tell me what he had to say." Horris's voice sounded
like fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.
"He told me to tell the truth. He told me to admit that you had
made it all up about him and me, but that now I really was in
contact with him."
Horris's fingers locked in front of him. "Let me get this straight.
Skat Mandu told you to confess?"
"He said that the faithful would understand."
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"And you believed nun?"
"I had to do what Skat Mandu required of me. I don't expect you to
understand, Horris. It was a matter of conw
Terry Brooks 7
science. Sometimes you've simply got to respond on an emotional
level."
"You've short-circuited, Biggar," Horns declared. "You've burnt out
all your wiring."
"And you simply don't want to face reality," Biggar snapped. "So
save your caustic comments, Horns, for those who need them."
"Skat Mandu was the perfect scam!" Horris screamed the words so
loudly that Biggar jumped in spite of himself. "Look around you,
you idiot! We landed in a world where people are convinced they've
lost control of their lives, where there's so much happening that
it's overwhelming, where beliefs are the hardest things to come by
and money's the easiest! It's a world tailor-made for someone like
us, just packed full of opportunities to get rich, to live well, to
have everything we ever wanted and a few we didn't! All we had to
do was keep the illusion of Skat Mandu alive. And that meant
keeping the faithful convinced that the illusion was real! How many
followers do we have, Biggar? Excuse me, how many did we have?
Several hundred thousand, at least? Scattered all over the world,
but making regular pilgrimages to visit the retreat, to listen to a
few precious words of wisdom, to pay good money for the
experience?"
He took a deep breath. "Did you think for one minute that telling
these people that we tricked them into giving money to hear what a
bird would tell them—never mind who the bird said he was getting
the words from—would be something they would be quick to forgive?
Did you imagine that they would say, 'Oh, that's all right, Biggar,
we understand,' and go back to wherever they came from in the first
place? What a joke! Skat Mandu must be laughing pretty hard just
about now, don't you think?"
Biggar shook his white-crested head. "He is displeased at the lack
of respect he is being accorded, is what he is."
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8 THE TANGLE BOX
Horris's mouth tightened. "Please tell him for me, Biggar, that I
could care less!"
"Why don't you tell him yourself, Horris?"
"What?"
Biggar had a wicked gleam in his eye. 'Tell him yourself. He's
standing right behind you."
Horris sniggered. "You've lost your mind, Biggar. You really have."
"Is that so? Is that a fact?" Biggar puffed out his chest. "Then
have a look, Horris. Go on, have a look."
Horris felt a chill climb up his spine. Biggar sounded awfully sure
of himself. The big house suddenly felt much larger than it really
was, and the silence that settled into it was immense. The riotous
cries of the approaching mob disappeared as if swallowed whole. It
seemed to Horris that he could sense a dark presence lifting out of
the ether behind him, a shadowy form that coalesced and then
whispered with sullen insistence, Turn around, Horris, turn around!
Horris took a deep breath in an effort to stop shaking. He had the
sinking feeling that somehow, once again, things were getting out
of control. He shook his head stubbornly. "I won't look," he
snapped—and then added maliciously, "you stupid birdP'
Biggar cocked his head. "He's reeeeeaching for you," the myna
hissed.
Something feather-light brushed Horris Kew's shoulder, and he
whirled about in terror.
There was nothing there.
Or almost nothing. There was a faint something, a darkening of the
light, a small waver of movement, a hint of a stirring in the air.
Horris blinked. No, not even that, he amended with satisfaction.
Nothing.
Outside, shouting rose up suddenly from the edge of the gardens.
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Horris turned. The faithful had caught sight of him
Terry Brooks 9
through the open door and were trampling through the bedding plants
and rosebushes and heading for the gate. They carried sharp objects
and were making threatening gestures with them.
Horris walked quickly to the door, closed and locked it, and turned
back to Biggar. "That's it for you," he said. "Good-bye and good
luck."
He walked quickly through the foyer and down the hall past a
parlor, and a library sitting room to the kitchen at the back of
the house. He could smell fresh wax on the pegged oak floors, and
on the kitchen table sat a vase of scarlet roses. He took in the
smells and colors as he passed, thinking of better times,
regretting how quickly life changed when you least expected it. It
was a good thing he was flexible, he decided. It was fortunate that
he had foresight.
"Where are we going?" Biggar asked, flying up next to him, curious
enough to risk a possible blow. "I assume you have a plan."
Horris gave him a look that would have frosted a small child at
play in midsummer. "Of course I have a plan. It does not, however,
include you."
"That is mean, Horris. And small-minded as well." Biggar flew ahead
and swung back, circling the far end of the kitchen. "Beneath you,
really."
"Very little is beneath me at this point," Horris declared.
"Especially where you are concerned."
He went to a pantry, pulled open the doors, reached in, triggered
the release for the panel behind, and stepped back as the whole
assemblage swung open with a ponderous effort. It took a few
seconds; the panel was lined with steel.
Biggar swooped down and landed on the top of the open pantry door.
"I am your child, Horris," he lamented disingenuously. "I have been
like a son to you. You cannot desert me."
Horris glanced up. "I disown you. I disinherit you. I banish you
from my sight forever."
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jo THE TANGLE BOX
From the front of the house came a pounding of fists on the locked
door followed rather swiftly by a breaking of glass. Horris tugged
nervously on one ear. No, there would be no reasoning with this
bunch. The faithful had become a ragged mob of doughheads. Fools
discovering their own lack of wit were famous for reverting to
form. Would they be sadder but wiser for the experience? he
wondered. Or would they simply stay stupid to the end? Not that it
mattered.
He had to stoop to pass through the opening behind the panel, which
was well under his six-foot-eight height. He had raised all the
other doors in the house when he had renovated it. He had told
everyone that Skat Mandu needed his space.
Inside was a stairway leading down. He triggered the release once
more, and the heavy steel panel swung slowly back into place.
Biggar flew through just as the door sealed and sped down the
stairwell after Horris.
"He was there behind you, you know," the bird snapped, flying so
close he brushed the other's face with his wing tip. Horris lashed
out with one hand, but missed. "Just for a minute, he was there."
"Sure he was," Horris muttered, still a little unnerved by the
experience, angry all over again for being reminded of it.
Biggar darted past. "Trying to blame me for your mistakes won't
save you. Besides, you need me!"
Horris groped for the light switch against the shadowed wall as he
reached the bottom of the stairs. "Need you for what?"
"Whatever it is you are planning to do." Biggar flew on into the
dark, smug in the knowledge that his eyesight was ten times better
than Horris's.
"Rather confident of that, aren't you?" Horris cursed silently as
his searching fingers snagged on a splinter of wood.
Terry Brooks n
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"If for nothing else, you need me as a cheering section. Face it,
Horris. You cannot stand not having an audience. You require
someone to admire your cleverness, to applaud your planning."
Biggar was a voice in the dark. "What is the purpose of concocting
a well-devised scheme if there is no one to appreciate its
intrinsic brilliance? How shallow the victory if there is no one to
hail its masterful execution!" The bird cleared his throat. "Of
course, you need me, too, to help with your new plan. What is it,
anyway?"
Horris found the light switch and flicked it on. He was momentarily
blinded. "The plan is to get as far away from you as possible."
The basement spread away through a forest of timbered pillars that
held up the flooring of the old manor house and cast their shadows
in dark columns through the spray of yellow light. Horris marched
ahead resolutely, hearing pounding now on the steel panel above.
Well, let's see what they can do with that! he sneered. He wound
his way through the timbers to a corridor that tunneled back into
shadow. Another light switch triggered a row of overheads, and
stooping again to avoid the low ceiling, he started down the
passageway.
Again Biggar passed him by, a fleet black shadow. "We belong
together, Horris. Birds of a feather and all. Come on. Tell me
where we're going."
"No."
"Very well, be mysterious if you must. But you admit we are still a
team, don't you?"
"No."
"You and me, Horris. How long have we been together now? Think
about all we've been through."
Horris thought, mostly about himself. Hunched down in
a crablike stance as he angled through the narrow tunnel,
legs bent, arms cranked in, nose plowing through musty air
and dusty gloom, ears fanned out like an elephant's, he
- considered the road he had traveled in life to arrive at this
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¥
is THE TANGLE BOX
moment. It had been a twisty one, rife with potholes and sudden
curves, slicked over with rain and sleet, brightened now and again
with brief stretches of sunlight.
Horns had a few things going for him in life, but none of them had
served him very well. He was smart enough, Cut when the chips were
down he always seemed to lack some crucial piece of information. He
could reason things through, but his conclusions frequently seemed
to stop one step short. He possessed an extraordinary memory, but
when he called upon it for help he could never seem to remember
what counted.
Skill-wise, he was a minor conjurer—not a magician who pulled
rabbits out of hats, but one of a very few in the whole world who
could do real magic. Which was because he was not from this world
in the first place, of course, but he tried not to dwell on that
point since his abilities were somewhat marginal when measured,
against those of his fellow practitioners.
Mostly, Horris was an opportunist. To be an opportunist one needed
an appreciation for the possibilities, and Horris knew about
possibilities better than he knew about almost anything. He was
forever considering how something might be turned to his advantage.
He was convinced that the wealth of the world—of any world—had been
created for bis ultimate benefit Time and space were irrelevant; in
the end, everything belonged to him. His opinion of himself was
extreme. He, better than anyone, understood the fine art of
exploitation. He alone could analyze the weaknesses that were
indigenous to all creatures and determine how they might be mined.
He was certain his insight approached prescience, and he took it as
his mission in life to improve his lot at the expense of almost
everyone. He possessed a relentless passion for using people and
circumstance to achieve this end. Horris cared not a whit for the
misfortune of others, for moral conventions, for noble causes, the
environment, stray cats and dogs, or little children. These
Terry Brooks 13
were all concerns for lesser beings. He cared only for himself, for
his own creature comforts, for twisting things about when it suited
him, and for schemes that reinforced his continuing belief that all
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other life-forms were impossibly stupid and gullible.
Thus the creation of Skat Mandu and his cult of fervid followers,
believers hi a twenty-thousand-year-old wise man's words as
channeled by a myna.
Even now, it made Horris smile.
Horris admitted to only one real character flaw, and that was a
nagging inability to keep things under his control once he started
them hi motion. Somehow even the most carefully considered and well
planned of his schemes ended up taking on a life of then: own and
leaving him stranded somewhere along the way. And even though it
was never his fault, it seemed that he was always, inexplicably,
being relegated to the role of scapegoat.
He reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a
thirty-foot-square room which housed stacks of folding tables and
chairs and crates of Skat Mandu pamphlets and reading material. The
tools of his trade, enough fodder for a fine bonfire.
He looked beyond the mounds of useless inventory to the single
steel-lined door at the far side of the room and sighed wearily.
Beyond that door was a tunnel that ran for almost a mile underneath
the compound to a garage, a silver and black 4WD Land Cruiser, and
safety. A careful planner was never without a bolt hole in case
things went haywire, as they had just done here. He had not
expected to put this one to use quite so soon, but circumstances
had conspired against him once again. He grimaced. He supposed it
was a good thing that he was always prepared for the worst, but it
was an annoying way to live.
He glared purposefully at Biggar, who was perched on the crates
safely out of reach. "How many times have I warned you against
giving in to acts of conscience, Biggar?"
i4 THE TANGLE BOX
"Many," Biggar replied, and rolled his eyes.
"To no purpose, it seems."
"I'm sorry. I am only a simple bird."
Horris considered that mitigating circumstance. "I suppose you
expect aaether chance, don't you?"
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Biggar lowered his h«ul to keep from snickering. "I would be most
grateful, Horris."
Horris Kew's gangly frame bent forward suddenly in the manner of a
crouched wolf. "This is the last time I ever want to hear of Skat
Mandu, Biggar. The last. Sever whatever lingering relationship you
share with our former friend right now. No more private
revelations. No more voices from the distant past. From this moment
on, you listen only to me. Got it?"
The myna sniffed. Horris didn't understand anything, but there
wasn't any point in telling him so. "I hear and obey."
Horris nodded. "Good. Because if it happens again, I will have you
stuffed and mounted."
His wintry gray eyes conveyed the depth of his feelings far more
eloquently than his words, and Biggar's beak clacked shut on the
snappy retort he was about to make.
From far back in the cellar came a rending sound—the prying of
nailed wood away from its seating. Horris stared. The faithful were
tearing up the floorboards! The steel door had not deterred them as
completely as he had anticipated. He felt a tightening of his
breathing passages as he hurried not toward the tunnel door but
through the crates and furniture to a series of pictures bolted to
the wall. He reached the fake Degas, touched a pair of studs in the
gilt frame, and released the casing. It swung away on concealed
hinges to reveal a combination safe. Horris worked the dial
feverishly, listening to the sounds of the enraged mob as he did
so, and when he heard the catch release, he swung open the layered
steel door.
He reached inside and withdrew an intricately carved wooden box.
Brooks 15
"Hope springs eternal," he heard Biggar snicker.
Well, it did, he supposed—at least in this instance. The box was
his greatest treasure—and he had no idea what it was. He had
conjured it up quite by accident shortly after coming into this
world, one of those fortuitous twists of fate that occur every so
often in the weaving of spells. He had recognized the importance of
the box right from the first. This was a creation of real magic,
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the carvings ancient and spell-laden, rife with secret meaning.
Something was sealed inside, something of great power. The Tangle
Box, he had named it, impressed by the weave of symbols and script
that ringed its surface. It was seamless and lidless, and nothing
he did would release its secrets. Now and again he thought he could
hear something give in its bindings, in the seals that bound it
close about, but conjure though he might the box defied bis best
efforts to uncover what lay within.
Still, it was his best and most important treasure from mis world,
and he was not about to leave it to those cretins who followed.
He tucked the Tangle Box under his arm and hastened on across the
room, weaving through the obstacle course of spare furniture and
worthless literature to reach the tunnel door. There he worked with
a steady hand a second combination dial set close against a lever
that secured the door's heavy locks, heard them release, and shoved
down.
The lever did not budge.
Horris Kew frowned, looking a little like a truant caught oat of
school. He spun the dial angrily and tried the combination again.
Still the lever would not budge. Horris was sweating now, hearing
shouts to go along with the tearing op of floorboards. He tried the
combination again and yet again. Each time, he clearly heard the
lock release. Each time, the lever refused to move.
Finally his frustration grew so great mat he stepped back and
starting kicking at the door. Biggar watched impassively. Horris
began swearing, then jumping up and down
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THE TANGLE BOX
in fury. Finally, after one last futile try at freeing the
inexplicably recalcitrant lever, he sagged back against the door,
resigned to his fate.
"I can't understand it," he murmured woodenly. '1 test it myself
almost every day. Every day. And now it won't work. Why?"
Biggar cleared his throat "You can't say I didn't warn you."
"Warn me? Warn me about what?"
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"At the risk of incurring your further displeasure, Morris—Skat
Mandu. I told you he was displeased."
Horris stared up at him. "You are obsessing, Biggar."
Biggar shook his head, ruffled his feathers, and sighed. "Let's cut
to the chase, shall we, Horris? Do you want to get out of here or
not?"
"I want to get out," Horris Kew admitted bleakly. "But ..."
Biggar cut him short with an impatient wave of one wing. "Just
listen, all right? Don't interrupt, don't say anything. Just
listen. Whether you like it or not, I am in fact in touch with the
real Skat Mandu. I did have a revelation, just as I told you. I
have reached into the beyond and made contact with the spirit of a
wise man and warrior of another time, and he is the one we call
Skat Mandu."
"Oh, for cripes sake, Biggar!" Horris could not help himself.
"Just listen. He has a purpose in coming to us, a purpose of great
importance, though he has not yet revealed to me what that purpose
is. What I do know is that if we want out of this basement and away
from that mob, we must do as he says. Not much is required. A
phrase or two of conjuring, nothing more. But you must say it,
Horris. You."
Horris rubbed his temples and thought about the madness that ran
deep within the core of all human experience.
Terry Brooks 17
Surely this was the apex. His voice dripped with venom. "What must
I say, O mighty channeler?"
"Skip the sarcasm. It's wasted on me. You must speak these words.
'Rashun, oblight, surena! Larin, kestel, maneta! Ruhn!'"
Horris started to object, then caught himself. One or two of the
words he recognized, and they were most definitely words of power.
The others he had never heard, but they had the feel of conjuring
and the weight of magic. He clutched the Tangle Box against his
chest and stared up at Biggar. He listened to the sounds of the
mob's pursuit, louder now, the flooring breached and the basement
Page 15
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
open. Time was running out.
Fear etched deep lines in his narrow face. His resistance gave way.
"All right." He rose and straightened. "Why not?" He cleared his
throat. "Rashun, oblight, sur—"
"Wait!" Biggar interrupted with a frantic flutter of wings. "Hold
out the box!"
"What?"
"The Tangle Box! Hold it out, away from you!"
Horris saw it all now, the truth behind the secret of the box, and
he was both astonished and terrified by what it meant He might have
thrown down the box and run for his life if mere had been somewhere
to run. He might have resisted Biggar's command if there had been
another to obey. He might have done almost anything if presented
with another set of circumstances, but life seldom gives you a
choice hi pivotal moments and so it was now.
Horris held out the box before him and began to chant. "Rashun,
oblight, surena! Larin, kestel, maneta! Ruhn!"
Something hissed in Horris Kew's ears, a long, slow sigh of
satisfaction laced with pent-up rage and fury and the promise of
slow revenge. Instantly the room's light went from white-gold to
wicked green, a pulsing reflection of some color given off deep
within a primeval forest where old growth still holds sway and
clawed things yet patrol the
i8
THE TANGLE BOX
final perimeters of their ancient world. Horris would have dropped
the Tangle Box if his hands would have obeyed him, but they seemed
inexplicably locked in place, his fingers turned to claws about the
carve^ surface, his nerve endings tied to the sudden pulse of life
that rose from within. The top of the box simply disappeared and
from out of its depths rose a wisp of something Horris Kew had
thought he would never see again.
Fairy mists.
They rose in a veil and settled across the steel door that blocked
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
entry to the tunnel, masking it like paint, then dissolving it
until nothing remained but a vague hint of shadows at play against
a black-holed nothingness.
"Hurry!" Biggar hissed at his ear, already speeding past. "Go
through before it closes!"
The bird was gone in an instant, and his disappearance seemed to
propel Horris Kew on as well, flinging himself after, still
carrying the once-treasured box. He could have looked into it now
to see what was hidden there. It was lidless, and he could have
peeked to discover its secret. Once he would have given anything to
do so. Now he dared not.
He went through the veil, through the web of fairy mists come
somehow out of his past, eyes wide and staring, thinking to find
almost anything waiting, to have almost anything happen. There was
a sudden vision of vanishing gold coins and fading palatial
grounds, the bitter tally of his losses, the sum total of five
wasted years. It was there and then gone. He found himself in a
corridor that lacked floor or ceiling or walls, a thin light that
he swam through like a netted fish seeking to escape its trap.
There was no movement around him, no sound, no sense of being or
time or place, only the passage and the frightening belief that any
deviation would see him lost forever.
What have I done? he asked himself in terror and dismay.
No answer came, and he struggled on like a man coated
Terry Brooks 19
in hardening mud, the freeze of night working down to the marrow of
his bones, the cold of his fate a certainty that whispers
wretchedly of lost hope. He thought he could see Biggar, thought he
could hear the bird's paralyzed squawk, and took heart from the
fervent hope that the miserable creature's suffering was greater
than his own.
And then abruptly the mists were gone, and he was free of the
paralytic light. It was night, and the night was velvet black, the
warm air filled with pleasant smells and reassuring sounds. He
stood upon a plain, the grasses thick and soft against his feet and
ankles, their windswept flow running on like an ocean toward
distant mountains. He glanced skyward. Eight moons glowed
brightly—mauve, peach, burnt rose, jade, beryl, sea green,
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
turquoise, and white. Their colors mixed and flooded down upon the
sleeping land.
It can't be!
Biggar emerged from somewhere behind him, flying rather unsteadily,
lighting on the nearest of a cluster of what appeared to be small
pin oaks colored bright blue. He shook himself, preened briefly,
and glanced around.
When he saw the moons, he jumped a foot. "Awk!" he croaked,
forgetting himself momentarily. He spit in distaste and shivered.
"Horris?" he whispered. His eyes were as wide as saucers, no small
feat for a bird. "Are we where I think we are?"
; Horris was unable to answer. He was unable to speak at all. He
simply stared skyward, then around at the landscape, then down at
his feet, then at the rune-scripted surface of the Tangle Box,
lidded once more and closed away.
Landover! This was Landover!
"Welcome home, Horris Kew," a low hiss came from over his
shoulder—insidious, pervasive, and as cold as death.
Horris felt his heart drop to his feet. This time when he turned
around, there really was something waiting.
CkiU
Ben Holiday came awake slowly, languidly, and smiled. He could feel
Willow's deliberate stillness next to him. He knew without having
to look that she was watching him. He knew it as well as he knew
that he loved her more than his own life. He was facing away from
her in the bed, turned on his side toward the open windows where
dawn's faint light crept through to dapple the shadowed bedchamber
with patches of silver, but he knew. He reached back for her and
felt her fingers close over his hand. He breathed deeply of summer
air fresh with the smell of forest trees, grasses, and flowers and
thought how lucky he was.
"Good morning," he whispered.
"Good morning," she replied.
He let his eyes open all the way then, rolled over on his other
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
side, and propped himself up on his elbow. She faced him from
inches away, her eyes enormous in the pale light, her emerald hair
cascading down about her face and over her shoulders, her skin
smooth and flawless, as if she were
Terry Brooks 21
impervious to age and time. He was always stunned by how beautiful
she was, a sylph born of a woodland nymph and a water sprite, an
impossibility in the world from which he had come, but merely a
wondrous truth here in Land-over.
"You were watching me," he said.
"I was. I was watching you sleep. I was listening to you breathe."
Her pale green skin seemed dark and exotic in the early half light,
and when she stirred beneath the covers she had the look of a cat,
sleek and silky. He considered how long mey had been together,
first as companions, then as husband and wife. How mysterious she
still seemed. She embodied all the things he loved about this
world—its beauty, mystery, magic, and wonder. She was these and so
much more, and when he woke like this and saw her, he thought he
might have somehow mixed up dreaming with real life.
It was a little more than two years since he had come to Landover,
a journey between worlds, between lives, between fates. He had come
in desperation, unhappy with the past, anxious for a different
future. He had left his high rise in Chicago for a castle called
Sterling Silver. He had given up his law practice to become a King.
He had buried the ghosts of his dead wife and unborn child and
found Willow. Ife had bought a magic kingdom out of a Christmas
catalog when he kflew full well that such a thing could not
possibly exist, taking a chance nevertheless that perhaps it might,
and the gamble had paid off. None of it had come easy, of course. A
transition of worlds and lives and fates never does. But Ben
Holiday had fought the battles his journey required of him and won
them all, so now he was entitled to stay, to lay claim to his new
life and world and fate, and 3! (o be King of a place mat he had
believed once upon a }Ji*f time to be only a dream. Jl; To be
Willow's husband, lover, and best friend, he added,
22
THE TANGLE
Page 19
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
when he had given up on the possibility that he could ever be any
of those things to a woman again. •"••» ^Ben," she said, drawing
his eyes to her own. There was warmth there, but something else,
too — something he could not quite define. Expectation? Excitement?
He wasn't sure, He shifted higher on his elbow, feeling her hand
tighten
'
"I am.canyiBg your child," she said. q
^5t»«^ifc; didn't know what he had expected hec t^j say, tjuf
^deitulffly : wasn,'t ti»at .. . : ;.«»|
Her eyes glistened. "I have suspected as much for eral days, but it
was not until last night that I was able make certain. I tested
myself in the way of the fairy kneeling among the garden's
columbine at midnight, ing two vines to see if they would respond.
When Wjjf reached for each other and entwined themselves, I
knew'l^l has happened as the Earth Mother once foretold." §
Ben remembered then. They were engaged in the seatcff | for the
black unicorn and each had, on separate occasions^! gone to the
Earth Mother for help in the quest. She had tola them then that
they were important to her and specifically charged Ben with
protecting Willow. When the quest was finished and the secret of
the unicorn discovered, Willow had revealed to Ben what the Earth
Mother had confided in her — that one day they would share a child.
Ben had not known what to think then. He was still haunted by the
ghost of Annie and not yet certain of his future with Willow. He
had forgotten the Earth Mother's prophecy since, preoccupied with
the business of being King and lately of dealing with the old
King's son, Michel Ard Rhi, who had almost succeeded in stealing
away the medallion that gave Ben power over the Paladin, the King's
champion. Without the Paladin, Ben could not continue as Landover's
King. Without the medallion, Ben would have a tough time just
staying alive.
But all that was past now, the threats posed by the ap-
Terry Brooks 23
pearance of the black unicorn and Michel Ard Rhi ended, and what
surfaced from the memories of those events was the Earth Mother's
prophecy, a promise of yet another change in an already indelibly
changed life.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Ben shook his head. "I don't know what to say." Then he caught
himself, his eyes snapping up. "Yes I do. I know what to say. It's
the most wonderful news I can imagine. I thought I would never have
a child after Annie died. I had given up on everything. But finding
you ... And now hearing this ..." His smile broadened and he almost
laughed at himself. "Maybe I don't know what to say after all!"
She smiled back, radiant. "I think you do, Ben. The words are
mirrored in your eyes."
He reached over and pulled her close to him. "I'm very happy."
He thought momentarily of what it would be like to be a father, to
have a child to raise. He had tried to imagine it once, long ago,
and had since given up. Now he would begin again. The impact of the
responsibilities he faced sent him spinning. It would be hard work,
he knew. But it would be wonderful.
"Ben," she said quietly, drawing away so that he could see her
face. "Listen to me a moment. There are things you have to
understand. You are no longer in your world. Everything is
different here. This child's coming to life will be different. The
child itself will likely not be what you expect ..."
"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "What are you saying?"
Her gaze fell, then lifted again, steady but uneasy. "We are from
two different worlds, Ben, from two different lives, and this child
is a joining of both, something that has never happened before."
"Is the baby in some sort of danger?" he asked hurriedly.
"No."
"Then nothing else matters. It will be ours, whatever the
24 THE TANGLE BOX
mix of its blood and history. It will be the best of both of us."
Willow shook her head. "But each world remains a mystery in some
ways, yours to me, mine to you, and the differences cannot always
be easily explained or understood ..."
He put a finger to her lips. "We'll work it out All of it." He was
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
firm, insistent. He misread entirely the nature of her concern and
brushed her words aside in his haste to experience the euphoria he
was feeling. "A baby, Willow! I want to go tell someone about this!
I want to tell everyone! C'mon! Let's get up!"
He was out of bed in an instant, springing up and rushing about,
pulling on his clothes, charging to the window and yelling wildly
with glee, coming back to kiss her over and over. "I love you," he
said. "I'll love you for ever and ever."
He was dressed and out the door before she had even left the bed,
and the words that perhaps she would have spoken to him were left
forever unsaid.
He went down the castle stairs two at a time, bounding as if he
were a child himself, humming and talking and whistling, buoyant as
a cork. He was a man of average size with a hawk nose and frosty
blue eyes. His brownish hair had begun to recede slightly, but his
face and hands were smooth and taut He had been a boxer when he was
younger, and he still trained regularly. He was lean and fit and
moved easily. He was approaching forty when he first crossed into
Landover, but he didn't know how old he was anymore. He sometimes
felt as if he had quit aging altogether. This morning he was
certain of it He could feel the pulse of Sterling Silver beneath
his feet, the beat of her heart, of her lifeblood, of her soul. He
could feel the warmth of her stones and mortar, the whisper of her
breath in the fresh morning air. She was ah' ve, the home of Land-
Brooks
25
over's Kings, a thing of such magic that she sustained herself and
relied only on the presence of a Master to function. When Ben had
first come to her, twenty years of neglect had reduced her to a
tarnished wreck. Now she was restored, polished and shining and
vibrant, and he could sense her thoughts as clearly as his own when
he was safe within her walls.
He could feel her joy for him now as he skipped off the stairs and
headed for the dining hall. He could hear her wish for his unborn
child's long life and happiness.
A child, he thought over and over. My child.
He was getting used to the idea a whole lot more quickly than he
Page 22
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
would have believed possible.
It occurred to him as he entered the dining hall, with its
tapestry-hung walls and its long trestle table already set and
occupied, that he should have waited for Willow — that he should
still wait, for that matter — before delivering the news. But he
didn't think he could do that He didn't think he could help
himself.
Abernathy and Bunion sat at the table. Abernathy, the Court Scribe,
was a man who had been turned into a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier by
a bit of misguided magic and forced to stay that way. Abernathy was
shaggy-faced and splendidly dressed, possessed of human hands and
feet and able to talk better than most regular humans. Bunion, the
King's messenger, was a kobold who, so far as anyone knew, had
never been turned into anything other than what he was. Bunion was
monkey-faced and gnarled with sharp teeth and a smile that belonged
on an interested shark. The one quality they shared was an
unswerving loyalty to Ben and the throne.
They paused hi unison with forks raised to mouth as they saw the
High Lord's face on entering.
"Good morning, good morning!" he beamed.
The forks stayed poised. A mix of astonishment and suspicion
crossed their faces. Two sets of eyes blinked.
26 THE TANGLE BOX
Abernathy recovered first. "Good morning, High Lord," he greeted.
He paused. "Slept well, I trust?"
Ben came forward, ebullient to his toes. The china and glassware
glittered, and the smell of hot food rose from the silver serving
trays. Parsnip, the cook and other kobold who served the throne,
had outdone himself again. Or at least it seemed that way to Ben in
his euphoria. He snatched up a small apple muffin and popped it
into his mouth on his way to his seat. He glanced about for Questor
Thews, but the wizard was nowhere in sight. Maybe he should wait,
he thought. Questor's absence gave him a reason. Wait for Questor
and Willow. Call in Parsnip from the kitchen. That way the
announcement could be made to everyone at the same time. That
seemed like a good idea. Just wait That's what he would do.
"Guess what?" he said.
Page 23
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Abernathy and Bunion exchanged a hasty glance. "I have to tell you,
High Lord, that I am not particularly fond of guessing games,"
declared his scribe. "And Bunion hates them."
"Oh, come on. Guess!"
"Very well." Abernathy gave a large, put-upon sigh. "What?" he
asked compliantly.
Ben took a deep breath. "I can't tell you. Not yet. But it's good
news. It's wonderful news!"
Bunion showed a few teeth and muttered something unintelligible.
Abernathy went back to eating. "Be sure to let us know when you
feel me moment is right."
"As soon as Questor gets here," Ben advised, seating himself. "And
Willow. And Parsnip. Everyone. Don't leave until they get here."
Abernathy nodded. "I'm glued to my seat, High Lord. By the way, I
hope this announcement will take place before this morning's
scheduled land-use planning meeting with the representatives of the
Greensward and the River Country?"
Terry Brooks 2j
Ben slapped his forehead. "I'd forgotten!"
"And the noon lunch with the new district judges you appointed for
the northern lands?"
"I'd forgotten that, too!"
"And this afternoon's meeting with the irrigation planning
committee to start work on the deserts east of the Greensward?"
"That one I remember."
"Good. Did you also remember the meeting with the kitchen staff to
discuss the ongoing disappearance of food from the larder? It is
getting worse, I am afraid."
Ben frowned in annoyance. "Drat it, why did you schedule all this
for today?"
Page 24
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"I didn't. You did. It is the beginning of a new week and you
always like to start off a new week by cramming in as many projects
as you can manage." Abernathy dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
"Overscheduling. I've warned you about this before."
"Thanks for reminding me." Ben reached for a plate and shoveled
food onto it from the platters. Bread with jam, eggs, and fruit.
"Well, we'll get to it, all of it. There's plenty of time." He put
the plate down in front of him, his mind already skipping ahead to
the matters Abernathy had listed. Why, in the name of sanity, did
anyone feel compelled to steal from the larder? It wasn't as if
there was a food shortage. "If Willow isn't down here hi a few
minutes, I'll go up and get her. And Bunion can find Questor,
wherever he's ..."
At that a door was flung open at the far end of the hall leading up
from the lower entry inside the castle gates, and Questor Thews
appeared.
"This is the last straw, simply the last!" he declared furiously.
He strode to the table without a pause, muttering with such
vehemence that those gathered were left staring. The Court Wizard
wore his trademark gray robes decorated with
28 THE TANGLE BOX
brightly colored patches of cloth and wrapped at the waist with a
crimson sash, a ragtag scarecrow figure, tall and thin, all sticks
and wisps of flying beard and hair. It was immediately apparent
that he might have dressed and groomed himself better—at least to
the extent of new robes and a trim about the ears, as Ben had tried
to suggest on more than one occasion—but he saw no reason to change
what he was comfortable with and so did not. He was mild and gentle
and not given over easily to fits of pique, and it was strange to
see him so agitated now.
He came to a halt before them and threw back his robes as if to
shed himself of whatever it was that so burdened him this beautiful
summer morning. "He's back!" he announced.
"Who's back?" Ben asked.
"Back and not a bit repentant for anything he's done! There is not
the least shame in him, not the least! He comes up to the gate as
bold as you please and announces he's here!" Questor's face was
Page 25
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
reddening as he spoke, turning dangerously crimson. "I thought we'd
seen the last of him twenty some years ago, but like the proverbial
bad penny, he's turned up anew!"
"Questor." Ben tried to get a word in edgewise. "Who are you
talking about?"
Questor's gaze was fierce. "I'm talking about Horris Kew!"
Now Abernathy was on his feet as well. "That trickster! He wouldn't
dare come back! He was exiled! Questor Thews, you've been out in
the sun too long!"
"Feel free to walk down and have a look for yourself!" Questor gave
him a chilly smile. "He presents himself as a supplicant, come to
ask forgiveness from the High Lord. He wants the ban of exile
lifted. He wants back into Land-over!"
"No!" Abernathy's exhortation came out as something very close to a
growl. He wheeled on Ben, bristling. "High
r
Terry Brooks 29
Lord, no! Do not see him! Refuse him entrance! Send him away
immediately!"
"I wouldn't send him away if I were you!" Questor snapped, crowding
forward to stand next to the dog. "I'd have him seized and thrown
into the deepest, darkest prison I could find! I'd lock him up and
throw away the key!"
Willow had come down the stairs and into the room and was now
seating herself next to Ben. She gave him a questioning stare as
she listened, but he could only shrug to indicate his own lack of
understanding.
"Hold up a minute," he interjected finally. Bunion was the only one
who wasn't giving any indication of what he thought, sitting across
from Ben with that disconcerting grin on his face. "I'm not
following any of this. Who is Horns Kew?"
"Your worst nightmare!" Abernathy sniffed, as if that explained
everything.
Page 26
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Questor Thews was only slightly more eloquent. "I'll tell you who
he is. Horris Kew is the biggest troublemaker who ever lived! A
conjurer of a very minor sort, one with just enough magic to get
into mischief. I thought we were rid of him, but I should have
known better! Abernathy, remember the cow episode?"
"The cow episode?" Ben asked.
Consumed by his tirade, Questor wasn't listening. "Horris claimed
he was trying to establish communication with the cows to permit
better control over their milking habits, and things got out of
hand. His conjuring efforts drove the poor beasts to a frenzy. They
broke loose country-wide and trampled down the entire wheat harvest
and several towns in the bargain. It was the same with the
chickens. The next thing you know he's subverted the evolutionary
process, and they're flying like birds and dropping eggs all over
the place."
Ben grinned. "What?"
"And don't forget about the cats!" Abernathy snapped.
J0 THE TANGLE BOX
"He found a way to organize them into hunting packs in some
harebrained scheme to rid the country of mice and rats, but it
backfired and they ended up hunting dogs!" He shivered.
"That was bad," Questor agreed, nodding emphatically at Ben. "But
the worst thing he did, the thing that got him banished, was to
conjure up that fast-growing plant that took seed overnight and
turned everything within fifty miles of Sterling Silver into a
jungle!" Questor folded his arms defiantly. "It took weeks to cut a
way through it! And while it was being cut down, while the King and
his court were trapped in the castle, Abaddon's demons took
advantage of the Paladin's absence to raid the countryside in
earnest Dozens of towns, farms, and lives were lost It was a mess."
"I don't get it," Ben admitted. "What was all this supposed to
accomplish? It sounds like he might have had good intentions."
"Good intentions?' Questor Thews was livid. "I hardly think so!
These were schemes of extortion! The cows and chickens and cats and
plants were levers with which to pry loose the purse strings of
those with money! Horris Kew never cared a thing about anyone but
himself! Ten minutes after one scheme collapsed, he was already
Page 27
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
hatching a new one! Excuse the choice of words."
"But, Questor, this was more than twenty years ago, you said." Ben
was trying hard not to laugh.
"There, you see?" Questor snapped irritably, the other's facial
contortions not escaping his notice. "Horris Kew always seems
harmless enough, just a bit of an annoyance. No one takes him
seriously. Even my brother ignored him until that last bit with the
demons, and then Meeks wanted hun gone, too. Seems the unexpected
appearance of the demons interfered with one of his own schemes,
and my brother could tolerate almost anything but that."
Meeks—Questor Thews's brother, the Court Wizard be-
Terry Brooks 31
fore him, the man who had tricked Ben into coming into Landover and
thereafter become his worst enemy. Gone, but hardly forgotten. He
would surely not suffer a man like Horris Kew to cross up his
plans.
"Anyway," Questor finished, "my brother persuaded the old King to
banish Horris, so Horris was banished, and that was that."
"Uh-huh." Ben rubbed his chin. "Banished to where?"
Questor looked decidedly uncomfortable. 'To your world, High Lord,"
he admitted reluctantly.
'To Earth? For the last twenty years?" Ben tried to remember
reading anything about someone named Horris Kew.
"A favorite dumping ground for rejects and annoyances, I'm afraid.
Not much you can do with magic where there's so little belief in
its existence, you know."
Abernathy nodded solemnly. They stood staring at Ben, apparently
out of steam, waiting for a response. Ben looked at Willow, who was
eating now and refused to look back, and he remembered that he had
wanted to tell his friends about the baby. He guessed that would
have to wait
"Well,, why don't we hear what he has to say," Ben suggested,
rather curious about someone who could upset even the normally
unflappable Abernathy. "Maybe he's changed."
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Questor went from crimson to flaming scarlet "Changed? When cows
fly!" He stopped, apparently thinking that where Horris was
concerned perhaps that wasn't qualification enough. "Never, High
Lord!" he amended, just to make things perfectly clear. "Don't see
him. Don't let him set one foot into this castle. I would have sent
the guard to greet him on the road if I had known he was coming. I
still cannot believe he had the gall to return!" He paused,
suddenly perplexed. "In fact, how did he return?"
"Doesn't matter. He is a supplicant," Ben pointed out patiently. "I
can't be sending supplicants away without even
32 THE TANGLE BOX
speaking to them. What sort of precedent would that set? I have to
at least speak to him. What can it hurt?"
"You don't know, High Lord," Abernathy said ominously.
"You really don't," Questor agreed.
"Get rid of him right now." ,- "Don't let him within a mile of
you."
Ben pursed his lips. He had never heard his advisors so adamant
about anything. He did not see how a simple conversation could
cause problems for him, but he was not inclined to dismiss their
warning out of hand.
"Do you believe that your magic is a match for his?' he asked
Questor after a moment
Questor drew himself up. "More than a match. But he is a very
slippery character."
Ben nodded. "Well, I can't just send him away. Why don't we all see
him together. That way you can warn me if he tries anything. How
about it?"
Abernathy sat down without a word. Questor stiffened even further,
but finally nodded his agreement. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he
declared curtly, and signaled to a retainer standing at the far end
of the hall.
They sat in silence then, waiting. Ben reached for Willow's hand
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
and squeezed it gently. She smiled back at him. At the far end of
the room, Parsnip appeared from out of the kitchen, gave a brief
greeting to the silent assemblage, and disappeared back hi again.
Ben was thinking that he would like to dispose quickly of Horris
Kew and get on with his day. He was thinking about the meetings he
had scheduled and the work that needed doing. He had believed once
that no one worked harder than a trial lawyer, but he had since
discovered that Kings did. There were constant decisions required,
plans to consider, and problems by the score to resolve. So much
depended on him. So many people were affected by his actions. He
liked the challenge, but was continually daunted by the amount of
responsibility.
Terry Brooks 33
Sometimes he thought about the circumstances that had brought him
to this place in his life and wondered that such a thing could
happen. It was proof that anything was possible. He would measure
where he was from where he had been and be amazed. He would
measure, and he would tell himself once again that however severe
the pressures and demands he would never exchange his present life
for his past.
"You could still change your mind about this, High Lord," Questor
advised quietly, not quite ready to let the argument die.
But Ben was still thinking about his life, applied the comment
accordingly, and found the wizard's assessment wrong. He was a man
who had rediscovered himself by daring to take a chance that others
would not have, and changing his mind now was not a reasonable
option. He was going to be a father, he thought with renewed
amazement. What would that be like for a man who had passed his
fortieth year with no children? What would it be like for a man
who'd had no sense of family for so long? He wanted a child, but he
had to admit that he didn't know if he was ready for one.
There was a clomping of boots at the far end of the room, and a man
entered. He was tall and gangly and strange-looking. He had arms
and legs mat were akimbo, and a nose, ears, and Adam's apple that
stuck out like they were parts attached to a Mister Potato Head. He
was dressed in gray supplicant's robes that looked like they had
seen service last as floor mats in a stable. His feet were dusty
and bare, his hands were clasped before him beseechingly, and his
body was stooped. He came forward at something approaching a weary
shuffle, his head bobbing. A bird with black feathers and a white
crest sat on his shoulder, bright eyes searching.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"High Lord," Horris Kew greeted, and dropped to his knees. "Thank
you for agreeing to see me."
34 THE TANGLE BOX
Ben rose, thinking to himself that this fellow was the most
harmless-looking threat he had ever seen. "Stand up," he ordered.
"Let's hear what you have to say for yourself. Your press has been
pretty bad up to now."
Horris rose, a pained look on his field-plow face. He had a rather
bad tic in one eye that gave him the look of a man flinching from
an imagined blow. "I confess everything, High Lord. I have done all
that I am accused of doing. Whatever Questor Thews and Abernathy
have told you, I admit. I don't propose to argue any of it. I just
want to ask forgiveness."
Questor snorted. "What are you up to, Horris Kew? You're up to
something."
"Awk! Biggar is better!" the bird squawked.
"That bird looks familiar," Abernathy declared, squinting darkly at
Biggar.
"Just a common myna, my companion on the road." The tic hi Horris
Kew's eye twitched double-time.
Abernathy frowned. "I suppose you've trained him to attack dogs?"
"Awwwkk! Fleas! Fleas!" the bird cried.
Ben came around the table to put himself between Abernathy and the
bird. "Aren't you supposed to be in exile, Horris? What Brings you
back?"
"High Lord, I simply want another chance." A truly penitent look
settled across Horris Kew's angular face. "I have had twenty years
to repent, to consider my mistakes, to think about my misconduct I
was lucky I escaped Land-over alive, as Questor Thews can tell you.
But now I wish to come back to my home and start over again. Is
this possible?"
Ben studied him. '1 don't know."
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"Don't do it, High Lord," Questor cautioned at once.
"Don't even think about it, High Lord," Abernathy added.
Terry Brooks 35
"Awk! Hooray for Horris, Hooray for Horris!" the bird declared.
"Thank you, Biggar." Horris patted the bird affectionately and
returned his gaze to Ben. "I have a plan, should you decide to let
me return, High Lord. I ask nothing of you or anyone but to be left
alone. I shall live out my life as a hermit, a bother to no one.
But should the need arise, I stand ready to serve in any capacity
required. I have some little knowledge of magic that may someday be
of use. I offer it for when you think it appropriate. You can
depend on me to come if called."
"I believe that it was your use of magic that got you in trouble
the last time," Ben admonished softly.
"Yes, yes, too true. But I will not involve myself in the affairs
of the country or her people unless I am asked," Horris said, lie,
tic went the bad eye. "Should I violate this covenant, you may
restore the ban immediately."
"No," Questor Thews said.
"No," Abernathy echoed.
Ben tried to keep from smiling. He should probably be taking mis
more seriously than he was, he thought, but it was hard to get too
excited over someone who looked like this fellow and whose worst
offense was making chickens fly and cows rebel against farmers.
"Awk! Pretty lady," the bird whistled suddenly.
Willow smiled and glanced at Ben. He remembered the child.
"I will think about it and give you an answer in several days," Ben
announced, ignoring the groans from Questor and Abernathy. "You can
come back then."
"Happily, High Lord," Horris Kew responded, bowing deeply. "Thank
you, thank you. I am indebted."
He backed quickly from the room and was escorted away. Ben wondered
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
what kind of bird Biggar was. He wondered how many words the bird
could say.
"Well, that was a monumentally foolish decision!" Ques-
36
THE TANGLE BOX
tor Thews snapped in disgust. "If I am permitted to say so, High
Lord!"
"You are," Ben replied, since it was already said.
"There's something familiar about mat bird," Abernathy muttered.
"Just because a man looks harmless doesn't mean he really is,"
Questor went on. "In Horris Kew's case, appearances are not just
deceiving, they are an outright lie!"
Ben was already tired of the subject, and he held up his hands
imploringly. "Gentlemen!" he admonished. He was hoping for looks of
chagrin but had to settle for hostile silence. He sighed. You
couldn't have it your way all the time, he supposed. That was why
most matters required compromise. "We'll discuss this later, all
right?"
Willow rose to stand beside nun, and he smiled as she looped her
arm through his. "Parsnip!" he yelled, and when his cook appeared
to stand with bis wizard, scribe, and messenger, he asked, "How
would you feel about our adding another member to our family?"
"As long as it's not Horris Kew," Questor Thews muttered and looked
not the least chagrined for saying it.
r
Go
rse
it
Horris Kew departed Sterling Silver like a fugitive hi the night,
hastening away as swiftly as propriety and pride would allow,
casting nervous glances left and right with every step he took. He
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
hunched along with purposeful, ground-eating strides, his tall,
gawky frame rolling and swaying with the movement, a strange figure
in this strangest of lands. The tic he had mysteriously developed
caused the comer of his eye to jump Uke a trapped cricket. Biggar
rode his shoulder, an omen of doom.
"I really dislike that dog," the bird muttered, ruffling his
feathers in a show of distaste.
Horris Kew's lips tightened. "Shut up about the dog."
"He almost recognized me. Did you see? He'll remember, sooner or
later, mark my words."
"Consider them marked." They passed across the bridge that
connected the island to the mainland and set out toward the forests
west. "What's the difference if he does? Meeks is dead and gone."
37
38 THE TANGLE BOX
Biggar had belonged to the wizard hi the old days. It was Meeks who
had performed the magic that enhanced Biggar's intelligence,
hopeful of using the bird as a spy against his enemies. But Biggar
had been as obnoxious and outspoken then as he was now, and Meeks
had quickly grown tired of him. When Horris Kew had been exiled to
earth by the old King, Meeks had sent the troublesome bird along
for the ride.
Biggar hunched down into a black featherball. "If the dog connects
me with Meeks, Horris, you can kiss our chances of ever getting
back inside those castle walls goodbye."
Horris tried to look unconcerned. "You're worrying about nothing."
"I don't care. I don't like the way the dog looked at me. In fact,
I don't like any of this."
Horris didn't say so, but he wasn't sure he liked any of it either.
Nothing had gone the way he had expected from the moment he had
mouthed "rashun, oblight, surena, whatever" and that thing had come
out of the Tangle Box. He shivered just thinking about it,
picturing how it had looked when he had turned around on hearing
its greeting, thinking of it waiting for them now. It was loathsome
beyond description. It was the foulest being he had ever
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
encountered.
And now it had taken charge of his life, ordering him about like a
common servant, telling him where to go and what to do. It was his
worst nightmare come to life, and Horris Kew didn't think for a
moment that he had better try to cross it.
"Why do you think it sent us to see the King?" Biggar asked
suddenly, as if reading his mind. They passed up the hillside and
into a meadow fronting the edges of the forest trees.
Horris exhaled wearily. "How would I know? It told me to go make
this pitch to Holiday, so I did. It said to do it, so I did it. You
think I was going to argue?"
Terry Brooks 39
Biggar didn't have anything to say to that, which was just as well
since Horris Kew's temper was already on edge from the events of
the past twenty-four hours. This was all Biggar's fault anyway, he
was thinking. The channeling scheme, the concoction of Skat Mandu
(Skat Mandu, what a joke!), the releasing of that thing, and the
return to Land-over. Horris didn't know what game it was mey were
playing, but he knew it was a dangerous one, coming back to the
very last place in the universe they should have come, a place
where they were anything but welcome. Except, of course, that the
old King was dead and this new one, Holiday, at least seemed
willing to consider his petition. No matter. What were they doing
here? Sure, this was his homeland and all, but it was not a place
that held fond memories. It was a place in which he had been born
(luck of the draw, that), had grown up, had gotten himself hi
considerable trouble, been declared persona non grata, and left
under duress. He had been perfectly happy in his new world, in the
land of milk and honey and believers of Skat Mandu ready to pay him
money for a wisp of smoke and a shimmer of light. He had been well
settled, content with himself, his surroundings, and his prospects.
Now what did he have? Nothing. And it was all Biggar's fault.
Except, of course, it really wasn't. It was as much his fault as
Biggar's, and that made him even madder.
What was going to happen to him now? What did good old Skat Mandu
have planned?
"I really don't like that dog," Biggar repeated, and finally lapsed
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
into silence.
They journeyed on through the morning, and as midday
passed they reached the Heart. The Heart was sacred
ground, the wellspring of Landover's magic and the touch-
: Stone of her life. It was here that all of Landover's Kings,
:; including Ben Holiday, had been crowned. It appeared as a
IJCleaiing amid a forest of giant broad-leaved trees, its perim-
40 THE TANGLE BOX eter entircled by Bonnie Blues, its floor a
mix of green, gold, and crimson grasses. A dais stood centermost,
formed of gleaming white oak timbers and anchored by polished
silver stanchions in which massive white candles had been set.
Standards ringed the dais, and from then: tips flew the flags of
the Kings of Landover in a sea of bright colors. Holiday's was
newest, a set of balanced scales held forth against a field of
green, a nod back to his years as a lawyer in the old life. All
about the dais and across the remainder of the clearing were rows
of white velvet kneeling pads and
rests.
All of it was clean and perfectly kept, as if in anticipation of
the next coronation.
Horns Kew entered the Heart and looked around solemnly. A country's
history winked back at him from every polished timber and post
"Take off your hat, Biggar," he intoned. "We're in church."
Biggar looked about doubtfully, sharp eyes gleaming. "Who in the
world takes care of mis place?"
Horns stared at him and sighed. "What a philistine you
are."
Biggar flew off his shoulder and settled down on one of the velvet
rests. "So now you're resorting to name calling, are you, Horris?
That's really pathetic."
And very deliberately he relieved himself on the white
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
cushion.
Horris went rigid for a moment, and then his lanky frame uncoiled
as if part serpent and his long limbs worked this way and that,
like sticks pinned to a rag doll. "I've had about all I'm going to
take from you, Biggar. How would you like me to wring your
worthless neck?'
'How would you like me to peck out your eyes, Horris?"
"You imbecilic jackdaw!"
"You moronic baboon!"
They glared at each other, Horris with his fingers hooked into
claws, Biggar with bis feathers ruffled and spread. The
Terry Brooks 41
rage swept through them, then dissipated, evaporating like water on
stone in the midday sun. The tension eased from their bodies and
was replaced by wonder and a vague sense of uneasiness over the
spontaneity of their embarrassing behavior.
"That thing is responsible for this foolishness," Horris announced
quietly. "Good old Skat Mandu."
"He's not what I expected, I admit," Biggar declared solemnly.
"He's not even a he. He's an it."
"A maggot."
"A serpent."
Biggar closed his eyes. "Horris," he said, a note of wist-futaess
creeping into his bird voice. "What are we doing here? Wait, don't
say anything until you've heard me out. I know how we got here. I
understand the mechanics. We let that thing out of the Tangle Box
where it was locked away in that patch of fairy mist, and it used
the fairy mist to open a door into Landover. I got that part. But
what are we doing here? Really, what? Just think about it a moment.
This is a dangerous place for us."
"I know, I know," Horris sighed.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"All right, then. Why don't we go somewhere else? Somewhere less
... threatening. Why don't we? Maybe it would listen to a
suggestion that we go somewhere else. Maybe it would at least
consider sending us through, even if it still wanted to stay. After
all, what does it need us f for?"
Horris fixed him with a hard stare. "Where would we go, «8, Biggar?
Back to where we came from, where the faithful §50: are waiting to
tear us apart? You took care of that option i|p quite nicely."
"It wasn't me, Horris. I already told you that. It was Skat Mandu!
Or whoever." Biggar hopped one rest closer. "You jfiwant to know
where we can go? There are lots of choices. ifl've read about a
few. How about that place with the yellow
42 THE TANGLE BOX brick road and the emerald city and all
those little people running around, the Munchies or whatever?"
Horns looked at him and sighed. "Biggar, that wasn't a real place.
That was in a book."
Biggar tried frowning and failed. "No, it wasn't. It was
real."
"No, Biggar. You've short-circuited again. That was Oz. Oz isn't a
real place. It's a make-believe place."
"With the wizard and all? With the witches and the flying monkeys?
That wasn't a story. That was real."
'It was a story, Biggar! A story!"
"All right, Morris, all right! It was a story!" The bird clacked
his beak emphatically. He thought a minute. "Okay. How about going
to the place with the little people with the
furry feet?"
Horris turned red. "What's the use!" he hissed furiously. He strode
past Biggar without looking at him, headed for the trees. "Let's
just report back and get this over with!"
He moved away again, disappearing back into the forest, leaving the
Heart behind. After a moment, Biggar followed. They passed out of
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
the sunlight to where it was dark and cool, even at midday, and
shadows draped their intricate patterns like spider's webs across
the woodland. They traveled without speaking, Horns striding on
determinedly, Biggar hopping from limb to limb, now flying ahead,
now winging his way back. Locked in a brown study, Horris pointedly
ignored him.
Less than a mile from the Heart, where me light was all but
screened away by the interlocking branches of the trees overhead,
they descended a steep slope to a dense thicket of brush backed up
against a rocky overhang. Easing their way past the brush, they
came to a massive flat stone into which symbols had been carved on
both sides and across the top. Horris stared at the stone, sighed
his weariest sigh, reached up, and touched various symbols in quick
succession. He stepped back quickly as the door opened, stone
Terry Brooks 43
grating on stone. Biggar landed on his shoulder again and together
they watched the black opening of the cave beyond come into focus.
Rather reluctantly, they entered. The stone door grated shut behind
them.
There was light in the cave to guide them back into its farthest
reaches, a sort of dim phosphorescence that seemed wedded to the
rock. It gleamed like silver ore in scattered patches and random
streaks, breaking up the gloom sufficiently to allow a relatively
safe passage through. It was hot within the cave, an unpleasant
sort of warmth that suffused the skin and left it damp and itchy.
There was a distinctive smell in the air, too. Horris and Biggar
recognized it immediately and knew where it came from.
They reached the deepest part of the cave in moments, the part
where the light was brightest, the heat hottest, and me stench
rawest. The cave widened and rose some twenty feet at this point,
and a scattering of stalactites jutted down from the ceiling like a
medieval spear trap. The chamber was empty save for a rickety
wooden bed set to one side and an equally rickety wooden table on
which a metal washbasin sat. The bed was unmade and the basin
unemptied.
Next to the wash basin sat the Tangle Box.
From me deepest corner of the cave came a stirring. "Did you do as
you were told?" a voice hissed menacingly.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Horris tried to hold his breath as he spoke so as not to inhale any
more of the smell than he had to. "Yes. Just as we were told."
"What was the response?"
"He said he would think it over. But the wizard and the scribe are
going to try to convince him not to let me stay."
The speaker laughed. It shifted in the gloom, a lifting of
its body, a straightening of its limbs. Really, it was hard to
tell what was happening, which was very disconcerting.
§ Horns thought back again to when he had laid eyes on it
44 THE TANGLE BOX
for the first time, realizing suddenly that he was already unsure
of what it was he had seen. The thing that was Skat Mandu had a way
of showing only part of itself, a flicker of body or limb or head
(never face), a hint of color or shape. What you were left with,
ultimately, was a sense of something rather than a definite image.
What you were left with, inevitably, was unpleasant and harsh and
repulsive.
"Do I frighten you?" the voice asked softly. In the smoky gloom
something gleamed a wicked green.
Horris suddenly regretted coming back, thinking that perhaps Biggar
had been right after all. What sort of madness was this that they
had embraced in releasing the monster? It had been imprisoned in
the Tangle Box, and it had tricked them into freeing it, using
Biggar as channeler, Horris as conjurer, both as instruments for
picking the locks mat held it chained. Horris Kew understood hi the
most secret part of his heart that nothing he had done in creating
Skat Mandu had ever really been his idea—it had all come from the
thing in the Tangle Box, the thing that had been locked within the
fairy mists, dispatched into exile just as they had been, and
consigned to oblivion except for a fate that had brought Horris and
Biggar to its unwitting rescue. "What are we doing here?" Biggar
piped up suddenly, a frightened stiffness hi his reedy voice. "What
I tell you to do," the voice hissed. Skat Mandu came out of the
gloom, rising up like a cloud of smoke that had somehow coalesced
into a vaguely familiar but not yet complete form. Its smell drove
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Horris and Biggar back a step in response, and its laugh was low
and satisfied. It rippled like fetid water as it shifted about, and
they could hear the hiss of its breathing hi the sudden silence. It
was huge and fat and dominant, and it had the feel of something
ancient and terrible.
"I am called the Gorse," the monster whispered suddenly. "I was of
the people who live within the fairy mists, one of their own until
I was trapped and confined centuries ago, im-
Terry Brooks 45
prisoned in the Tangle Box for all time. I was a sorcerer of great
power, and I will be so again. You will help me."
Horris Kew cleared his throat. "I don't see what we can do."
The Gorse laughed. "I will be your eyes, Horris Kew. I see you
better than you see yourself. You are angry at losing what you had
hi that other world, but what you want most lies here. You are
frightened at what has been done to you, but the courage you lack
can be supplied by me. Yes, I manipulated you. Yes, you were my
cat's paw. You will be again, you and the bud both. This is the way
of things, Horris. The people of the fairy mists bound me within
the Tangle Box with spells that could not be undone from within,
but only from without. Someone had to speak them, and I chose you.
I whispered the incantations hi your mind. I guided your conjuring
steps. One by one you spoke the spells of Skat Mandu. One by one
you turned the keys to the locks that held me bound. When I was
ready to come out, I made the bird confess that Skat Mandu was a
charade so that you would be forced to flee. But your escape could
only be managed by setting me free. But do not despair. It was as
it should be, as it was meant to be. Fate has bound us one to the
other."
Horris wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but on the other
hand he was intrigued hi spite of himself with the possibility that
there might be something hi this for him. "You have a plan for us?"
he asked cautiously.
"A very attractive plan," the Gorse whispered. "I know of your
history, the both of you. You, Horris, were exiled for your vision
of what conjuring should be. The bird was exiled for being more
than his creator had expected."
Oddly enough, Horris and Biggar found themselves hi immediate
Page 41
Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
agreement with this assessment (although Biggar didn't much care
for constantly being referred to as "the :bird").
"You were embarrassments and nuisances to those who
46 THE TANGLE BOX
pretended friendship toward you but in truth feared you and were
jealous of you. Such is the nature of the creatures against whom we
stand." The Gorse eased back ponderously into the gloom, smoke, and
shadow along the rock. The movement produced a sort of scraping
sound, like a knife trimming fish scales. It should not have been
possible with something that appeared to be so insubstantial.
"Wouldn't you like to gain a measure of revenge on these fools?"
the Gorse demanded.
Horris and Biggar would have liked nothing better, of course. But
their uneasiness with the Gorse remained undi-minished for all the
reassuring words. They didn't like this creature, didn't like the
sight or smell of it, didn't even like the idea of it, and they
were still of a mind that they had been better off back where they
had come from. Still, they were not foolish enough to say so.
Instead, they simply waited to hear more.
The darkening atmosphere of the cave seemed to tighten down like a
coffin lid as the Gorse suddenly expanded into the shadows,
stealing the light. "For myself, I will secure dominion over the
fairy mists from which I was sent and over those who dwelt free
within them while I was imprisoned. I will have them for my slaves
until I tire of them, and then I will see them closed away hi such
blackness that they will scream endlessly for death's release."
Horris Kew swallowed the lump in his throat and forgot about any
attempt at backing farther away. On his shoulder, Biggar's claws
tightened until they hurt.
"To you," the Gorse hissed softly, "I will give Landover—all of it,
the whole of it, the country and her people, to do with as you
choose."
The silence that filled the cave was immense. Horris found suddenly
that he could not think straight. Landover? What would he do with
Landover? He tried to speak and could not. He tried to swallow and
could not do that either. He was dry and parched from toes to nose,
and all of his
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Terry Brooks 47
conjuring life was a dim recollection that seemed as ephemeral as
smoke.
"You want to give us Landover?" Biggar squeaked suddenly, as if he
hadn't heard right.
The Gorse's laugh was rough and chilling. "Something even Skat
Mandu could not have done for you in your exiled life, isn't that
so? But to earn this gift you must do as I tell you. Exactly as I
tell you. Do you understand?"
Horris Kew nodded. Biggar nodded along with him.
"Say it!" the Gorse hissed sharply.
"Yes!" they both gasped, feeling invisible fingers close about
their throats. The fingers clenched and held for an impossibly long
moment before they released. Horris and Biggar choked and gasped
for air in the ensuing silence.
The Gorse drew back, its stench so overpowering that for a moment
it seemed there was no air left to breathe. Horris Kew was down on
his knees in the cave's near blackness, sick to his stomach, so
frightened by the monster that he could think of nothing but doing
whatever was required to keep from feeling worse. Biggar's white
crest was standing on end, the sharp bird eyes were squeezed shut,
and he was shaking all over.
"There are enemies who might threaten us," the Gorse whispered, its
voice like the scratching of coarse sandpaper on wood. "We must
remove them from our path if we are to proceed. You will help me in
this."
Horris nodded without speaking, not trusting what the Words might
be. He wished he had learned to keep his conjuring mouth shut a
whole lot earlier.
"You will write three letters, Horris Kew," the monster hissed.
"You will write them now." The gloom it occupied and its eyes (or
so they seemed) found Biggar. when he is finished, you will deliver
them."
lit descended over Sterling Silver, the sun dropping be-the horizon
and changing the sky to deep crimson and
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
48 THE TANGLE BOX
violet, the colors streaking first the patterned clouds west, then
the land itself. The shadows lengthened, darkening ever deeper,
reflecting off the polished surface of the castle and the waters
that guarded it, disappearing at last into a twilight lit by the
eight moons in one of the rare phases of the year in which all were
visible at once in the night sky. With Willow on his arm, Ben
Holiday climbed the stairs to their bedchamber, smiling now and
again at what he was feeling, still caught up by the news of their
baby. A baby! He couldn't seem to say it often enough. It produced
a giddy feeling in him, one that made him feel wonderful and
foolish both at once. Everyone in the castle knew about the baby by
now. Even Abernathy, normally not given to displays of emotion of
any kind, had given Willow a huge hug on learning the good news.
Questor had immediately begun making plans for the child's
upbringing and education that stretched well into the next decade.
No one seemed the least bit surprised that there should be a baby,
as if having this child here and now was very much in the ordinary
course of events.
Ben shook his head. Would there be a boy or a girl? Would there be
both? Did Willow know which? Should he ask her? He wished he knew
what to do besides tell her over and over again how happy he was.
They reached a landing that opened out onto a rampart, and Willow
pulled him out into the starlit night. They walked to the
battlement and stared out across the darkened land. They stood
there in silence, holding hands, keeping close in the silence.
"I have to go away for a little while," Willow said quietly. It was
so unexpected that for a moment he wasn't certain he had heard
right. She did not look at him, but her hand tightened in warning
over his. "Let me finish before you say anything. I must tell my
mother about this child. She must know so that she can dance for
me. Remember how I told you once that our life together was
foretold in
Terry Brooks 49
the entwining of the flowers that formed the bed of my ^conception?
It was on the night when I saw you for the first time at the
Irrylyn. I knew at once that there would never be anyone else for
me. That was the foretelling brought about by my mother's dance."
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
She looked at him now, her eyes huge and depthless.
"The once-fairy see something of the future in the present, reading
what will be in what now is. It is an art peculiar to each of us,
Ben, and for my mother the future is often told in her dance. It
was so when I went to see her in my search for the black unicorn.
It will be so again now."
She seemed to have finished. "Her dance will tell us something
about our child's future?" he asked in surprise.
Willow nodded slowly, her gaze fixing him, her flawless features
carved in starlight. "Not us, Ben. Me. She will tell only me. She
will dance only for me, not for someone who is not of her people.
Please don't be angry, but I must go alone."
He smiled awkwardly. "I can come most of the way, though. At least
as far as the old pines."
She shook her head. "No. Try to understand. This must be my
journey, not yours. It is a journey as much into myself as into the
River Country, and it belongs only to me. I make it as mother of
our child and as child of the once-fairy. There will be other
journeys that belong to both of us, journeys on which you will be
able to go. But this one be-longs to me."
She saw the doubt in his eyes and hesitated. "I know mis , $}
difficult to understand. It touches on what I tried to tell
earlier. Carrying a child to term and giving birth on over is not
the same as in your world. There are dif-that run to the magic that
sustains the land, that life to us all but particularly to the
once-fairy. We ine with Landover as a people who have spent all
5o THE TANGLE BOX our lives caring for and healing her. It is
our heritage and
bond."
Ben nodded, but felt something drop away inside him. "I don't see
why I can't go with you."
He saw her throat constrict, and there were tears hi her eyes. "I
know. I have tried to find a way to tell you, to explain it to you.
I think mat I will have to ask simply that
you trust me."
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"I do trust you. Always. But this is hard to understand." And more.
It was worrisome. He had not felt comfortable being separated from
her since their journey back to Earth to recover Abernathy and the
missing medallion, when she had almost died. He had relived all the
nightmares of Annie's death, of the death of their unborn child,
and of the severing of some part of himself that had come about as
a result of their dying. Each time there was a separation from
Willow, however necessary, however brief, the fear returned. It was
no different now. If anything, the feeling was stronger because the
reasons for their separation were so difficult to grasp.
"How soon must you go?" he asked, still struggling to come to grips
with the idea. All of his earlier happiness seemed to have leaked
away.
'Tomorrow," she said. "At sunrise." His desperation doubled. "Well,
at least take Bunion with you. Take someone for protection!"
"Ben." She held both of his hands in her own and moved so close to
him that he could see himself reflected in her eyes. "No one will
go with me, I will go alone. You needn't worry. I will be safe. I
don't need looking after. You know that. The once-fairy have their
own means of protection within Landover, and I will be in the
homeland of my people."
He shook his head angrily. "I just don't see how you can be sure of
that! And I still don't see why you have to go alone!"
Terry Brooks 51
In spite of his efforts to keep calm, his voice had risen and taken
on an angry edge. He stepped away from her, trying to distance
himself from what he was feeling. But she would not release his
hands.
"This child is important to us," she said softly.
"I know that!"
"Shhhh. The Earth Mother told us of its importance, do you
remember?"
He took a deep bream. "I do."
"Then accept that our needs must give way to those of the child,"
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
she whispered. "Even though it hurts, even though the reasons are
not clear, even though we might wish it otherwise." She paused. "I
do not want this any more than you do. Do you believe mat?"
He was caught off guard. It had not occurred to him that she was
not a willing party to mis decision. "Yes, I believe it," he told
her finally.
"I would have you come if it were possible. I would never leave
your side for a moment if it were possible. But it is not. It is
not hi the nature of life that we can be together hi all things."
She waited for him to speak. He stared at her wordlessly for a long
time, thinking. Then he said, "I guess that's toe."
"It will be all right," she told him.
She put her arms around bun and held him close against
her. He lowered his face into her emerald hair and found
, himself aching already from having her gone. His fear was
*" 9 black cloud that scudded about hi the corners of his heart.
* He realized anew how different they really were, a human and a
sylph, and how much mere was about her that he still " know.
"It will be all right," she repeated. He did not argue, because he
knew there was no point in so. But he could not help wondering if
he shouldn't
Roots
Willow's journey from Sterling Silver was a relatively uneventful
one. She departed under cover of darkness, slipping from the castle
unseen and unheard. The guards of the night watch might have sensed
her in some dim, quickly forgotten way, but the once-fairy retained
enough of the old ways that she could disappear as surely as shadow
into light. Willow went down a back staircase, through the castle's
deserted halls, along the darkened walls of several inner courts,
and out through the central portcullis, which was always kept
raised in time of peace to welcome late travelers and supplicants
to a sure and friendly shelter. Forgoing use of the lake skimmer,
she instead crossed the bridge that spanned the castle moat, a
bridge built by Ben when the monarchy was restored and travelers
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
began to come again to the land's seat of power. She waited until
the brightest of the moons were shadowed by clouds and the guards
were turned away, speaking of things far removed from duties
assigned, and in the blink of an eye she was gone.
Terry Brooks 33
She did not wake Ben on leaving. She stood looking down at him in
the darkness for a time, watching him sleep, thinking how much she
loved him. She did not want any more harsh words to pass between
them. It was better that she left now. He loved her, but he was the
product of a world that did not accept the existence of fairy
creatures, and he was still learning to believe in them himself.
That was why she had not told him everything. That was why she
couldn't.
She walked for the remainder of that night and all through the next
day, winding her way along lesser-traveled paths, not hurrying or
attempting speed, keeping herself unseen. She passed farmers in the
field, plowing and laying in their second-season crop, harvesting
the first. She watched peddlers and traders come and go between the
communities of man south and east. There were travelers come from
the once-fairy country and from fee western hills where trappers
and hunters roamed. There were families in wagons with possessions
stacked high and tied down en route to new homes. Everywhere, there
was activity, the bustle and energy of the warm seasons
facilitating the plans made when it was cold. It made her smile.
She followed the lolling flow of the forested hills, a small bit of
movement in a vast sea of green that undulated like waves against
the horizon when the breezes blew out of the west as they did at
midsummer. She ate and drank from the Bonnie Blues, 'landover's
most plentiful source of food and drink, and she sang softly to
herself when there were only birds and small animals to hear.
She pondered as well. She weighed the wisdom of what had done,
knowing the consternation it would cause appreciative of the worry
it would engender. But hers was a cause born of primal necessity,
and there was no
am for debate over what was required. She must have baby in the way
that nature dictated, and the pattern of had been established
generations ago in a time when
54 THE TANGLE BOX
humans did not even exist. The birthing of fairy people was complex
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
beyond that of humans in any case, peculiar in each instance to the
physical characteristics of the creature involved, different for
each depending on the genetics that had spawned them. She might
have discussed it with Ben earlier, when the immediacy of their
child's birth was removed and the requisite time for acceptance was
still available. But she had not and there was no time now, and she
knew him well enough to recognize that his reaction to what she
would tell him was as likely to be damaging as helpful. Though
Landover's King, he remained a man from another world hi many ways
still, and he struggled constantly to accept what he viewed as
strange and unusual. It was especially hard where she was concerned
because he loved her and was committed to her and wanted so to be
comfortable with who and what she was. She knew that, and she did
what she could to make easier the transition he was still
experiencing.
In the end it had been the Earth Mother's dream that had decided
her. It had not been so much a dream as a vision and not so much a
vision as a sense of being. Fairy creatures spoke to each other in
that way, coming often in sleep to give counsel and warning,
speaking out of distant places, traveling on the back of swift
winds to reach the listener, a whisper in stillness, a brightening
in the dark. Willow sometimes spoke with her mother that way, her
mother a wood nymph so wild that nothing could reach her if she did
not wish it, a creature that not even the once-fairy could trace.
Willow had slipped away from her old life as she made her new one
with Ben, but now and again the old would intrude in some small
fashion, and the Earth Mother's coming had been the latest
reoccurrence.
The Earth Mother was an elemental, the most powerful in Landover, a
creature of great magic. She was as old as the land itself and
embodied its spirit. Some believed that she was the creator of the
land, but Willow thought her too
terry Brooks 55
fundamental in her ethics and too mired in her work to be anything
so lofty. Nevertheless, she was a creature to be barkened to. Ben
and Willow had both gone to her during their search for the black
unicorn, and she had told them then that they were important to her
and would share a child that was special. There had been no
explanation then or since, and after a time both had ceased to
think on the matter. Willow had heard nothing from the Earth Mother
in all this time.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Yet now she was summoned, unexpectedly, abruptly, out of dreams.
The Earth Mother had come to her twice, calling her back to the
River Country, to Elderew, to the once-fairy country where the
elemental most frequently surfaced. The calling was urgent and
unarguable and so had decided Willow to leave Ben without
attempting a full explanation. More than the words themselves, it
was the Earth Mother's tone mat had compelled the sylph to put
aside deliberation and act at once.
She camped that night on the shores of the Irrylyn, close by the
cove where she had first encountered Ben and known in the fairy way
that he was for her and she for him. She ate despite having little
appetite, for her child required her strength. Then she stripped
away her clothing and stepped into the Irrylyn's waters. The lake
was warm and soothing and drew her into its embrace. She floated in
the silence of the night, the skies overhead clear and filled with
tiie light of colored moons and silver stars, and she let her
memories of Ben envelop her. She could still feel the rush of
excitement his appearance had triggered within her. She could still
feel the certainty of her love. They had been cho-
< sen for each other, and until death they would be together.
*J§he had caught a glimpse of their future, for the once-fairy so
blessed (or cursed), and she had known then their
|Hves would be changed irrevocably.
It had proven to be so. Ben had given up his old life, elled to
stay within Landover, decided by many things
56 THE TANGLE BOX
but by none more certain than his love for her. He had stayed as
King and become a leader of strength and vision, and while he was
tormented at times by what being King required of him, he had
carried out his responsibilities faithfully. Most thought him fair
and effective. Only a few still harbored doubts, and most of those
were potential rivals for the power of the Kingdom's magic. Her
father was one, the leader of the once-fairy, and a wielder of
considerable magic himself. The River Master would have preferred a
Kingdom in which he alone controlled the magic, but he was no fool
and he recognized the benefits that Ben Holiday provided as King—a
stabilizing force, a well-reasoned juggler of diverse interests,
and a decisive leader—and while he mistrusted Ben on occasion as an
outworlder, he respected him always as a man.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Willow, as the River Master's daughter, had lived an unsettled life
in the lake country, the child of a union that had lasted but a
single night, a constant reminder to the water sprite of the woman
he had loved and been unable to hold. For Willow had been born of a
hurried coupling and then left behind by her mother for her father
to raise, her mother too wild to stay bound to anyone, even a
child. Her father had done what was required and nothing more; he
had many children and liked most better than her. Ben's coming had
opened the door to the life she had long known was waiting for her,
and she had been quick to step through. He had questioned at first
that they were meant to be together or even that he loved her, but
Willow had never doubted, the prophecy of their joining immutable
and fixed. Eventually what was promised at the moment of her birth
had come to pass, and now there was to be a child.
She rose from the waters of the Irrylyn and stood upon its shore,
her smooth green skin shedding water and drying in the cooling
night air. She had not been entirely honest with Ben. She would let
her mother dance for her, but then move quickly on. She would not
see her father at all. She
Terry Brooks 57
did not expect their help in the birth of this child. She might
have wished it could be otherwise, but she knew there was little
they could offer. She had returned to the lake country to see the
Earth Mother. It was the Earth Mother alone who could provide
useful insight, she sensed—for that was what the dream had
whispered in summoning her. So she would go there and listen, and
then she would have her child alone.
She slept long and well that night, her sleep undisturbed by
dreams, and when she woke she found the mud puppy looking at her.
"Hello, little one," she greeted softly, lifting to her knees.
The mud puppy regarded her with great, soulful eyes. It was short
and long and with a vaguely beaverlike face, and it had great
floppy ears and a lizard's tail. It was splayfooted with broad,
webbed feet, and its body was colored in various shades of brown as
if streaked by dirt. Mud puppies were rare in Landover, being
something of a fairy creature, and they were reputedly imbued with
magic of their own, though Willow had never seen evidence of it.
She recognized this one from her early years. Its name was
Haltwhistle, and it served the Earth Mother.
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"Good old Haltwhistle," she murmured, smiling, and the mud puppy
swung its tail to and fro.
She would have petted it, but the Earth Mother had
warned her long ago that you should never touch a mud
puppy. No explanation for this piece of advice had been offered,
but Willow had learned to trust the Earth Mother.
She had known the elemental since she was a little girl
Rowing up in the lake country. The Earth Mother had
v come to her first when she was still quite small, rising from
the ground one day while she was playing, an unexpected
^apparition that was more intriguing than frightening. The
.fSarth Mother had come to her, she was told, because she
'Was special. The Earth Mother would teach her things that
fao one else knew, and they would be friends always. Wil-
58 THE TANGLE BOX
low accepted this as a child does, a bit wide-eyed, but not
disbelieving because when you are a child all things are possible.
She found the Earth Mother strange and wondrous, a spirit creature
rather than a human or once-fairy, but their friendship seemed
natural and welcome. She was one of many children in the home of
the River Master and not one to whom much attention was paid or of
whom much was expected. Willow was lonely, and the Earth Mother
helped fill the void that the absence of her real mother had
created. As she grew, the Earth Mother counseled her, coming to her
less often as she became more sure of herself and her time filled
with other things. She had seen nothing of the Earth Mother after
Ben's coming save when she went in search of the black unicorn.
But now she was summoned, and Haltwhistle had been sent to guide
her to where the Earth Mother waited.
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She rose, washed, ate a little, and, with the mud puppy leading,
set out anew. The day was warm and sun-filled, and the forests of
the lake country smelled of grasses and wildflowers. As they
walked, lake and river waters sparkled like gemstones through
breaks hi the trees and cranes and herons swooped across the
surfaces in flashes of white. They traveled on through the morning
and by midday were nearing Elderew. Haltwhistle turned east then,
away from the city of the River Master and his people, and entered
a stretch of forest thick with old-growth trees. Vines and mosses
clung to the barked surfaces in brilliant green strips and patches.
Insects skittered here and there, bright-colored birds darted
through the canopies overhead, and small, furry-faced animals
appeared like apparitions and were gone in the blink of an eye.
Dust moats floated in streamers of sunlight, lazy and
inconsequential.
On nearing the Earth Mother's refuge, Willow found herself
wondering as she did from time to time at the elemen-tal's interest
in her. Happy for the companionship and special attention, she had
never thought to ask when she
Terry Brooks 59
was a child. When she had grown, she had accepted the Earth
Mother's assurances that destiny had provided an important fate for
her, and she had never pressed the matter further. Elementals
frequently possessed the ability to read the future, and so Willow
never doubted that the Earth Mother could see things yet to come,
things hidden from her. Nevertheless, it was disconcerting to know
that someone besides yourself knew what was fated for you and would
not reveal the specifics. She had thought to ask of her future on
more than one occasion, but she could never quite bring herself to
do so. Perhaps it was her awe of the Earth Mother's history as the
keeper of the lands. Perhaps there was a small part of her that did
not want to know her future in any event.
But now, with the impending birth of her child, she thought that
she must know, and she determined that this time her reverence for
the Earth Mother would not prevent her asking.
Haltwhistle took her on through the thickening forests, back from
the sunlit clearings into the deep shadows, and finally to where
the silence was complete and unbroken by the sound of any life. The
mud puppy stopped finally at the edge of a broad, empty clearing
filmed with pond waters collected from streams all about, a still,
black, mirrored sur-fece that reflected the old-growth canopy that
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
sheltered everything.
The mud puppy lingered for a soulful look back and then disappeared
into the trees. Willow waited in the silence.
After a moment the pond stirred and the Earth Mother rose from the
waters, her form taking shape out of the slick '" mud, lifting to
stand within the shadowed silence.
"Welcome, Willow," she greeted. "Are you well, child?"
"I am fine, Earth Mother," Willow answered. "And you?"
"Unchanging. The land is stable and healed since the ; coming of
Ben Holiday. It makes my work much easier."
6o
THE TANGLE BOX
She gestured vaguely with her hand, and the light flickered dimly
from the damp. "Does your life with him go well and the love
between you continue?"
"Of course, Earth Mother."
"It gives me great pleasure to hear you say so. Now you will share
a child, and it is for that reason that I have summoned you. There
are things you must know, and I would not tell them to you through
dreams. Have you come alone, then? And without the King?"
"I thought it better." Willow's gaze slid away momentarily. "He
does not accept easily what he finds strange."
"You have not told him about your birthing? About the cycles of
life and the periods of growth and the ways of the once-fairy?"
Willow sighed. "I cannot seem to find a way to do so. I had planned
to tell him, but when your dream came, I thought it best to wait."
The Earth Mother nodded. "Perhaps you are right." Her face was
young and vibrant, a constant surprise when one considered that she
had been alive since the creation of the land. "You will tell him
when you think it best. For now, we must concentrate on the
birthing. You know it nears?"
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
"I can feel it, Earth Mother. The child stirs inside me already,
anxious to be born. It will happen soon." She hesitated. "It is not
like that with humans. Ben expects our child to grow within me for
months in the manner of the women of his world. He has not said so,
but I can read it hi his looks. He thinks the child, since it is
his, will be like him. But it will not. I can sense it already, and
I do not know how to tell him." She was surprised to find herself
suddenly on the verge of tears. "What if he will not accept this
child? What if he finds it loathsome?"
The Earth Mother's smile was filled with kindness. "No, Willow,
that will not happen. This child belongs to you both and was
conceived of the love you bear for each other. His commitment to
you, and now to the child, is complete.
Terry Brooks
61
He will not find the child loathsome. Nor shall it be so. It shall
be beautiful."
Willow's eyes brightened. "Is this promised, Earth Mother? Can you
see it in my future?"
The Earth Mother passed her hands before Willow's face, and the
question fell away, forgotten. "We will speak now of what you must
do to prepare for your child's birth, Willow. Conditions will not
be entirely as you anticipate. Your child will not be bom while you
are in your human form. It will be born during your cycle of
transformation into spirit form."
"As my namesake," Willow said. "I have sensed this might be so. It
was one of the reasons for my worry about telling Ben. I did not
think he could conceive of such a thing."
"Do not trouble yourself further about Ben Holiday, child. What
must concern you now are the conditions required for your birthing.
Listen carefully. When you take root to give life to your child, it
must be in a mix of soils from three worlds. The soils must come
from Landover, from Earth, and from within the fairy mists. The
soils reflect the child's heritage, a mix of bloods. This child is
a product of each world, bom of the union of a human and a
once-fairy. It does not happen often. It is a rare and special
occurrence."
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
The Earth Mother paused, and one hand lifted, a strange
and compelling gesture. "The soils must be gathered by
you, Willow, and by no one else. You must collect them,
you must mix them, and you must take root in them when
it is time to give birth. The soils must come from special
places in each world, for they must reflect the character of
that world, combining what is best and worst about the
creatures who inhabit each. There is within your child some
1 part of all three worlds, you see—something of Landover,
f, of Earth, and of the fairy mists. If the child is to grow
h strong and healthy, if it is to secure wisdom and under-
62
THE TANGLE BOX
standing, if it is to sort through and choose from the seeds of
good and evil mat exist in all living creatures, there must be a
balance of possibilities inherent within it. The soils offer that
balance. They offer magic that will sustain and secure."
"Fairy magic, Earth Mother?" Willow asked doubtfully.
"As surely as any other. This child's heritage is long and complex,
Willow. Its bloodlines run back to when the people of the River
Country were part of the fairy world. You carry both bloods within
you; so must your child."
Willow's face was drawn and frightened. "Must I go into these
worlds to gain possession of the soils, Earth Mother? I cannot do
that. I cannot pass into the fairy mists or even out of Landover to
Ben's world if he does not take me there. The medallion he wears as
King will be needed. I must take nun with me after all."
"No, Willow, he cannot go with you on this journey. Your own
words—do you remember?" The elemental's face was kind and sad and
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
hard and certain all at once, such a strange mix of emotions that
Willow took a step back. "Listen to me now. Hear everything that I
would tell you. This will be difficult, but you will have help.
There are things at work here that even I do not yet understand.
But one thing is certain. Your child must have the soils I have
described. You must gather them, mix them, and take root in them.
You alone. You must not be deterred by your fear. You must be
brave. You must believe. Your child's life depends on it."
Willow was ashen now, gone cold with the enormity of what she was
being asked to do. Ben could not help her. Who then would?
"You will begin at the old pines where you go to see your mother
dance," the Earth Mother whispered in the stillness of the glade,
her voice a ripple across the muddied waters on which she stood. "I
will see you safely there. The first of the soils shall come from
the lake country, where
Terry Brooks 63
the best and the worst that is Landover can be found in a single
grain. Take from the clearing where your mother dances a small bag
of the soil you will find there. When you have finished, you will
be met by someone who will guide you into Ben's world."
"Who will meet me, Earth Mother?" Willow asked softly. "Who will it
be?"
"I am not given to see that yet," came the reply. "I am given to
see only this. Your guide will come from the fairy people, who are
equally committed to the safe birth of your child. I have visited
them in dreams and found that it is so. This child, this firstborn
of human and fairy, of Landover's King and Queen, is special to
them as well, and they will do everything they can to keep it
protected. Thus they will provide one of their own as guide, one
whose magic will allow you safe passage, first into Ben Holiday's
world and then into their own. Your guide will know where to take
you to find the soils you need.
"But, child, take warning," she added quickly, her voice gone dark
with premonition once more. "The fairy people harbor secrets in all
that they do, and nothing with them is ever what it appears. They
will have reasons beyond what they reveal for giving you aid. Do
not accept everything you are told without question. Do not think
that you know Ifae whole truth. Be wary always. They will give you
the help they have promised; that much is certain. They will See
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
the child safely born; that is certain as well. But all else
remains in doubt, so stay cautious in all that you do."
"Can you tell me nothing more?"
"I have told you all."
"There is too much uncertainty in this journey, Earth Mother," the
sylph whispered. "I am frightened."
The Earth Mother sighed, the sound of the wind passing ! through
the trees at eventide. "As I am frightened for you, Lehild."
"Must I go, then?"
64
THE TANGLE BOX
"If you wish your child safely born, you must." Willow nodded,
resigned. "I do." She looked away into the trees, as if thinking to
see something of what was hidden from her. "How much time do I have
to make this journey?"
"I do not know."
"The baby, then. How much time until the baby is born?"
"I do not know that either. Only the child knows. The child will
decide when it is time. You must be ready when that time comes."
A sudden desperation tightened Willow's throat. "Can you see where
the child is to be born? Can you tell me at least that much?"
"Not even that," the Earth Mother replied sadly. "The child will
decide the place of its birth as well."
Willow fought back against her despair. "Little is left for me to
choose, it seems. All decisions are given to others." She could not
keep the bitterness from her voice. "I am the mother of this child.
I am the one who carries it within her body. I am the giver of its
life. Yet I have almost nothing to say about its coming into the
world."
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The Earth Mother did not speak. They stood facing each other in the
silent clearing, the sunlight filtering down from the south where
it eased toward day's end, the waters of the pond between them
reflecting their images as if through poorly blown glass. Willow
wondered suddenly if her own birth had been so complicated, if the
very complexity of it had contributed to her mother's decision to
leave her to her father, to abandon any further involvement, to
forgo the pain of raising her when the pain of giving her life had
been so intense. There was no way to know, of course. Her mother
would never tell her the truth. Willow thought then of how she had
left Ben, slipping away without saying good-bye, and she wished now
that she had woken him.
Terry Brooks 65
She straightened. Well, there were few second chances given in
life, and it was best not to dwell on their scarcity.
"Good-bye, Earth Mother," she said, for there was nothing else to
say, no other words to speak. "I will remember what you have said."
"Good-bye, Willow. Keep strong, child. All will be well."
It was almost exactly the same thing she had said to Ben. All will
be well. The words reached out to mock her. Willow's smile was
bleak and ironic. She turned and walked to the edge of the
clearing.
When she looked back again, the Earth Mother had disappeared.
E:
nsorce
lied
When Ben Holiday woke that first morning to find Willow gone, he
was not a happy man. She had told him she was leaving, of course,
so he was not surprised to discover she wasn't there. He even
understood why she had left without waking him to say good-bye; he
probably would have reacted every bit as badly as she had imagined.
But none of that made him feel any better about the situation. He
simply didn't like being separated from her, even for the best of
reasons—and he wasn't sure this visit was one. He had listened to
her explanation and tried to be fair about what she was doing, but
in the end he still didn't understand any of it. Why did she have
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to go alone? Why did she have to go now?
Why did the feeling persist, despite his efforts to suppress it,
that she was keeping something from him?
He might have sat about stewing for the entire day or even the rest
of the week if it hadn't been for the fact that once again he had
scheduled a full day of meetings in his 66
Terry Brooks 67
continuing effort to find a way to be a good King. It wasn't as
easy as people might suppose. In the first place, there was a
decided clash of cultures at work in his stewardship of Landover.
This was a place in which the feudal system had been at work for
hundreds of years (according to Abernathy's carefully maintained
histories), while Ben Holiday was a product of what passed in his
world for a democracy. Instinctively almost, he found himself from
day one looking for ways to implement the kind of government he
knew and believed in. The lawyer in him wanted law and order to be
the cornerstone of his government and to guarantee justice of, for,
and by the people. But you didn't come into a strange country and
simply throw out the system already in place. That was a swift and
certain path to anarchy. As they were fond of saying where he came
from, you had to work within the system.
So Ben settled early on for working toward the establishment of a
benevolent dictatorship (still didn't sound too good when he said
it, but it remained the best description he could come up with).
The emphasis, of course, was supposed to be on the word benevolent
and not on the other. The trick in all this was to introduce the
changes he wanted without making it too obvious. People always
accepted change more readily when they didn't realize it was
happening. Thus the need for Ben Holiday as King to constantly walk
a tightrope. Of course, after two years he was getting pretty good
at it.
The process was convoluted, and only Questor and Aber-nathy really
knew what was going on. As the King's closest advisors (not
counting Willow), they were pretty much privy to everything that
happened. In most instances, they supported Ben's ideas, arguing
mostly on the side of caution and restraint in the introduction of
his somewhat-revolutionary ideas. Once Ben had established himself
as an acceptable and resilient King, one not likely to be
dislodged, the next step was to bring the Kingdom's warring
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factions into some kind of accord. That meant getting at least a
semblance of cooperation from such diverse peoples as the
once-fairy, the humans, the kobolds, and the rock trolls—not to
mention various smaller groups—none of whom wanted much to do with
the other. Ben had succeeded in that endeavor through a combination
of threats, promises, and bribes. A King had to be something of a
magician—apologies to Questor Thews—and there was a great deal of
on-the-job training. Thus a hard stand here led to a compromise
there. You had to know when to bend and when to hold fast.
Starting out as a lawyer was good training, as Ben was fond of
saying, for becoming a King.
So here was how matters stood at present in the reign of Ben
Holiday, latest King of Landover, a place every reasonable person
who hadn't been there knew couldn't possibly exist. The King still
had the final say in all matters, particularly in disputes between
lesser rulers and leaders of the various peoples of the Kingdom.
Because Ben had finally garnered a solid base of support throughout
the whole of the land and because he was backed by the armored
might of the Paladin, almost no one ever considered using force
against him. Ben, on the other hand, had to be careful not to give
any of those lesser rulers and leaders reason to feel that their
own stature was in any way being diminished. Thus they had to be
left to govern where it was reasonable and sensible to allow them
to do so. Where the King's own special brand of magic came into
play was hi getting them to govern the way he wanted.
Ben established early on a series of advisory committees (his
designation) to oversee such matters as resource management (land,
water, air, and magic—well, of course, in a magic kingdom!),
commerce and travel (trading of goods between peoples and the
transportation of same), currency exchange (frequently bartering),
public works (road building and repair and management of the King's
lands), and
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69
judicial review (resolution of civil disputes and criminal
violations). He set up administrative officials in each part of the
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Kingdom to oversee the workings of all this, and periodically he
brought them to Sterling Silver for a review of how the process was
working and what could be done to make it stronger. It wasn't a
perfect system by any means, but it had the added benefit of
teaching Landover's many and diverse citizens—whether they realized
it or not—how to participate in a government system. It was a
learning process that took time, but Ben thought that he could see
it building on itself. Where once the peoples of the lake country
and the Greensward wouldn't have given each other the time of day,
now they were working together to solve such common problems as how
to conserve and protect water resources and how most effectively to
use crop lands for growing. He had them sharing their knowledge and
reconsidering their prejudices. He had them behaving better than
they had behaved in centuries.
In some ways it was all very primitive compared to where he had
come from. But in other ways it was like being able to start over
before so much was poisoned. Ben was careful about choosing what
knowledge he introduced from his old world. He kept it pretty
basic. Good health habits and unproved farming techniques, for
example. He stayed away from things that would result in drastic
change and possible harm—Industrial Revolution inventions and
gunpowder. Some things he didn't know enough about to introduce,
and that limited what he could choose from. He was at heart a
lawyer in any event—not an engineer or a chemist or a doctor or a
manufacturer. Maybe, he reflected now and again, it was just as
well.
Besides, Landover had something going for it that his old world
didn't, and it was important to remember to add it into the
equation. Landover had magic. Real magic, the kind that changed
things just as surely as electricity. Land-over was infused with
it, and many of her citizens practiced
7°
THE TANGLE BOX
it in one form or another, and what they did with it obviated the
need for many of the things that science had introduced once upon a
time in Ben's old world. So it wasn't as simple as it first seemed,
this business of categorizing and defining the pluses and minuses,
pros and cons, and good and bad of the Kingdom of Landover.
In any case, Ben Holiday's schedule that first day of Willow's
absence kept him from dwelling on his dissatisfaction with the
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matter of her going in the first place, and it wasn't until he
retired after a rather late dinner, alone in their bedchamber, that
he found himself confronted by his personal demons once again. He
stood on the balcony that opened off the room, staring out across
the starlit land for a long time, trying to decide how he should
handle the situation. He could go after her, of course. Bunion
could probably track her down in nothing flat. But he knew even as
he considered the idea that he would never do anything so contrary
to what she expected of him. He considered using the Landsview, the
strange instrument that allowed him to go out into the land and
find anyone or anything to be found there, all without ever leaving
the castle. He had used it more than once to see what was happening
in a faraway place. That was a tempting alternative, but in the end
he discarded it as well. It was too much like spying. What if he
were to see something that he wasn't supposed to see, something
that she preferred to keep hidden from him? When you loved someone
as much as he loved her, you didn't resort to spying on them.
He settled finally for going to bed and lying awake most of the
night thinking about her.
The second day passed very much like the first except that he was
required to spend an extraordinarily long time with a delegation of
Rock Trolls, convincing them of the wisdom of carting a portion of
their raw ores down out of the Melchor for sale to others rather
than insisting that the forging be done entirely in their furnaces
and according to
Terry Brooks ji
what they decided was needed. This in turn resulted in dinner
coming even later, which of course delayed bedtime until well after
midnight, so that when he finally crawled beneath the covers he was
so tired that he was almost asleep before he happened to turn over
one final time on the pillow and so bring his hand in contact with
the piece of paper tucked under it.
He sat up at once. He didn't know why, but he was instantly certain
of the importance of this paper. He brought light to one of the
bedside lamps with a touch of his hand, the castle awake even when
he slept and responsive to his wishes. He angled the paper into the
circle of the lamp's faint glow. The paper was folded in quarters,
and he opened it carefully and read:
Holiday,
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If you would know of an invasive magic that threatens Landover in a
way even I cannot tolerate then meet me two nights hence on the eve
of the new moon at the Heart. Come alone. I will do so as well. I
pledge you no harm and safe passage.
Strabo.
Ben stared. His mind raced. Strabo the dragon can write? How did
this get here? The dragon couldn't manage to fit through the
bedchamber window, could he?
He stopped himself and reconsidered. The dragon wouldn't have
written this. Or delivered it. He would have had someone else do
both. Somehow. If the letter really was from him. If this wasn't
some sort of trick. Which it likely was. Strabo had never written
him before—or even contacted him. Strabo, Landover's last dragon, a
reclusive, melancholy curmudgeon of a creature who resided far east
in the wasteland of the Fire Springs, didn't even like Ben Holiday
and had made it abundantly clear on more than one
72 THE TANGLE BOX
occasion that he would be ecstatic if he never saw the King again
hi his entire life.
So what was this letter all about?
Ben read it twice more, trying to picture the dragon speaking the
words. It wasn't hard. The letter sounded like him. But the sending
of it was odd. If the dragon was indeed seeking a meeting, this
threat of which he warned must be a serious one. Ben discounted the
danger of a personal attack. Strabo wasn't interested in harming
him, and even if he was he wouldn't bother sending a note to lure
him out—he would just take wing and come after him. Asking Ben to
come alone was in keeping with the dragon's personality. Strabo
didn't care for humans in general and would want any meeting kept
private and personal. He also was quite honorable in his own
peculiar way, and if he promised safe passage he would keep his
word.
Still, the whole business made Ben uneasy.
Come alone?
Come at midnight?
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He read the letter again and learned nothing new. He sat propped up
against the massive iron headboard, pillows at his back, thinking
the matter through. He knew what Ques-tor and Abernathy would say.
He knew what reason dictated. But there was something compelling
about this letter, something that refused to let him simply discard
it and go on about his life. It kept him reconsidering the matter,
insisting that it was imprudent to ignore the warning. A sixth
sense whispered that there was indeed something to heed here,
something of which to be wary. Strabo did not act without reason,
and if he felt there was a danger facing Landover then he was
probably right. If he felt Ben should know about it, then Ben
probably should.
So what should he do?
He went to sleep finally without having made a decision. He thought
about the letter all the next day, mulling it over between meetings
and conferences, during meals and while
Terry Brooks 73
reading documents, and as he ran the perimeter of the castle in the
late afternoon hours before dinner, keeping up his training habits
even now, Bunion as always his silent, invisible protector.
He retired to bed that third night following Willow's departure
with the matter still unresolved.
But by morning he had made his decision. He knew he must go. He
must take whatever risk was involved on the chance that the letter
and warning were real. Besides, he convinced himself, the risk
wasn't all that great. The Heart was only several hours away on
horseback. He would take a mounted patrol of King's Guards for
protection. He would not tell anyone until just before he was ready
to leave. That would keep Questor and Abernathy and the ko-bolds
out of the matter. He would leave the Guards safely back from the
Heart, go in alone to check things out, meet with Strabo if the
dragon was there, and still be back before dawn. Easy enough, and
it would satisfy his need to do something besides stand around
wondering what he should do!
There was a deciding factor in all this, although he would not let
himself dwell on it. No matter the danger he might actually face in
any situation, he was protected always by the Paladin. The King's
Champion was the single most powerful being in the realm, and it
existed for the sole purpose of seeing that the King was kept safe.
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It could be summoned at a moment's notice, its appearance requiring
nothing more than Ben's grasping the medallion he wore always about
his neck, the medallion with the graven image of a knight riding
out of Sterling Silver at sunrise. Grasp that medallion, call for
the Paladin, and the knight of ghosts and shadows would be there
instantly.
The problem with the Paladin, of course, was that the King's
armored champion was in truth the King himself. Or another side of
the King. Or, more accurately, another side of whoever was King at
any given moment. In this case it
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THE TANGLE BOX
meant that the Paladin was really another side of Ben, a dark,
destructive side born out of some well of being that he would
rather not acknowledge even existed. But it did, and it hovered
somewhere at the edges of his consciousness, waiting. Ben had
struggled with the knowledge of what this meant ever since he had
discovered the truth about the Paladin. The Paladin was a killing
machine that had served in the ranks of the Kings of Landover since
the beginning, a creation of the fairy folk to give protection to
the ruler they had installed to keep the gates to the fairy world
safe. The Paladin had fought in every battle visited on Landover's
many and diverse rulers, championing all causes, standing fast
against all enemies. It had been challenged time and again. It had
never lost. It died only when the King died. It was reborn when a
new King was crowned. It was a timeless, eternal being that lived
only to fight and fought only to kill.
And it was a part of Ben Holiday, an integral part of who and what
he was, not merely by virtue of the office he held and the
responsibility he had accepted, but because there existed in every
living creature the potential for deliberate, controlled
destruction. Ben had discovered early on that the Paladin's
infusion into his being, their joining as one, was due as much to
the darkness of his human side as to any conjuring of fairy magic.
He was the Paladin in great part because the Paladin was in truth
another side of him, a side that until he had become King of
Landover he had kept carefully closed away.
So he could rely on the Paladin to come to his rescue if required,
though he was loath to call the dark warrior out again unless the
need was great indeed. Summoning it was a last resort, he
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constantly told himself, but it was something he could do if he
must. It was something he no longer believed, as once he had, that
he would never do again.
He went through the fourth day in deliberate fashion, standing just
outside himself most of the time, watching as
Terry Brooks 75
Ben Holiday went through the motions of being King. He felt so
peculiar about what he was doing, keeping the knowledge of the
coming night's plans carefully tucked away, that he was surprised
no one noticed. Questor Thews and Abernathy seemed to find him
normal and did not question if something was wrong. No one did. He
fulfilled his day's duties, ate his dinner, retired to his room,
and sat down to wait
When it was nearly dark, the twilight easing quickly toward night,
he went downstairs to the stables, ordered Jurisdiction, his
favorite mount, a big bay gelding, saddled, called for a guard of
six men, and rode out. He did so quietly and without advising
anyone, and he was able to slip away without being noticed. Patrols
came and went from Sterling Silver all the time; one more riding
out at dusk attracted no particular attention. Even Bunion would
probably be resting by now, anticipating a sunrise run with Ben. It
was a typical summer night, lazy and warm, and there was that sense
of all being right with the world and sleep being just a yawn and a
deep, slow breath away. As Ben and his guard rode over the
causeway, Sterling Silver was a shimmer of polished starlight
against the hazy darkness, a reflection that lingered as they
climbed into the forested hills west, then faded as the trees
closed about.
They traveled swiftly, Ben pushing the pace, anxious to reach the
Heart before midnight, navigating by the stars and his own sense of
time's passage. He had learned to live without clocks and watches
since coming into Landover, and he could now tell time in the old
way—by a reading of the heavens, by the length and position of
shadows on the ground, and by the feel of the air and the
condensation that gathered on the grasses. His senses were stronger
in this world, he discovered, perhaps because he was forced to rely
on them more. He wore black clothing and boots and black chain mail
devised by Questor Thews out of magic and iron to be lightweight
but very strong. He wore the precious me-
76
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THE TANGLE BOX
dallion of the Kings of Landover and a long knife. A broadsword was
strapped to his back because the King was expected to travel armed
on night sorties and patrols. Riding gloves protected his hands,
and a dark scarf was wrapped about his throat to ward off the dust.
There was no wind as yet, no air movement of any sort, and the
night was thick and sultry. Insects buzzed about his head when he
slowed, so he kept the pace at a quick trot or canter when the way
was clear enough to do so. The new moon left the land bereft of
much of its nighttime light—in Landover, the new moon was a
combination of some of its eight moons dropping below the horizon
and some entering their dark phases (Ben never had figured out
exactly how it worked, only when it occurred, which was about every
other month). What light there was came from the stars which
gleamed all across the cloudless sky, a maze of brilliant pinpricks
that seemed to have been placed there for no better reason than to
inspire dreaming in those who gazed up at them. Ben did so when the
trees cleared enough to allow, but his thoughts this night were
occupied mostly with the meeting that lay ahead.
Time passed swiftly, and it was still almost an hour short of
midnight when the riders closed on the Heart. Ben brought the
patrol up while they were still some distance away, had the Guards
stand down, and ordered them to wait for him there. He rode on
until he was within several hundred yards of his destination, then
dismounted from Jurisdiction, left the horse to graze unfettered,
and walked on alone.
The woods were dark and empty-feeling as he passed through them,
and although he listened for familiar sounds hi the blanketing
silence he heard nothing. The smells of the forest were pungent and
intoxicating, causing his thoughts to drift to other times and
places, to events that had once seemed momentous and now were only
memories of building blocks used in the construction of his life.
He
Terry Brooks 77
walked easily and without concern for his safety; oddly enough, he
did not feel threatened. Perhaps it was the sense of peacefulness
that the summer night instilled within him. Perhaps it was the
presence of the medallion, a constant reminder of the power
bequeathed him as King. Perhaps it was simply that nothing actually
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did threaten. Whatever the case, he traveled on toward the Heart as
if undertaking no more than a nighttime stroll in his gardens, one
that would end with sleep and a waking into the new day.
He reached the Heart shortly before midnight, entering from the
trees and standing momentarily at the edge of the rows of white
velvet rests and kneeling pads, facing toward the white oak dais
with its polished silver stanchions and limp pennants. The clearing
was silent and seemingly empty. Nothing moved; there was not the
whisper of a wind in the stillness. Memories of all that had
transpired here came and went. Ben looked about a moment longer,
then walked down an aisle between the benches and rests toward the
dais.
A breath of wind brushed his cheek and was gone. Care-fid.
He was almost to the stage when the dark figure materialized from
out of nowhere to his right, lifting, it seemed, from the very
earth. He stopped, a chill racing down his spine, a lurch in the
pit of his stomach. The dark figure was robed and bathed in shadow,
the light behind it unrevealing.
"Play-King," a familiar voice greeted.
Nightshade!
Ben froze, on guard now for the first time. Why was Nightshade
here? The Witch of the Deep Fell was no friend of his, and if she
was present there was reason to believe that the meeting was a trap
after all.
She came forward a few steps, tall and imperious, the light
catching her features now, etching out the lean, cold, flawless
face, the raven black hair with its single streak of white, the
narrow shoulders and long, thin arms. "Why did
78 THE TANGLE BOX
you send for me?" she hissed at him, her voice cold and angry.
"What is all this about a threat of magic to my home?"
Ben stared, speechless. Send for her? What was she talking about?
He was here because Strabo had sent for him! What sort of game was
she playing?
"I didn't ..." he began.
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"You annoy ..." she started.
And then a shadow fell over them both, and the sky was filled with
Strabo's dark bulk as the dragon settled gingerly down at the edge
of the dais, serpent body coiling up, wings folding in. Steam rose
from his black-as-pitch, fire-slicked, scaled body, and the stench
of him filled the air. Even Nightshade drew back in repulsion as he
swung his horned and fearsome head from one of them to the other.
"What is this?" he growled, the sound a deep, unpleasant rumble,
the grating of stone against the earth. His huge, implacable bulk
was outlined against the forest. "Why is Holiday here, Witch?' he
demanded ominously. "What does he have to do with your note?"
"My note?" Nightshade's voice was a rasp of disbelief. "I sent you
no note! I came in answer to the play-King's missive!"
"Foolish old crone," the dragon purred, a big cat contemplating
dinner. "You waste my time with your idiotic denials. The note was
yours, the words all too clearly your own. If you have some
treasure you wish to trade, then offer it up and be done with it."
Nightshade's face was livid with fury. "Treasure?"
Ben saw what was happening then, recognized the truth of what had
been done to them, and knew instinctively that it was already too
late to escape. Separate notes sent to each, seemingly from one
another, actually from someone else entirely, meant to lure them to
this spot—the bait for a trap. Why? The word screamed at him as he
started forward, catching sight suddenly of someone who had
appeared just long enough to set something down, a tall,
Terry Brooks 79
gawky figure, vaguely familiar, backing away from a box that sat
open at the edge of the dais, smoke or mist or whatever already
lifting from its ulterior, the box unfamiliar but the figure
someone he knew ...
Horris Kew!
What in the name of sanity was going on?
"Wait!" he managed to yell, pointing at the scarecrow figure.
Strabo's scaled head whipped around, the fire leaking from his maw
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as he hissed in warning. Nightshade's arms came up threateningly,
the magic forming streaks of wicked green light on her fingertips.
There was a sudden crackling hi the air. Ben's hand went
instinctively to the medallion, and he called forth the Paladin to
his rescue.
All too late. Light flared suddenly from all about, thrusting from
the blackness on every side, born of some origin earlier fixed and
triggered now as the jaws of the trap set to ensnare them closed
tightly about. They were hammered forward toward each other and the
box, all three of them, King, witch, and dragon, and there was not
a moment's time to react. The light caught and carried them across
the velvet benches and rests, across the distance separating mem
from one another, and locked them in a knot of magic that bound
them up with ferocious purpose. Then mist and gloom closed about,
rising to receive them as if they were an expected offering.
Abruptly they began to fall into a deep, impenetrable void. The
void opened beneath them, growing in size as they neared it (or
were they shrinking?), a vast, empty sinkhole that sucked them
inexorably down-Ward.
But there was something more. All were experiencing an
odd sense of loss, as if some essential part of who and what
they were was being stripped away in layers. And there sur-
* faced within each a demon, a nameless, formless, terrible
beast they had kept sealed away, but was now suddenly, in-
& $xplicably set free. All three howled in fury and despair.
VSo
THE TANGLE BOX
Where did Horris Kew get such power? was Ben's last, desperate
thought.
Then down he tumbled with the dragon and the witch, voiceless and
powerless, to disappear into the interior of the Tangle Box.
When they were gone, the Gorse lifted out of the gloom at the edge
of the trees behind the dais and hissed coldly at Horris Kew, "Pick
up the box."
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Horris was shaking so badly he could not make himself move. He
stood with his hands clenched tightly and his size-sixteens rooted
in place. He was stunned by the magnitude of what he had just
witnessed—Holiday, Nightshade, and Strabo picked up like rag dolls
by the magic and hurtled down into the murky depths of the Tangle
Box. Such power! Yes, the Gorse had taken great pains to set the
underpinnings of its implementation, to cast the nets of sorcery,
to speak the spells that would lie waiting for the three. Or
rather, to have Horris do all this, for the Gorse still seemed
unable to act on its own. Horris had glimpsed the depth of the
creature's power even then, sharp twinges and stabs that pricked
his psyche, but even so he could not have imagined that all these
little conjurings could be brought together to form such a
singularly devastating magic.
To one side, the Gorse hissed purposefully.
"The box, Horris!" Biggar whispered in his ear, an urgent plea from
his perch on the conjurer's shoulder.
Horris started out of his shock, then hurriedly stumbled forward
onto the dais. He stared down at the swirling, misty surface of the
Tangle Box. There was nothing to be seen. The box was closed once
more.
Horris stepped back, sweating, breathing hard. He exhaled slowly.
It had worked just as the Gorse had promised. The Gorse told them
the notes would attract the three, their greatest potential
enemies, the only ones in Landover who could offer any real threat.
It told them the notes were
Terry Brooks 81
spellbound so that their readers would find them impossible to
resist, even should their reason and good sense caution otherwise.
It told them the conjurings and magics and symbols of power cast
and set about the Heart would ensnare the unsuspecting trio so
swiftly that none would escape. It told them finally that the
Tangle Box was a prison from which they would never escape.
But Horris couldn't help asking again anyway. "What if they get
out?"
The Gorse laughed, a low, humorless sound in the darkness. "They
will never get out. They won't even know enough to want to get out.
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I've taken steps to see to that. By now, they are hopeless
prisoners. They don't know who they are. They don't know where they
are. They are lost to the mists." *
Biggar ruffled his feathers. "Serves them right," he croaked
dismissively.
"Pick up the box," the Gorse ordered once more.
Horris was quicker to respond this time. He snatched up the carved
wooden container obediently, being careful nevertheless to hold it
away from him. "What do we do now?"
The Gorse was already moving. "We take the box back to the cave,
and we wait." The voice was smooth and self-satisfied. "After the
King's absence has caused sufficient panic, you and the bird will
pay another visit to your Mends at Sterling Silver."
The Gorse eased through the gloom like smoke. "Only mis time you
will take them a little surprise."
Laoyrintn
tit
The Knight woke startled and alert, lifting off the ground as if
jerked erect by invisible wires. He had been dreaming, and while
the dream itself was already forgotten, the impression it had made
on him lingered. His breathing was quick and his heartbeat rapid,
and it seemed as if he had run a long way in his sleep. He felt a
damp heat'on his body beneath his clothing and along his hairline.
He felt poised on the edge of something about to happen.
His eyes shifted anxiously through the gloom. He was in a forest of
huge, dark trees that rose like columns to hold up the sky. Except
there was no sky to be seen, only the mist that roiled overhead,
blotting out everything, even the highest branches. The darkness of
the forest was a twilight that was as much a part of day as night,
as much of morning as evening. It was not real, and yet the Knight
recognized instinctively that it was the only reality of this place
in which he found himself.
Where was he? 82
Terry Brooks 83
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He did not know. He could not remember.
There were others. Where were they?
He came to his feet swiftly, aware of the weight of the broadsword
slung across his back, of the knife at his waist, of the chain mail
that warded his chest and back. He was dressed all in black, his
clothing loose-fitting and leather-bound, with boots, belt, and
gloves. His armor was somewhere close, though he couldn't see it.
It was close, he knew, because he could sense its presence, and his
armor always came to him when he needed it.
Although he didn't know why.
A medallion hung against his chest beneath his tunic. He lifted it
free and stared at it. It was an image of himself riding out of a
castle at sunrise. It was familiar to him, and yet it was as if he
were seeing it for the first time. What did it mean?
He brushed his confusion aside, and cast about in the gloom.
Something stirred at the clearing's far edge, and he moved toward
it swiftly. A figure who lay curled upon the ground straightened as
he neared and pushed itself up with both arms extended. Long black
hair with a single streak of white through its center hung down
across face and shoulders, and robes trailed on the earth like
liquid shadows.
It was the Lady. She was still with him. She had not run away while
he slept (for she would run if the chance presented itself, he
knew). Her head lifted at his approach, and one slim hand brushed
back the raven hair. Her pale, beautiful features tightened as she
saw him, and she hissed at him in anger and dismay.
"You," was all she said, that single word conveying the depth of
her dislike for him and for what he had done to her.
He did not try to go closer. The Knight knew how she felt about
him, knew that she blamed him for what had been done to her. It
could not be helped. He turned away
84 THE TANGLE BOX
and scanned the rest of the clearing in which they had slept It was
small and close, and there was nothing about it to suggest why they
were there. They had come to this place earlier, he knew. They had
come here in flight, pursued by ... something. He had brought the
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Lady with him—and one other—fleeing the beast that would devour
them all.
He shook his head, an ache developing behind his eyes as he tried
to see into the past. It was as misty and gloom-filled as his
present, as this forest in which he found himself.
"Take me home!" the Lady whispered suddenly. "You have no right!"
He turned to find her standing with her hands clenched into fists
at her sides. Her strange red eyes burned with rage, and her lips
were skinned back from her teeth like an animal's. It was said that
she could do magic, that she possessed incredible power. You did
not want to make an enemy of her, it was said. But the Knight had
done so. He was not sure how it had happened, but there was no
getting away from it now. He had taken the Lady from her home, from
the haven of her life, carrying her off to this forest. He was the
King's Champion, and he existed only to do the King's bidding. The
King must have sent him to bring the Lady, although he could not
remember that either.
"Knight of black thoughts and deeds!" she scorned. "Coward behind
your armor and your weapons! Take me home!"
She might have been threatening him now, preparing to use her magic
against him. But he did not think so. What magic she possessed
seemed lost to her. He had come this far, and she had not attacked
him with it. If she had been able to do so, she would have tried
long ago. Not that it would have mattered. He was a weapon built of
iron. He was less man than machine. Magic had no more effect on him
than dust thrown in his eyes; it had no place in his life. His was
a world of simple rules and tight boundaries. He
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was not frightened of anything. A Knight could not allow fear. His
was an occupation where death was always as close as life. Fighting
was all he knew, and the battles he fought could end in only two
ways—either he would kill his enemy or his enemy would kill him. A
thousand battles later, he was still alive. He did not believe he
would ever be killed. He believed he would live forever.
He brushed the musing aside, the thoughts that came unbidden and
were unwelcome. "You are traveling to a new home," he told her,
letting her anger fall away from him like leaves thrown against
stone.
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She shook with her rage, balled fists lifting before her breast,
the tendons of her neck as tight as cords. "I will not go with you
farther," she whispered, and shook her head back and forth. "Not
one step!"
He nodded noncommittally, not wishing to spar with her verbally,
feeling inadequate to the task. He turned away again, walked to the
far side of the clearing, and peered out into the gloom beyond. The
trees were packed together like bundles of giant sticks, shutting
out the light and the view, closing everything off. Which way to
go? Which way had he been headed? The King would be waiting for
him, he knew. It was always thus. But which way led home again?
He turned as the Lady came at him with the knife she had somehow
kept hidden, the blade black and slick with poison. She shrieked as
he seized her wrist and forced the knife away, then twisted it from
her grasp. She beat at him and kicked wildly, trying to break free,
but he was far stronger and immune to her fury, and he subdued her
easily. She collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, on the verge
of tears perhaps but refusing to cry. He picked up the blade and
cast it far out into the gloom.
"Be careful what you throw about, Knight," a new voice 'warned,
deep and guttural.
He saw the Gargoyle then, resting on its haunches close by, come
from the woods as silent as a shadow at midnight.
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The creature's eyes were yellow and hooded as they studied him, and
there was nothing in their reptilian depths to~offer even the
slightest hint of what the mind behind them might be thinking.
"You've chosen to stay," the Knight said quietly.
The Gargoyle laughed. "Chosen? A strange word in these
circumstances, don't you think? I am here because there is nowhere
else to go."
The Gargoyle was loathsome to look upon. Its body was gnarled and
misshapen, with its arms and legs bandy and crooked, its body all
sinew and corded muscle, and its head sunk down between its
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powerful shoulders. Its hands and feet were webbed and clawed, and
the whole of it was covered in bristly dark hair. Its face was
wrinkled like a piece of dried fruit, and its features were jammed
together like a child's clay model of something only vaguely human.
Fangs peeked out from beneath its thick lips, and its nose was wet
and dirty.
From atop its hunched shoulders, wings fluttered weakly, leathery
flaps too tiny to be of any use, appendages that seemed strangely
out of place. It was as if its forebearers might have flown once
but had long ago forgotten how.
The Knight was repulsed, but he did not look away. Ugliness was a
part of his life as well. "Where are we?" he asked the Gargoyle.
"Have you looked about?"
"We are in the Labyrinth," it replied, as if that answered
everything.
The Gargoyle glanced at the Lady, who had looked up again on
hearing him speak. "Don't look at me!" she hissed at once, and
turned away.
"In what part of our country is the Labyrinth?" the Knight
persisted, confused.
The Gargoyle laughed anew. "In every part." He showed his yellowed
teeth and black tongue. "In all parts of every part of everything.
It lies north and south and east and west
Terry Brooks 87
and even in the center. It is where we are and where we would go
and where we will always be."
"He is mad," the Lady whispered quickly. "Make him keep still."
The Knight shifted the heavy broadsword on his back and glanced
around. "There is a way out of every maze," he declared. "We will
find the way out of this one."
The Gargoyle rubbed his hands as if seeking warmth. "How will you
do that, Sir Knight?" His voice was disdainful.
"Not by staying here," the Knight said. "Do you come with us or
not?"
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"Leave him!" the Lady hissed, rising suddenly to her feet and
drawing her dark robes close. "He does not belong with us! He was
never meant to be with us!"
"Us?" the Gargoyle repeated slyly. "Are you bound together now,
Lady? Are you joined to this Knight as mate and companion? How
unexpected."
The Lady curled her lip at the creature and turned away. "I am
joined to neither of you. I would rather be killed now and have it
done."
"I would rather you were killed as well," the Gargoyle
The Lady whirled back upon him once again. "You are an ugly beast,
Gargoyle. If I had a mirror, I would hold it up to your face so
that you could see how ugly!"
The Gargoyle flinched at the words, and then hissed back at her,
"And you would need a mirror inside yourself to see file ugliness
that possesses you!"
"Do not fight!" the Knight thundered, and stepped between them. He
looked changed suddenly, the man in dark J| doming and chain mail
suddenly gone even darker. It was as if the light about him had
been sucked away. It was as |* if he had been plated in shadows.
"Do not," he repeated, more softly now, and then the
8S
THE TANGLE BOX
dark cast that had enveloped him disappeared, and he was himself
again.
There was a long moment of silence as the three faced one another.
Then the Lady said to the Knight, "I am not afraid of you."
The Knight looked off into the gloom as if he had not heard, and in
his eyes there was a lost, faraway look that reflected memories of
missed chances and lost possibilities.
"We will walk this way," the Knight said, and started out.
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They traveled through the remainder of the day, and the forest that
was the Labyrinth did not change. The gloom persisted, the mist
clung tenaciously, the trees did not thin save at scattered
clearings, and the cast and shape of the world did not alter. The
Knight led them afoot (where was his mount?), trying to travel in a
straight line, hoping1 that at some point the forest would end and
the grasslands or hill country that surely lay beyond would appear
and suggest to him where they must go next. He pondered with every
step the inconsistencies of his memory. He tried to reason out what
he was doing there, what had brought him to this abysmal place. He
tried to remember how the Lady and the Gargoyle had come to be with
him. He tried to think through the fog that enveloped almost the
whole of his past. He was a Knight in service to the King, a
champion of countless battles, and that was virtually all he knew.
He clung to that, and it kept him just ahead of the madness that
too much thinking would bring.
They found streams from which to drink and did so, but they found
nothing to eat. Yet they experienced no hunger. It was not as if
they were full, but as if hunger's presence had left them entirely.
The Knight was puzzled by this, but did not speak of it. They
walked through the day, through
Terry Brooks 89
the twilight that changed only marginally, and when darkness
finally came, they stopped again.
They were in another clearing, a clearing that looked much like the
first. The forest about them had not changed. They sat down
together in the deepening gloom and stared out at the darkness. The
Knight did not think to build a fire. They were not cold, or
hungry, or in need of light. They could see quite well in the
darkness; they could hear sounds they should not have been able to.
The Gargoyle sat a little way off from the other two, not wishing
to endure the scorn of the Lady again so soon, not feeling a part
of them in any case. The Knight could sense the other's distancing,
even when traveling together, as if the Gargoyle understood that
mere would always be a wall between them. The creature hunkered
down in the shadows, then stretched his misshapen body and seemed
to melt into the ground.
The Lady sat facing the Knight. "I do not like you," she told him.
"I wish to see you dead."
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He nodded impassively. "I know."
She had been silent and introspective all day, journeying
obediently but without interest. He had glanced at her now and
again, and sometimes found her openly hostile and sometimes as lost
and searching as himself. She held herself as if armored, tall and
straight and unafraid, but there was a vulnerability to her that
she could not disguise and did not quite seem to understand, as if
it was newly come to her and unexpected.
"Why don't you just take me back?" she pressed, a sudden urgency in
her voice. "What difference can any of this make to you? There is
no enemy for you to fight. There is no battle to be won. Why are
you doing this? Am I your enemy?"
"You have said so."
"Only because you steal me from my home!" she exclaimed
desperately. "Only because of that!" She inched
9o THE TANGLE BQX
forward across the grassy earth until she was quite close. "Why
have you taken me?"
He could not answer. He did not know why.
"Your King has ordered you to do so? Why?"
He could not remember.
"What does he want with me? I will never be any good for him, no
matter what he thinks! I will be neither wife nor consort! I will
be his worst enemy until I am dead!"
The Knight inhaled the forest air, smelling the green freshness of
the leaves and grass, the musky damp of the soil, and the pungent
dryness of bark and old wood. What were the answers to her
questions? Why could he not remember them? He withdrew into
himself, thinking to find peace. He took comfort in knowing who he
was and what he did. He found reassurance in his strength and
skill, in the press of his weapons against his body, in the smooth
fit of his battle dress.
Yet his armor was still missing. He had felt its presence when he
had been forced to step between the Lady and the Gargoyle, but it
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had not shown itself. Why was that? It reached out to him, yet
stayed hidden, as if playing cat and mouse. His armor—it was
lifeless and yet seemingly possessed of life, a paradox. Like the
medallion he wore about his neck, it was a part of who and what he
was. Why then could he not remember its source?
The Lady was a silent ivory carving before him, watching intently,
wanting to come forth from within herself he sensed, but unable to
do so. What was she hiding from him? Something frightening. Some
deep, secretive admission.
She folded her slim hands within her lap, and the disdainful look
crept back upon her face. "You are powerless," she declared
bitterly. "You have no self-will, no independent spirit with which
to act. You are a tool to be wielded by whoever wears the crown.
How sad."
"I am a servant of that crown."
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"You are a slave to it." She cocked her head slightly, the raven
hair shifting in a glimmer of black light. Her eyes fixed him. "You
can make no decision that conflicts with your master's orders. You
can make no judgment on your own. You took me without asking why.
You keep me without wondering why. You do what you are bidden, and
you are careless of the reasons for your actions."
He did not like to argue with her. It gained nothing for either of
them. He was not good with words; she was not possessed of his
sense of honor and obedience. They came from different lives.
"Who is this King who would have me for his own?" she asked
pointedly. "Speak his name."
Again, he could not. He stared at her, trapped.
"Are you so ignorant as to not know it?" she pressed, irony
sharpening the edges of her anger. "Or are you afraid to give it to
me? Which is it?"
He kept silent. But he could not look away.
She shook her head slowly. She was hard-faced and cold-looking with
her dark hair and white skin, with the set of her jaw and the glint
in her eyes. But she was beautiful, too. She was as perfect as a
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fond memory lovingly worked over the passing of time, all the
roughness rubbed away, all the flaws removed. She enchanted him
without trying, without meaning to do so, drawing him past her
anger and despair, carrying him out of what was into what should
never be.
"Whatever I would tell you," he forced himself to say, "would mean
nothing."
'Try, at least!" she whispered at him, and there was a sudden
softness in her voice. "Give me something!"
But he could not. He had nothing to give. He had only himself, and
she wanted no part of that. She wanted reasons and understanding,
and he had neither. He was as adrift as she was, thrown into a
place he did not know, into circumstances he did not understand.
The Labyrinth was a mystery
92 THE TANGLE BOX
he could not fathom. To do so, he must first escape it. That, he
understood intuitively, would not be easy.
"Have you no feelings at all for me?" she asked plaintively, but
this time the falseness in her voice betrayed her immediately.
"My feelings have no place in what I am about. I do what is
required of me."
"What is required of you!" she shrieked, angry and bitter all over
again, casting off any pretension of weakness. "You do what you are
sent to do, you pathetic creature! You bend and scrape because it
is what you know! What is required of you? I would rather be cast
into the darkest pit in all the land than spend one moment of my
life giving heed to what another would demand of me!"
He smiled in spite of himself. "And so you have been," he told her.
"For where else are we if not there?"
She shrank back from him, downcast, in silence. They sat like that
for a long time. The Gargoyle was sleeping, his breathing nasal and
rough, his crooked limbs twitching as if his palms and soles were
prodded by hot iron. The Lady glanced at him once and men glanced
away. She did not look back. She did not look at the Knight. She
stared at a space upon the earth some six feet to her right where
the grass had withered away in shadow and the soil had cracked and
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turned to dust. She sat that way a long time. The Knight watched
her without seeming to, without really wanting to, unable to help
himself. She was in genuine misery, but the source of her anguish
went beyond what she had told him. It was huge and carefully
warded, and it transcended his meager understanding of its source.
He felt a strange stirring inside. He should say something to ease
her pain. He should do something to lift her burden. But he did not
know what. He wondered then at the words she had spoken to him, at
the accusations she had cast. There was truth in them. He was given
over to another's service, charged with another's wishes, bound to
another's
Terry Brooks 93
cause. It was the essence of his life as King's champion. A Knight
in armor whose weapons and strength settled all causes—that was his
identity. On reflection, it seemed too small a possession. He was
defined by it, yet it was given out in a single phrase. Was that
the sum of his parts? Was there nothing more to him?
Who was he?
"Do you know what you have done to me?" he heard the Lady ask
suddenly. He looked over at once. She was not looking back. She was
still staring at that same patch of earth. Lines of wetness
streaked her cheeks, trailing from her cold, empty eyes.
"Do you know?" she whispered in despair.
Night's shadows cloaked Landover as well. All eight moons were
down, and clouds layered the sky and masked away the stars. The
blackness was intense. The day's heat had left the air windless and
damp, and the whole of the land lay hushed and sweltering.
The Gorse felt no discomfort as it moved out of the concealment of
its Cavern lair and into the forest beyond. It was a fairy creature
and at one with nature whatever her disposition. It came forth as a
cloud of dark mist, the state to which its long captivity in the
Tangle Box had reduced it But already that substanceless form was
beginning to coalesce and take shape anew, freedom returning to it
the face and body it had once owned. Quite soon now both would be
restored. It would be ready then to exact from those who had
wronged it the revenge it so desperately craved.
It had thought about nothing else for centuries. Once it had been a
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fairy creature of great power, a being whose magic was formidable
and feared. It had used that magic in ways that so enraged and
disgusted its kin within the fairy mists, the world to which all
fairy creatures belonged, that they banded together, seized it when
it thought itself invulnerable, and imprisoned it. They cast it
down into the mists
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of the Tangle Box, a device they had constructed from their own
magic and from which nothing could escape. Locks were placed upon
the box from without where the Gorse could not reach them.
Entombing it thus was meant to wear it down, to destroy its will,
to make it forget everything it had known before its confinement
and in the end to reduce it to dust. The effort had failed. It had
remained trapped a very long time but it had not forgotten and its
hatred of those responsible had grown.
It had grown very large indeed.
The Gorse moved easily through the night. It required little time
to reach its destination and was in no hurry. It had waited until
Horris Kew and the bird were sleeping, not wanting them to discover
what it was about, needing them to continue to believe it was their
friend. It was not, of course. The man and the bird were pawns, and
the Gorse was using them accordingly. If they wanted to believe
otherwise, if they chose to do so because they were greedy and
foolish, that was as it should be. It was the natural order of
things. They were mortal creatures and, so, much less than the
Gorse. They were expendable.
It crested a rise and found itself at the edge of the Heart. It
paused to send out feelers of sight and sound, taste and smell, and
discovered nothing amiss, nothing threatening. It looked out across
the rows of white velvet seats and rests, past the burnished dais
and its standards, past the encirclement of Bonnie Blues. It
savored the presence of the magic that rose out of the earth, here
at the wellspring of all the land's life. The power of that magic
was enormous, but the Gorse was not yet ready to tamper with it. It
would serve a different purpose this night. A greater magic could
be used to mask the conjuring of a lesser. It would do so now.
The Gorse gathered itself and sent forth the summons it had
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prepared. Lines of fire that neither burned nor smoked lanced down
into the earth and disappeared. The response
Terry Brooks 95
was immediate, a harsh, grating rumble, the groan of a great stone
wall giving way. After a moment, the rumble faded, and the silence
returned.
The Gorse waited.
Then the air before it ripped apart as if formed of fabric, first
tearing and then splitting wide. Thunder boomed from within the
rent, deep and ominous. A hole opened in the night, and out of that
hole rose the clang and scrape of armored riders and the hiss and
shriek of their mounts. The sounds heightened to a frightening
pitch as the riders gathered speed. A fierce wind whipped across
the Heart, tearing at the flags atop their standards and screaming
into the trees beyond.
The Gorse held its ground.
With a rush of wind and sound, those it had summoned materialized
from out of the warp in time and space. They were formed of armored
plates and spikes, bristling with weapons, riding on nightmare
creatures that had no recognizable name. There were five of them,
massive dark creatures that steamed despite the humid night air and
whose breath hissed and rasped through the visors of their helmets.
They were lean and shadowy, like dark-hued ghosts, and the reek of
their bodies was terrible.
The demons of Abaddon had arrived.
Foremost was the one who was designated as the Mark, Iheir chosen
leader, a huge, angular monster with serpents carved into its armor
and the severed heads of its enemies hung about its neck. It
beckoned to the others, and they fanned out to either side, weapons
held ready. As one, they , Mvanced on the Gorse.
The Gorse let them come. When they were close enough > to spit on,
k disappeared before their eyes in a flash of light, reappeared as
one of them, disappeared a sec-time, and reappeared finally as a
pair of snake's eyes. lift stole into their armor and licked at
them lovingly, show-them they were kindred spirits. It conjured
images of
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the horrors it had once performed on its own people and let the
demons savor its evil.
When they were satisfied that it was one of them, that it was as
powerful as they, and that it had summoned them for a reason, the
Gorse hissed softly to prick their ears for his words and said,
"What if I were to prepare a way for you to come into Landover
safely?"
He paused, hearing them growl expectantly. This was too easy. "What
if Landover and her people were to be given over to you for good?"
Too easy indeed.
JVisi
ision
After parting from the Earth Mother, Willow walked on through the
forest for a time toward Elderew, lost in thought. The day was
bright and sunny, filled with the smell of summer wildflowers and
green grasses, and the forest was noisy and crowded with birdsong.
It was beautiful and warm and comforting beneath the canopy of the
great hardwoods, but Willow was oblivious to all of it. She walked
through unaware, lost somewhere deep within herself, pondering over
and over again the Earth Mother's message about her baby.
The words haunted her. She must gather soils from this world, from
Ben's world, and from the fairy mists. She Must mix them together
and take root in them hi order for |ier child to be safely born.
She did not know how long she tad to do this. She did not know when
the child would be She did not know where. She could not ask
another | to gather the soils for her, she must do so herself. Ben
could not go with her. He could not help her. No one could.
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Well, almost no one. There would be the guide chosen by the fairies
to direct her on the last two legs of her journey. But who would
they send?
She felt cold inside despite the day's warmth. She had almost died
in Ben's world on her one and only visit, so her memories were not
fond ones. The fairy mists were even worse for being an unknown;
she was terrified of what might happen to her there. A once-fairy
was even more vulnerable to their treachery than a human. The mists
could so bewilder you, so erode your reason and strength, and so
change you from who and what you were that you would end up
completely lost to yourself. The mists brought out the dark fears
you kept hidden deep inside yourself, giving them substance, giving
them sufficient power to destroy you. Life within the mists was
ethereal, a creation of the mind and the imagination. It was
magical and ever-changing. Reality was what you created it to be, a
bog that could swallow you up without a trace.
Willow's fear of the fairy world was the heritage bequeathed to her
by her ancestors, those who had been fairies once, those who had
come out of the mists. Not all of her ancestors had left, of
course; some had remained behind, content with their immortality.
Some yet lived and were fairies still. At times she could hear
their voices in her sleep, in her dreams, calling out to her,
urging her to come back to their way of life. It had been hundreds
of years since the once-fairy had departed the mists, but the
whispered call to return never ceased.
It was a fact of life for her as it was for all of the once-fairy.
Except that now she would be going back in spite of the warnings
against doing so, the cautions that were carefully handed down from
parents to children by all of the once-fairy. You can never go
back. You can never return. But she would be doing so. She would be
risking her sanity and her life for the sake of her child. Her
needs versus the
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needs of her baby—it was a conflict that threatened to tear her
apart.
She walked on, debating, arguing with herself. The forest began to
change perceptibly, the trees rising higher, the look of the land
altering subtly, and she saw that she was drawing near to Elderew.
She did not intend to enter the city. Her father was there, and she
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did not want to see him. He was the River Master, leader of the
once-fairy and Lord of the lake country. They had never shared a
close relationship and had grown farther apart when she had defied
his wishes and gone to Ben Holiday when Ben had first come into
Landover. She had known she was meant for Ben and he for her, that
they would share a life, and she had decided mat whatever the
consequences she would find a way to be with him. It had not helped
that he had succeeded as King when others who craved power over
Landover, her father included, had hoped he would not. It had not
helped that she had made her life with him, a human, and left her
own people. The relationship was further strained by the closeness
she shared with her mother. The River Master was still in love with
Willow's mother, the only woman he had coveted and been unable to
possess. He had fathered Willow on the single night they lay
together, and then Willow's mother, a wood nymph so wild that she
could not live anywhere but in the deepest forest, had returned to
her old life. The River Master had searched her out repeatedly and
had even tried to trap her on one or two occasions, but all his
efforts had failed. Willow's mother would not come back to him.
That she appeared now and again to Willow and danced for her in the
fairy way, sharing emotions and dreams that transcended words, was
almost more than the River Master could bear. He had many wives and
many more children. He should have been content. He was not. Willow
thought that without her mother beside him he never would be.
She eased down a corridor of great white oak and shagioo
THE TANGLE BOX
bark hickory leading to the silver ribbon of a tributary that fed
into the Irrylyn, making her way toward the old pines where her
mother would come to her at nightfall. She thought of her old life,
her life before Ben, here in the lake country, as a child of the
River Master. She had been alone most of the time and had never
felt loved. She had kept herself strong with her unshakable belief
of what would one day be, the prospect of Ben and her life with
him, the promise made to her by the Earth Mother when she was still
a small child, the dream that nurtured and sustained her. The
realization of that dream had been a long time coming, she thought,
but any amount of time would have been worth the wait
She reached the stream, followed it to a shallows, and crossed. She
felt the eyes on her for the first time then and stopped. They were
bold and steady. She turned toward them, and they were gone. A
once-fairy, like herself, probably in service to her father. She
should have known she could not come into the lake country unseen.
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She should have known that her father would not allow it.
She sighed. Now that he knew she was there, he would insist on
speaking with her. She might as well wait where she was.
She turned back to the stream and stooped to drink from a rapids.
The water was clean and tasted good. She looked at herself in the
ripple of brightness as it passed, a small and slender woman who
looked to be barely more than a girl, eyes large and expressive,
hair thick and flowing from her head but as thin and fine as
gossamer where it ran down the backs of her forearms and calves,
all of her colored in various shades of green. She was this image
reflected by the waters of the stream, but she was also at regular
intervals transformed into the tree for which she was named, a
consequence of her genetic makeup and now the cause for this
journey she had been sent upon. She thought for a moment about how
different things would
Terry Brooks joi
have been if she had been given other blood, if she had been bom of
other parents. But a moment of such thinking was enough. She might
as well ponder what would have happened if she had been born human.
She rose, and the River Master stood before her. He was tall and
lean, his skin an almost silver cast, grainy and shimmering, his
hair black and thick about the nape of his neck and forearms. His
forest clothing was loose-fitting, nondescript, and belted at the
waist. He wore a slim silver diadem on his head, the mark of his
office. The features of his face were sharp and small, his nose
almost nonexistent, his mouth a tight line that allowed no
expression.
"Even for you, that was quick," she greeted him.
"I had to be quick," he replied, "since my daughter apparently did
not intend to visit me."
His voice was deep and even. He was alone, but she knew his
retainers were close by, concealed back in the trees, staying just
within hearing so that they could respond quickly if called.
"You are correct," she said. "I did not."
Her honesty gave him pause. "Bold words for a child to speak to her
father. Are you too good for me now that you are the wife of the
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High Lord?" A hint of anger crept into his voice. "Have you
forgotten who you were and where you came from? Have you forgotten
your roots, Willow?"
She did not miss the snide reference. "I have forgotten nothing.
Rather, I have remembered all too well. I do not feel welcome here,
Father. I think that seeing me is not altogether pleasant for you,"
He stared at her momentarily and then nodded. "Because of your
mother, you believe? Because of how I feel about her? Perhaps so,
Willow. But I have learned to put those feelings aside. I find I
must. Have you come to see her, then?"
"Yes."
"About the child you are expecting?"
I02 THE TANGLE BOX
She smiled in spite of herself. She should have known. The River
Master had spies everywhere, and there had been no attempt to keep
the news of her baby a secret. "Yes," she answered. ,. '
"Your child by Holiday, an heir to the throne." Her father's stone
face was expressionless, but his voice gave something of what he
was feeling away. "You must be pleased, Willow."
"And you are not," she declared softly.
"The child is not once-fairy and therefore not one of us. The child
is half-human. I would wish it otherwise."
She shook her head. "You see everything in terms of your own
interests, Father. The child is Ben Holiday's and therefore another
obstacle in your efforts to gain control of the throne of Landover.
You can't just outwait him now. You must deal with his child as
well. Isn't that what you mean?"
The River Master came forward to stand directly before her. "I will
not argue with you. I am disappointed that you did not intend to
tell me of the birth of my grandchild. You would tell your mother,
but you would let me find out another way."
"It wasn't so difficult for you, was it?" she asked. "Not with all
your spies to tell you."
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There was a hard silence as they faced each other, sylph and
sprite, daughter and father, separated by distances that could
never be measured.
The River Master looked away. The sun glinted off his silver skin
as he stared out into the shadows of the great forest trees. "This
is my homeland. These are my people. It is important for me to
remember them first in all things. You have forgotten what that
means. We do not see things the same way, Willow. We never have. I
was never close enough to you to find a way to do so. Some of that
is my fault. You were ruined for me by your mother's refusal to
live with me. I could not look at you without seeing her."
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103
He shrugged, a slow, deliberate movement, a relegation to the past
of what was now beyond his grasp. "Yet I loved you, child. I love
you still." He looked back at her. "You do not believe that, do
you? You do not accept it."
She felt something stir weakly inside, a memory of when she had
wanted nothing more. "If you love me," she said carefully, "then
give me your word that you will protect my child always."
He looked long and hard at her, as if seeing someone else. Then he
placed one hand on his breast. She was surprised to see how gnarled
it had become. The River Master was aging. "Given," he said. "To
the extent that I can do so, my grandchild shall be kept safe." He
paused. "But it was not necessary to ask for my word on that."
Willow held his gaze. "I think perhaps it was."
The River Master's hand dropped away. "You are too harsh toward me.
But I understand." He glanced skyward. "Do you go now to your
mother or will you come with me into the city, to my home? Your
mother," he hurried on, "will not come until night."
Willow hesitated, and for a moment thought she might accept his
invitation, for she sensed it was extended in kindness and not
duplicitously. Then she shook her head. "No, I will go on," she
said. "I have ... a need to be alone before I see her."
Her father nodded, as if he had expected her answer. "Do you think
she ... ?" he began, and then stopped, unable to continue. Willow
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waited. He looked away and then back again. "Do you think she would
dance for me as well?"
Willow experienced a sudden sadness for her father. It had been
difficult for him to ask that. "No, I do not think so. She will not
even appear if you come with me."
He nodded again, expecting this answer as well. She reached out
then and took hold of his hand. "But I will ask her if she will
dance for you another time."
His hand tightened around hers. They stood joined mat
IO4
THE TANGLE BOX
way for a moment longer, and then the River Master spoke again. "I
will tell you something, Willow. Whether you believe me or not is
your choice. But my dreams are certain and my vision is true, and
of all the once-fairy I am the most powerful and the closest to the
old ways. So heed me. Even before I was informed of the birth, I
knew of the child. I have dreamed of it before. The dreams show me
this. The path of your Me is marked by the coming of this child.
You must find ways to be strong in the face of the changes it will
bring—you and the High Lord both."
Willow swallowed her sudden fear. "Have you seen my child's face?
Have you seen anything that you can tell me?"
The River Master shook his head slowly. "No, Willow. My dreams of
the child are too large for the specifics you would know. My dreams
are shadows and light upon a life path and nothing more. If you
would know specifics, speak with the Earth Mother. Perhaps her
vision is clearer than mine."
Willow nodded. He would not have known she had already spoken to
the elemental. The Earth Mother would not have allowed it. "I will
do as you suggest. Thank you."
She released his hand and stepped back. Then she started off into
the forest. "You will not try to follow me?" She looked back
guardedly.
Her father shook his head once more. "No. If you will remember to
ask of the dance."
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She turned away. "I will."
She continued on then and did not look back again.
The remainder of the day passed away in a ripple of slow breezes
and lengthening shadows, the sun easing west across the cloudless
sky and disappearing finally beneath the horizon in a broad sweep
of crimson. Willow sat at the edge of the clearing in the middle of
the old pines waiting for nightfall and her mother's coming. She
had arrived
Terry Brooks
105
early and spent her time considering the direction of her life. She
found she had a need to do so.
When she was still small, she came often to the old pines in search
of her mother. She came out of a need to know what her mother was
like and a sense that by doing so she would better understand
herself. The Earth Mother warned her that her mother might not come
for a long time, that she would be reticent and perhaps even
fearful of facing the daughter she had abandoned. But Willow was
determined, more tough-minded, even then, than anyone expected.
But then Willow had never been what anyone expected. She began life
as a small, shy, introspective child, not very pretty, lacking the
benefit of a mother's guidance or even a father's interest, and
there was no reason to think she would ever be any different. But
she surprised everyone. The Earth Mother helped by encouraging and
teaching, but mostly it was Willow who managed the transformation,
and mostly she did it by being determined. She was quiet about it
at first. Because she was left to be on her own a lot of the time,
she discovered early on that if she really wanted something she
would have to go out and get it on her own. She learned to dig in
her heels, roll up her sleeves, work hard, and be patient. She
learned that if you wanted something bad enough, you could always
find a way to get it. The mental toughness was always there; the
rest came later. She became beautiful, though she never thought of
herself that way. Others found her striking; she viewed herself as
too exotic. Because she had to do so much for herself, she learned
confidence and directness. She learned not to be afraid of anyone
or anything. She developed her skills and her knowledge with the
same fierce determination she brought to everything. She was not
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that way because she was afraid of failing; it never occurred to
her that she might fail. She was that way because it was the only
way she knew.
In the end, she waited almost three years for her mother
jo6
THE TANGLE BOX
to come. She went to the old pines at least once a week. She waited
through the days and sometimes the nights as well. The waiting was
hard, but not unbearable. Although she never saw her mother, she
sometimes felt her presence. The feeling came in a rustle of
leaves, a small animal sound, a whisper of wind, or a scent of new
flowers. It was never the same, but always recognizable. She would
tell the Earth Mother afterward, encouraged, and the Earth Mother
would nod and say, yes, that was your mother. She's watching you.
She's judging. Perhaps she will show herself one day.
And one day she did. At midnight, at midsummer, she appeared in a
glimmer of moonlight, spinning and leaping from the forest trees
into the clearing to dance for the child who had waited so long to
see her. There was magic in the dance, and Willow knew then and
forever after that her life would be special and wondrous.
Now, after the passing of many years and many visits to the old
pines, she had come once again. She had come to tell her mother of
the child she was carrying, of the journey she was undertaking, and
of the warnings she had received. Her emotions were sharply in
conflict. On the one hand she was elated by the anticipated birth
of her child with Ben; on the other, she was daunted by the
prospect of her journey and frightened by the warnings given to her
by the Earth Mother and her father. The latter bothered her most,
cautions from two of the most powerful and magical creatures in
Landover, both telling her that she must be wary, both warning that
this child she so wanted would change everything about her life.
She tried to sort through her emotions as she waited for darkness.
She pondered the warnings she had been given. There were no new
insights to be gained by doing either. The exercise was merely a
means for coming to terms with what she was thinking and feeling.
If Ben had been there, she would have talked it through with him.
Since he wasn't,
Terry Brooks 107
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she was forced to use what had worked for her when she was small
and growing up alone.
Mostly, she was hopeful that her mother would be able to help. They
would communicate as they always did through the wood nymph's
dance. The dance would provide a vision, and the vision would give
insight. It had done so on many occasions. Willow hoped it would do
so now.
Twilight deepened and the stars appeared. Two moons were visible in
the northern sky, not far above the horizon, one pale mauve, one
peach. The night air was fragrant with the scent of pine needles
and wildflowers, and the clearing was hushed. Willow sat thinking
of Ben. She wished he was with her. It would have made things much
easier having him there. She did not like being away from him. She
did not feel complete when she was.
It was nearing midnight when her mother came. She leaped out of the
trees in a series of flitting movements that took her from one
patch of shadows to the next. She was a tiny, ephemeral creature,
with long silver hair, pale green skin like Willow's own, and a
child's body. She wore no clothing. She darted along the edges of
the clearing as if testing the waters of a moonlit lake, and then
disappeared into the trees to hide.
Willow waited expectantly.
Her mother returned in a flash of silver skin, spinning swiftly
past her, fingers brushing at her cheek, a light ripple of velvet,
and then she was gone once more.
"Mother?" Willow called softly to her.,
A moment later her mother danced out from the trees into the very
center of the starlight that cascaded down through the heavy
boughs. She spun and twisted and leapt in the radiant glow, her
arms moving fluidly, reaching out for her daughter. Willow lifted
her own arms in response. They did not touch each other, but the
words began to flow ; between them, heard only in the mind, visions
bom out of -- thought.
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Willow remembered her promise to her father and spoke first of his
desire to see Willow's mother dance. Her mother drew back
immediately, and she let the matter drop. She spoke of Ben and her
life at Sterling Silver. There was happiness in her mother's
response this time, though it was small and measured, for her
mother could not understand life beyond the forest and the dance,
life of any kind beyond her own. In a detached way she was happy
for Willow; she was not capable of anything more. Willow had
learned to take what her mother offered and make the most of it.
She let her mother speak to her then through the dance, let her
share in turn the joy she was feeling. Once Willow had found that
joy exhilarating. Now she found it lacking, an oddly empty,
circumscribed happiness bound up in self-indulgence and personal
gratification, bereft of interest hi or concern for others,
ultimately puzzling and somehow sad. Neither could ever really
understand the other, Willow knew. Still they shared what they
could, giving back reassurance and gratitude, reaffirming the bond
that existed between them.
Then Willow told her mother of the baby and of the quest that would
take her from Landover to Earth to the fairy mists and back again.
Her mother's response was immediate. The dance grew wilder and more
frenzied. The silence of the night deepened and the world beyond
that starlit clearing slipped farther away into the darkness. There
were only mother and daughter and the dance they shared. Willow
watched, awestruck by her mother's grace, her beauty, her strong
presence, and her instinctive response to her daughter's special
needs.
And so out of the strange, impossible spinnings and turnings of the
dance appeared the vision Willow had anticipated, rising up into
the light to fill the space between them.
Terry Brooks 109
But the vision was not of her child, but of Ben. He was lost, she
sensed—lost in a way that he could not understand. He was himself,
but at the same time he was someone else. He was not alone. Two
others were with him, and she started as she recognized who they
were. Nightshade the witch and Strabo the dragon. All three
floundered in a morass of mist and gray light that emanated as much
from within as from without. They journeyed onward hopelessly,
searching for something that was hidden from her, casting
desperately about in a futile effort to find it.
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Then she saw herself, consumed by an identical patch of mist and
grayness, as lost as they, searching for something as well. She was
near them and yet far away, close enough to touch them and yet
nowhere she could be seen. She was dancing, spinning through a
prism of light. She could not stop.
There was something more. In a subtle shift of sound and light, the
vision revealed one final horror, hi its telling of what would be,
she could see that Ben was forgetting her and that she was
forgetting Ben. She could see it happening in the gloom and
shadows; they were turning away from each other. They would never
find each other again.
Ben, she heard herself call out hi despair. Ben!
When the vision faded, she found herself alone. The clearing stood
empty, and her mother had gone. She sat staring at the space
through which her mother had danced and tried to comprehend what
she had been shown. There had been nothing of her baby; everything
had been of Ben. Why? Ben was safely back at Sterling Silver, not
lost in misty darkness. And what set of circumstances could
possibly bring hun together with Nightshade and Strabo, his sworn
enemies?
• None of it made any sense. Which made it all the more
maddening.
Her dilemma now was acute. She wanted to turn around
no THE TANGLE BOX
and go back to Sterling Silver at once to make certain that Ben was
safe. The urge was so strong that she came close to setting out
without another thought for the matter.
But she knew she couldn't do that. Her commitment now was to her
baby and to the quest that would ensure its safe birth. She could
not afford to burden herself with other concerns, no matter who was
involved, no matter how compelling, until she had fulfilled the
Earth Mother's quest. Ben would agree with that In fact, he would
insist on it. She would have to ignore the vision for now. She
would have to let events take their course until she could afford
to do something to affect them directly.
She rose then, more tired than she had expected, drained by the
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events of the day, and moved to the center of the starlit clearing.
She bent to where her mother had danced and began to dig with her
hands. It was not difficult; the soil was loose and easily
gathered. She scooped up several handfuls and placed them in a
pouch she had brought to carry extra foodstuffs—one portion of the
magic her baby required. She laced the pouch tight, hefted it in
her hands, and tied it again to her waist.
She looked off to the east. The sky was beginning to lighten. The
dance had lasted through most of the night.
She looked about the clearing one final time. It sat empty and
silent, the ancient pines solemn witnesses that would never tell
what they had seen. So much had taken place here over the years, so
much that remained an indelible part of her life. Now this.
"Good-bye, Mother," she said softly, speaking mostly to herself. "I
wish you could come with me."
She stood there alone, thinking again of the vision, and she closed
her eyes against what she was feeling. What of Ben? What if the
vision were true? She squeezed her eyes tighter to make the
questions go away.
When she opened them again, she was thinking of what lay ahead.
Earth, Ben's world, somewhere through the fairy
Terry Brooks in
mists, where the second soil collection must take place. But where
in his world? To what place must she go? What kind of soil was
required to fulfill her obligation? What form of magic?
And her guide ... ?
She saw the cat then, sitting on a log to one side, licking its
front paw. It was colored silver with black paws, face, and tail.
It was slender and well-groomed and did not appear feral. It paused
in its licking and regarded her with emerald eyes as brilliant as
her own. She had the strangest feeling that it had been waiting for
her.
/ know this cat, she realized suddenly.
"Yes, indeed you do," the cat said.
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Brooks, Terry - MKL#4 - The Tangle Box
Willow nodded wordlessly. She should have guessed. The fairies had
sent her Edgewood Dirk.
.Mind s Eye Crystals
Morris Kew trudged along the road to Sterling Silver whistling
nervously in the midday sun. Another few miles, two or three at
most, and then they would see. Anticipation mingled with
trepidation and caused a serious burning sensation in the pit of
his stomach. He was sweating profusely, and it was from more than
the heat. The tic in his eye jumped wildly. He looked like he was
juggling invisible balls.
He gave an anxious glance over his shoulder. No problem, everything
was in place. The pack mule was still tethered to the other end of
the rope he held, plodding obediently after. The twin chests were
still roped tightly in place on the carry rack. Biggar was still
perched atop them.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Horris," the myna said.
"I was just checking," he replied irritably.
"Don't bother. That's why I'm back here. You just keep walking.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Try not to fall
on your face."
Terry Brooks 113
Horris Kew turned crimson. Try not to fall on your face! Ha, ha!
Big joke!
Still looking over his shoulder, he opened his mouth to tell the
bird to shut up, tripped, and promptly fell on his face. The road
was dusty and dry, and he plowed a fair-size furrow in it with his
nose and came up with a mouthful of grit. He heaved himself back to
his feet and spit angrily.
"Don't say anything, Biggar!" he snapped, and began brushing
himself off. His scarecrow body performed a series of violent
contortions as he worked to get clean. "There was a rut! A rut! If
you hadn't distracted me, I would have seen it and been all right!"
Biggar sighed wearily. "Why don't you just conjure us up a carriage
and we could ride to the castle, Horris? Or maybe a horse. A horse
would do."
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"A horse! Great idea, a horse!" Horris clenched his hands angrily.
"We're supposed to be supplicants, you idiot! Poor, penniless
supplicants! Remember the plan?"
The mule yawned and brayed loudly. "Shut up!" Horris screamed
furiously.
Biggar blinked and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Let me see. The
plan. Ah, yes. The plan. I remember it now. The one that isn't
going to work."
"Don't say that!"
"Don't say what? That the plan isn't going to work?"
"Shhhh!" a frantic Horris cautioned, tucking his head down between
his shoulders for protection, glancing hurriedly about. His eye
jumped. "It could be listening!"
"Who, the Gorse? Out here, in the midday sun, in the middle of
nowhere?" Biggar sniffed. "I hardly think so. It's a night creature
and not given to prolonged exposure to sunlight. Vampiric, I think
they call it."
Horris glowered at him. "You're mighty brave when it ffcn't around,
aren't you?" i r'Tm merely making a point."
"I didn't notice you making it last night. I didn't notice
ii4 THE TANGLE BOX
you saying anything about the plan not working when it was
explained to us."
"So you believe the plan is a good one, do you, Horris? Is that
right? You think it will work?"
Horris tightened his jaw defiantly, standing in the middle of the
road facing mule and bird, fists on hips. He was a boxer leading
with his chin. "Of course it will work!" he declared.
Biggar sniffed hi obvious disdain. "Well, there you are. I rest my
case. What is the purpose of my arguing with this creature, this
Gorse, if you're going to stand around nodding in agreement with
every cockeyed idea it comes up with? What am I supposed to do,
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Horris? I can't protect you from yourself. You won't listen to
anyone when you're like this. Certainly not me. After all, I'm just
your pet bird."
Horris gritted his teeth. "Pets are supposed to revere their
masters, Biggar. When do you think you might start doing that?"
"Probably when I get a master who's worth the effort!"
Horris let his breath out with a hiss. "This isn't my fault! None
of this is my fault! The Gorse is here because of you! You were the
one who summoned it up in the first place!"
Biggar clacked his beak. "You were the one who did the conjuring,
if I recall!"
"You told me what to say!"
"Well, you didn't have to say it!"
Horris threw down the rope to the mule. He was trembling all over.
It was hot standing around in the midday summer sun, out of the
shade of the forest trees, on a dry and dusty road. The robes he
wore—a supplicant's robes— were coarse and sweat-stained and they
stank. He had been walking since sometime after midnight because
the Gorse wanted him at the gates of Sterling Silver just before
sundown of today so that they would have to admit him into the
castle for the night. He was tired and hungry (no food
Terry Brooks 115
if you were a supplicant either, unless you could stand eating
those detestable Bonnie Blues), and his patience was exhausted.
"Look, Biggar." He addressed the bird as calmly as he could. "I'm
all done arguing with you. You had your chance to say something
before this and you didn't. So you listen up. The plan will work,
got it? It will work! You might not think so and maybe I don't
either, but if the Gorse says it will work, it will!"
He bent forward like a reedy tree hi a high wind. "Did you see how
easily it got rid of Holiday? And Strabo and Nightshade? Like that,
Biggar!" He snapped his fingers dramatically. "It has a lot of
power, in case you hadn't noticed. With King, witch, and dragon
gone, who's going to challenge it? That's why the plan will work.
And that's why I don't intend to ask any foolish questions!"
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The bird faced him down. "You ought to listen to yourself, Horris.
You really should. Got rid of Holiday and the witch and the dragon
Iflce that, did it?" He clacked his beak to mimic the other's
emphasis. "Did it ever occur to you that it could get rid of us
just as easily? I mean, what does it need with us anyway? Have you
asked yourself that? We're errand boys, Horris. That's all we are.
We're running around doing things it can't do for itself, but once
we've done them, what then? If this so-called plan works, what does
it need with us afterwards?"
£ Horris Kew felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. £ •
Maybe Biggar was right. He could still see Holiday and the jj>
witch and the dragon being sucked down into the Tangle VKBox. He
could still see them fighting to get free before dis-!|f appearing
into the mists. When he had picked up the box, |i|{'seemed as if he
could feel mem batting around inside like pteapped moths. He
wondered what the Gorse had done with e Tangle Box after Horris had
carried it back to the |*save. He wondered if there was room inside
for any more fjttisoners.
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THE TANGLE BOX
Horris swallowed hard. "Don't worry, the Gorse needs us all right,"
he insisted, but he didn't sound so sure now.
"Why?" Biggar snapped.
"Why?"
"Don't repeat me, Horris. I've warned you about that. Yes, why?
Better ask yourself another question while you're at it. If it
plans to give us all of Landover, what does it plan to give itself?
And don't tell me it's doing this as a philanthropical undertaking.
Don't tell me it doesn't want anything for itself. This plan is
leading up to something, and so far it's not telling us what!"
"Okay! Okay!" Horris was on the defensive now. "Maybe there is
something more than what we're being told. Sure, why not? Say, I've
got an idea! Why don't you ask it, Biggar? If you're so worried,
why don't you just ask it?"
"For the same reason you don't, Horris! I don't fancy getting
dispatched like Holiday and the others!"
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"But it's okay for me to chance it, is that it?"
"While it needs you, it is! Think with your brain, Horris! It won't
do anything to you while it needs you! It's afterwards that you
have to start worrying!"
Horris stamped furiously. Dusty streaks of sweat ran down his
narrow, pointed face. "That hardly helps us now, out here on the
road, almost to the gates of the King's castle, does it?" he yelled
angrily. "Got any other useful suggestions?"
Biggar ruffled his feathers anew, his dark eyes flat and hard.
"Matter of fact, I do. This whole plan depends on whether or not
the magic it gave us works. If it doesn't, the wizard and the dog
are going to have us thrown into the darkest dungeon they can find.
Holiday was our only ally when we were here before, and he's long
gone. No one is going to be in a very good mood with him missing.
So what if the magic doesn't work, Horris?"
Terry Brooks 117
Horris Kew glowered menacingly. "I'm getting tired of this, Biggar.
In fact, I'm getting tired of you."
Biggar looked unimpressed. "I say we try one out and see if it
works before we walk into the lion's den."
The glower deepened. "The Gorse told us not to do that, remember?
It warned us explicitly."
"So what?" the bird pressed. "The Gorse isn't the one taking all
the risks."
"It said that whatever we did, we were not to use them! It was
pretty emphatic, as I recall!" Horris was shouting. "Suppose it
isn't kidding, Biggar? Suppose—just suppose now—that it knows what
it's talking about! After all, whose magic is it, you idiot?"
Biggar spit—not easy for a bird. "You are foolish beyond anything I
could have imagined, Horris Kew. You are incredibly stupid. And
myopic to boot. And, even for a human, exceedingly gutless!"
Horris charged him then, his temper frayed past its limits, his
anger exploding through him. Roaring like an en-taged lion, he came
at Biggar with every intent of tearing him wing from wing. But
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Biggar was a bird, and birds can escape humans every time simply by
flying off, which is what Biggar did now, a casual, lazy lifting
into the air so mat he circled just out of reach of the leaping,
grasping, ;:' vyould-be conjurer What Horris did succeed in doing
was '•-. frightening the pack mule within an inch of its life so
that l; jt bolted back into the forest to disappear in a cloud of
dust s with a mighty, terrified bray.
"Oh, drat it, drat it, drat, drat, drat!" Horris mumbled, | among
other less printable things, when he finally calmed ^down enough to
realize what he had done.
It took him, even with Biggar's help, an hour to round up §Nhe mule
and the precious chests it carried. Exhausted, sul-jftlen, and
bereft for the moment of any other plan, the con-fefurer and the
bird continued their journey.
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It was nearing sunset when they finally arrived at the gates of
Sterling Silver.
Questor Thews was at his wit's end. Three days had passed since Ben
Holiday had disappeared and there was still no sign of him. The
escort that had accompanied the High Lord to the Heart had ridden
directly back to the castle after losing him, and Questor had been
able to dispatch a search party immediately. Those sent had scoured
the area surrounding the Heart and then the whole of the
countryside beyond. There wasn't a trace of the High Lord.
Jurisdiction was found grazing where Holiday had apparently left
him and that was it. There was evidence of a disturbance at the
Heart—some frayed banners, some scorched seats and rests, a little
dirt kicked up—but nothing that you could put a name to and nothing
that could help explain what had happened to Holiday. Questor had
gone out himself to take a look. He could feel the presence of used
magic in the air, but there was so much magic concentrated there
anyway that it was impossible to decipher what these odd traces
meant.
In any case, Ben Holiday was nowhere to be found. Questor Thews had
moved quickly to keep that fact a secret, ordering the guards of
(he escort and the search party not to speak of the matter to
anyone. That was like sticking your finger in a leaking dike,
however, as Abernathy was quick to point out. News of this sort
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could not be kept secret for long. Someone was bound to talk, and
once word got out that the High Lord was really and truly gone,
there would be trouble for sure. If the River Master didn't start
it, the Lords of the Greensward surely would—especially Kallendbor
of Rhyndweir, the most powerful of the Lords and an implacable
enemy of Ben Holiday's. Kallendbor, more than any of Landover's
nobles and leaders, had resented the loss of power that Holiday's
coronation had cost him. On the surface, he acknowledged Holiday's
sover-
Terry Brooks 119
eignty and obeyed his commands. Inside, he simmered like something
kept cooking too long. There were others as well who would welcome
news of Ben Holiday's removal, whatever the circumstances, and
Questor knew he had to do something to put the rumors to rest at
once.
He came up with a rather ingenious plan, one he shared only with
Abernathy and the kobolds, keeping the number who knew the truth to
a manageable four. What he did was to have Abernathy call off the
search and announce that the High Lord had returned safely. To
convince those quartered at the castle that the announcement was
valid and not a further rumor, he used magic to create an image of
Ben Holiday passing along the castle ramparts at midday where he
could be clearly seen by those below. He even had him wave. He
repeated his creation several times, making sure mat there were
plenty of witnesses. Sure enough, the word got passed along
gossip-quick.
In the meantime, Questor used every spare minute available (which
wasn't nearly enough) employing the quick travel magic of the
Landsview to scour the countryside in search of Holiday. His
efforts yielded nothing. There was no sign of the High Lord.
Of course, life at Sterling Silver went on, Holiday or no,
and it was important that what needed to be done got done,
and that it got done as if Holiday were doing it. This was
a whole lot tougher to accomplish than the conjuring up of
an image or two. Since Holiday wasn't there to see any of
fa large number of representatives and officials who had
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f come from every quarter of Landover, Questor Thews and
S Abernathy were forced to see them for him and to pretend
| that they had been requested to do so. Some of those visi;
iting had traveled great distances to see the High Lord.
SSome had been summoned. None among them was much
jjlpleased at being put off. Questor resorted to increasingly
|plesperate efforts to quell any suspicions. He forged the
SHigh Lord's name on orders. He passed out gifts. He issued
izo THE TANGLE BOX
awards and citations of merit. He even tried using his magic to
throw the High Lord's voice from behind a curtain. This effort
produced a woman's voice and caused those listening to stare at
each other incredulously—who was this woman back there with the
High Lord?—and Questor was forced to salvage the situation by
claiming it was a serving girl who had mistaken Holiday for an
intruder. Some of his magic still needed work.
There was also the matter of Willow's absence, which the High Lord
had failed to explain before disappearing himself, so that now not
just one person was missing, but two. But since Holiday hadn't
seemed unduly concerned about Willow going off, Questor decided he
needn't worry either, at least not just now. Really, the only
reason for finding her—since he had no particular reason to worry
if she was safe—was to tell her about the High Lord's
disappearance. Questor decided he didn't need that additional
complication in his life. If Holiday hadn't been found by the time
the sylph returned, Questor would break the news to her then. There
was, after all, only so much he could do.
Which, at the moment, wasn't nearly enough. Trying to split his
time between the requirements of his duties and the demands of his
machinations was beginning to take its toll. He was hardly in the
mood then to hear the news that Abernathy carried on appearing at
the door to his work chamber just before sunset of that third day.
"Horris Kew and his bird are back," the Court Scribe announced with
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something less than enthusiasm.
Questor looked up from the stack of paperwork visited on him in the
High Lord's absence and groaned. "Again? What does that wastrel
want now?"
Abernathy stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
Even for a dog, he looked put upon. "He wishes to speak with the
High Lord—what else? Isn't that everyone's reason for being alive
these days? And do not bother telling me to send him away. Although
I would love to do
Terry Brooks 121
so, I cannot. He is cloaked in supplicant's robes; I have to admit
him."
Questor pressed his fingers to his forehead, massaging the temples.
"Did he say what he wants, by any chance?"
"He said it was important, nothing more. He did not mention his
exile, if that is what you are asking."
"To tell you the truth, I don't know what I'm asking! I barely know
what I'm doing!" The wizard looked as if he were trying to tear at
his beard. "You know, Abernathy, I am very fond of the High Lord.
Very. I recruited him myself, if you recall. I saw something
special in him, and I was not mistaken. He was the King we had all
been looking for, the King Landover needed to become whole again."
He came to his feet. "But, really, I wish he would stop
disappearing so often! How many times has he done this now? I don't
know how he can be so inconsiderate of us. Going off in the middle
of the night, just riding out without a word, leaving us to try to
cover for him until he comes back. I must tell you, I find it
exceedingly aggravating!"
Abernathy looked away and cleared his throat. "Well, hi all
fairness, Questor Thews, some of those disappearances were not the
High Lord's fault. I am quite certain he would have preferred that
they had never happened."
"Yes, yes, I know. My brother and all. The black unicorn." Questor
brushed the explanation aside. "Still, a King has responsibilities,
and they should not be taken lightly. A King should consult with
his advisors on these things. That's what advisors are ..."
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He stopped abruptly. "You don't think he's been kidnapped, do you?
Wouldn't there have been a ransom demand by now? Unless Nightshade
has him. She wouldn't , bother with a ransom demand. She would
simply eliminate Km! But why wouldn't the Paladin protect him
against her? j, Why wouldn't the Paladin come to his rescue—" j, :
"Questor Thews." Abernathy tried to interrupt.
122 THE TANGLE BOX "—whatever sort of danger he was in? What
sort of protector leaves his master—"
"Wizard!" the dog snapped irritably. Questor jumped. "What? What is
it?" "Stop carrying on so, for goodness' sake! What is the point of
it? We have no idea what has become of the High Lord, but it
certainly does not help him if we lose our heads. We have to remain
calm. We have to carry on as if he were still here and in the
meantime hope he shows up." Abemathy took a deep breath. "Have you
found anything
in the Landsview?"
Questor, duly chastened, shook his head. "No, nothing." "Perhaps
you should send Bunion to look about. A ko-bold can cover more
ground man any twenty search parties and make no disturbance doing
it. Bunion can track anyone. Perhaps you should let him try to
track Holiday." "Yes." Questor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps
so." "In the meantime," Abernathy continued, resisting the urge to
scratch at something low down on his body with his hind leg, "what
about Horris Kew?"
Questor pressed at his temples again, as if reminded of a headache
he had momentarily forgotten. "Oh, dear. Hun. Well, he can't see
the High Lord, of course. Confound it, why does he have to see
anyone?"
"He doesn't," Abernathy answered, "but if I read the depth of his
determination correctly, he will keep trying until he does. I do
not think he will simply go away."
Questor sighed. "No, I don't suppose he will." He paused
thoughtfully. "Abernathy, do you think I look anything like that
man?"
Abernathy stared, "What an odd question." "Well, it bothers me that
I might. I mean, we are both in the conjuring business, aren't we?
And sometimes they say that all conjurers look alike. You've heard
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that, haven't you? Besides, we're both rather tall and slight of
build and
Wff
Iff,
Terry Brooks 123
at times awkward, and we both have rather prominent noses and ...
well, sharp features ..."
Abernathy held up one paw deliberately. "You look as much like
Horris Kew as I look like his bird. Please, no more of this. Just
decide if we see them tonight or not. I suggest we do not put it
off."
Questor nodded. "No, I agree. Let's get it over with."
They went out of the room, down the hall, and descended two flights
of stairs to where visitors were kept waiting until they could be
received. They made a strange pair, the white-haired, gangly wizard
with his colorful patched robes and the dog with his shaggy coat
and fastidious dress. Questor grumbled the whole way, griping about
this, bemoaning that, keeping such an edge on things that at last
Abernathy was forced to ask him in rather rude fashion to be quiet.
Two old friends whose shared history made them inseparable in spite
of themselves, they could track each other's life steps as if the
paths were already laid out before them.
"You know, Abernathy," the wizard confided, as they reached the
ground floor of the castle and prepared to turn into the front
hall. "If I didn't know better, I'd think Horris Kew had something
to do with Holiday's disappearance. It's just the sort of thing he
would precipitate with his unbalanced magic, conjuring up trouble
here and there, all willy-nilly. But he doesn't have that kind of
power!" He thought it over. "He doesn't have enough brains either."
Abernathy sniffed. "It doesn't take brains to be dangerous."
They walked down the front hall to the anteroom where Horris Kew
and his bird would be waiting and stepped inside.
Horris rose from the bench on which he had been sitting. The bird
was perched on the back of the bench, sharp-eyed and sleek. Next to
them on the floor rested two Iron-bound wooden trunks.
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"Questor Thews and Abernathy!" Horris Kew exclaimed with what
seemed excessive delight. "Good evening to you! Thank you for
coming to see me so quickly. I am deeply appreciative."
"Horris, let's skip past the pleasantries, shall we? What are you
doing back here? As I recall, you were told to cdme back when the
High Lord sent for you. Has he done so without my knowledge?"
The conjurer smiled sheepishly. "No, regrettably, he has not. I
continue to live in hope and expectation." He brightened. "That is
not why I have come, Questor. I am here for another reason
entirely. I have some very exciting news to share." He paused and
glanced past them hopefully. "I don't suppose that the High Lord is
about?"
Questor grimaced. "Not at the moment. What is this news you bring,
Horris? Nothing dealing with farm animals, I trust."
"No, no," the other answered quickly. "I remember my promise and I
will not break it. No conjuring. No, this is something else
entirely." Again he paused. "May I confide it to you, to the two of
you, as Court Wizard and Scribe, since the High Lord is otherwise
occupied?"
Questor said something in response, but Abernathy was looking at
the bird. Was he losing his mind or had he heard the bird snicker?
He glared at the myna, but the myna simply ruffled its feathers
indifferently and looked away.
"Well, then," Horris Kew declared, and cleared his throat
officiously. "There are times, more than a few I might add, when
stress from work and the burden of our obligations wears us down
and we find we need some sort of amusement or diversion to relax
us. I am sure you will agree that this is true. I speak now not
just of the high-born, but of the common man, the workers in the
fields and factories, in the markets and shops of our farms and
cities. I speak of every man and woman, of every boy and girl all
struggling to make their lives a better and more productive—"
Terry Brooks 125
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"Get to the point, Horris," Questor interrupted wearily. "It has
been a long day."
Horris paused, smiled, and shrugged. "Indeed. A diversion, then. A
way of removing stress from our lives for a few hours. I believe I
have found something that will provide that relief."
"Very commendable," Abernathy snapped. "But someone already made
that discovery quite a long time ago. They are called games.
Sometimes they are played in groups, sometimes by a single
individual. There are all forms of them. Have you discovered a new
game? Is that what you are here about?"
Horris Kew laughed politely, though he seemed to be doing so
through clenched teeth. "Oh, no, this is not about games. This is
something else entirely." He paused, then leaned forward
conspiratorially. "A mind's eye crystal!" he whispered hoarsely.
"A what?" Questor Thews demanded, his brow furrowing.
"A mind's eye crystal," the other repeated carefully. "Do you know
of it?"
Questor did not, but he did not want to admit to being ignorant of
anything to Horris Kew. "A little something, perhaps." He pursed
his lips. "But tell me about it anyway."
"A crystal," Horris said, holding up a single finger. "A crystal
that you look into as you would a mirror. And when you do, it shows
you images of the past and of the future, images of yourself and
those you love. The images are pleasant and welcome, and they take
you away from your troubles for a time. The perfect diversion from
your cares." He rubbed his hands. "Here, let me show you."
He reached into his supplicant's robes and pulled forth a crystal
to hold up before them. It was about the width and length of an
average thumb, five-sided, pointed at one end, flat at the other,
and clear enough to see through.
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THE TANGLE BOX
"Would you like to try it?" he asked Questor Thews, and held out
the crystal for the wizard to take.
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"Wait a minute." Abernathy was between them instantly. "This thing
is magic, is it?"
Horris nodded calmly. "It is."
"I thought you said you would give up conjuring unless asked. You
swore to the High Lord that you would give it up, in fact. What
happened to your vow, Horris? Where did this crystal come from if
you did not conjure it up?"
Horris Kew held up his hands in a placating manner. "I have not
broken my vow, Abernathy. This"—he held forth the crystal a second
time—"was shown to me in a dream. I was asleep in the deep woods ..
. uh," he hesitated, "north. I was asleep, having fasted and
contemplated the misdealings and mistakes of my life all day after
returning from my visit here, and I dreamed. In my dream I was
shown this mind's eye crystal. It was a vision of great power. It
told me of the crystal and where it might be found. It told me to
seek it out. When I woke, I was compelled to do so. I did and I
found it as promised. Knowing that I have not as yet had my exile
lifted, I felt compelled to bring it to you." He paused, looking
down at his feet. "I admit I hoped that it might in some small way
influence you to take me back."
Abernathy was not impressed. He stood his ground, dog face fixed
and dog eyes searching. There was a lie in here somewhere, he was
sure of it. "You have never, in your entire life, employed a magic
that did not end badly for anyone who came into contact with it. I
cannot believe that this mind's eye crystal will be any different."
"But I am not the same man!" Horris Kew protested with a dramatic
gesture. "I have changed, Abernathy. I have repented my former life
and resolved to follow a different path. This crystal is my first
step down that path." He drew himself up. 'Tell you what. Why
dOfl't you try it out first, instead of Questor Thews? That way if
there is a problem,
Terry Brooks 127
Questor can use his formidable magic to do with me as he will.
Surely you agree he is more than a match for me in case this is
some sort of trick. And anyway, why would I chance anything so
foolish this close to the dungeons into which you have already
indicated you would like to see me thrown?"
He had a point. Abernathy hesitated. "I would not put anything past
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you, Horris," he muttered.
"Hooray for Horris, hooray for Horris!" the bird cawed suddenly,
and clacked its beak.
Abernathy glared at the bird. "What do you think, Questor Thews?"
he asked, and glanced back at the other.
The wizard's mouth was a tight line. "There are guards all about.
If this goes awry, Horris goes into the keep and stays there. I
stand ready if there is magic to be combated." He shook his head.
"It's up to you, Abernathy."
"You will not be sorry," Horris offered, advancing the crystal
another few inches toward the scribe. "I promise."
Abernathy sighed. "Very well. Anything to put this matter to bed.
What do I do?"
Horris was beaming. "Just take the crystal, hold it in your hand,
look into it, and think happy thoughts."
Abernathy grimaced. "Good grief. All right, give it to me."
He reached out, took the crystal from the other's hands, held it up
before him, and stared into it. Nothing happened. Sure enough,
Abernathy thought disdainfully. No surprise here. He was supposed
to think happy thoughts, though, so he tried to picture something
that would make him feel good and came up with an image of Horris
and his bird in a dungeon cell. That made him feel better right
away, he decided, and started to smile in spite of himself.
In the next instant the crystal brightened and locked him into it,
drawing his gaze into its multi-faceted depths, pulling him out of
himself and down into its suddenly brilliant
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THE TANGLE BOX
light. He gasped. What was he seeing? There was something there,
something wondrous, something familiar ...
Abernathy saw it clearly then. There was a man in the light,
striding out to greet the day from his home, waving hello to
friends, calling out to passersby. The man was carrying books in
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his arms and was on his way to his day's work. He wore glasses and
was dressed in the ceremonial clothing of a Court Scribe.
No!
The man was Abernathy as he used to be. Abernathy as a human being.
Abernathy before he had been turned into a dog. Himself, once more.
Sudden joy surged through the dog as he watched, a happiness he had
not felt for years. He was himself again hi the crystal's image! He
was restored! It was his greatest wish in life, to become the man
he had been—a wish he had not dared even contemplate upon
discovering that Questor Thews, having turned nun into a dog, could
not turn him back into a man. Countless attempts to remedy the
situation had failed, and Abernathy had given up all hope. But now,
here, in this crystal's image, was a chance to feel again what it
was like to be a man! He could sense the other's body—as if it were
his own. He could experience anew what it was to be human.
The emotions the magic generated were too powerful to bear all at
once. He closed his hand quickly about the crystal and snatched the
vision away. He could barely breathe. "How did you do that?" he
whispered in disbelief.
"I did nothing," Horris Kew responded promptly. "And we could not
see what you saw. Only the holder of the crystal sees the vision.
It is his own, personal revelation, private and inviolate. Do you
understand now the uses for such a magic?"
Abernathy nodded, thinking of how wonderful it would be to call up
that image of himself anytime he wanted to re-
Terry Brooks 129
member what his life had once been like. "Yes, I do," he replied
softly.
Now it was Questor who pushed forward. "This thing works?" he
asked, turning his old friend about, seeing the look hi his eyes.
"Well, indeed, I guess it does. Are you all right?"
Abernathy nodded, unable to speak, thinking again of what the image
had shown him, of himself restored to who and what he had been. He
was fighting hard to stay calm, to keep what he was feeling inside.
Neither saw the brief glance exchanged by Horris Kew and Biggar.
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Well, well, the glance said.
"You can appreciate the enormous potential for this magic," Horris
said quickly. "Escape from the drudgery and stress of everyday life
is only a moment away if you possess a mind's eye crystal No group
participation required, no equipment needed, no time necessary. Use
the crystal on a break from your work and return refreshed!" He
smiled benevolently. "Don't you feel happy and rested, Abernathy?"
he pressed.
Abernathy swallowed. "Yes," he agreed. "I do."
"There you are, then!" Horris beamed. "Abernathy, this crystal is
yours. I want you to have it. A gift, for giving me a chance to
fulfill my hopes."
"Thank you, Horris," Abernathy replied, genuinely pleased, already
envisioning his next look into the light. All suspicions of the
conjurer's motives were forgotten. "Thank you very much."
"You see," Horris continued, anticipating Questor Thews, who was
about to offer a further objection, "I have a few more of these to
give out. Quite a few more, in fact."
He turned to one of the iron-bound trunks, released the catch, and
threw open the lid. The trunk was filled to the brim with mind's
eye crystals.
"Thousands of them," he offered, making a sweeping gesture. "The
vision showed me one, but when I followed
130 THE TANGLE BOX
the pathway to where it was hidden, I discovered all these. Two
trunkfuls, Questor. I have brought them both. I want you to have
them. A little penance, perhaps, for my past misdeeds. I cannot
comprehend why I was chosen to find them, but I am grateful that I
was and I have decided to accept responsibility for their proper
use. So I entrust them now to you. My gift to Landover. Pass them
out to her people and let them enjoy the images they find therein.
A little happiness to dull the edges of their more stressful
moments."
Questor Thews and Abernathy stared at the trunkful of crystals,
openmouthed. "Perhaps with the crystals to occupy people's time
there will be less violence," Horns Kew went on thoughtfully,
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looking off somewhere into the room's rafters as if seeking a
higher truth. "Perhaps there will be fewer wars and killings over
meaningless things when there are so many more pleasant and
harmless ways to gain diversion. Perhaps there will be less time
spent fomenting rumors that lead to mischief." He gave the wizard
and the dog a surreptitious glance. As he said that, he did not
miss the look that passed between them. "Fewer loose tongues
wagging on about whether Landover's matters are being handled as
they should and whether her leaders are leading as they ought to."
"Hmmm." Questor rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps. This
really works?" he asked again, looking Abernathy directly in the
eye, taking hold of the hand that held the crystal.
Abernathy moved the crystal away, tightening his grip on it.
"Of course, I have one for you, too, Questor," Morris Kew advised
quickly. He reached back and closed the lid to the trunk. "These
are all yours now." He yawned widely. "Well, enough talk. You
should both be in bed, resting for tomorrow's challenges. I have
tired you out with all this, I
Terry Brooks I3I
am sure. If you could spare a pallet, I would be most grateful. In
the morning I will be off again, waiting to hear ..."
He stopped. "Unless," he went on, as if he had just thought of it,
"unless you would consider letting me help in some small way with
the distribution of the crystals?"
He smiled at them hopefully and waited for an answer.
Gr
eenwicJ
For two days Willow traveled due west through the lake country with
Edgewood Dirk, heading for the fairy mists and the invisible path
that would take them out of Landover and into Ben's world. Dirk led
the way, mostly without seeming to do so, content to keep pace or
even follow, moving to the fore only when her path varied from the
one he had chosen. He proceeded in leisurely fashion, dictating the
pace by his refusal to be hurried, behaving as if time were
inconsequential and their journey no more than a stroll through the
park on a sunny afternoon.
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Willow had encountered Edgewood Dirk only once before, and almost
everything she knew about him she had learned from Ben. Dirk had
been Ben's constant companion during the search for the black
unicorn after Meeks, older brother of Questor Thews and the former
Court Wizard of Landover, had tricked Ben into believing he had
lost the medallion that gave him the power and authority to be
King. Bereft of his identity, spurned by his friends as an 132
Terry Brooks 133
impostor, and replaced on the throne by Meeks, Ben had been turned
out into the wilderness and left to die. But the fairies, for
reasons known only to them, had sent Edgewood Dirk to help him
discover the truth about what had been done. Dirk had accompanied
him in his wanderings, offering enigmatic cat advice and a sort of
vaguely defined direction for the once-King to follow. Ben was
tracking Willow, who in turn was tracking the black unicorn, and
matters had climaxed in a violent confrontation between Dirk and
Meeks that had proved the catalyst to Ben's recovery.
That had been almost two years ago. No one had seen or heard from
Edgewood Dirk since. But now, here he was suddenly, and again he
had been sent by the fairies, and again no one but the fairies
really knew why.
Edgewood Dirk was a fairy being himself, though one of the more
independent ones, as much cat as anything, and therefore likely to
do exactly as he pleased despite anyone else's wishes, which made
it very hard to determine his purpose in events. He had proved that
beyond anyone's doubt during his time with Ben. Dirk was a prism
cat, a creature possessed of a very rare sort of magic. He could
transform himself from flesh and blood to a crystalline as hard as
iron that allowed him to capture light and transform it into a
deadly fire. Dirk used this power sparingly, but with great
confidence. However distant and aloof Dirk appeared, however
removed from what was happening around him, he was no one to fool
around with.
So Willow accompanied him with some sense of assurance that if
trouble threatened, Dirk was probably its equal. She would have
preferred to have Ben with her, but that option had already been
eliminated by the Earth Mother. Sometimes you took what you could
get. Willow was experiencing enough uncertainty about her quest
that she was grateful for any sort of company.
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Dirk, of course, seemed indifferent to the entire matter.
i34 THE TANGLE BOX
"Were you sent because of Ben?" she asked him their first night
out. They sat together before a small fire that Dirk had insisted
be built to ward off some imaginary chill. She had arranged the
deadwood, and he had set it afire. The beginnings of a working
partnership, she had thought.
Dirk was licking one paw diligently. "I wasn't sent. I am never
sent. I go where I choose."
"Excuse me," she apologized. "Why did you choose to come, then?"
Lick, lick, lick. "I can't remember, really. It seemed like a good
idea, I guess." Lick, lick.
"Can you tell me where we are going?"
"West," the cat said. Lick, lick.
"Yes, but ..."
Dirk stopped preening and gave her his cat look, the one that
suggested sly amusement, deep understanding, grave concern, and
total amazement all at the same time. "Just one moment, please. You
are losing me. Don't you know where we're going?"
She shook her head in confusion. "No, not really."
He stared at her thoughtfully. "Oh, dear," he said. "Oh, well. I
guess we will just have to find our way as best we can." And he
went back to licking himself.
A little while later she grew brave enough to ask him again, taking
a slightly different approach.
"We should reach the fairy mists by the day after tomorrow," she
advised cautiously. "Once there, what do we do?"
Dirk had finished his bath by now and was seated on a patch of
grass close by the fire, paws tucked under himself, eyes closed.
The eyes opened to slits. "We pass through the mists into Holiday's
world." The eyes closed. "How do we do that?"
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The eyes came open again, a bit wider. "What kind of question is
that? I must say I will never understand humans."
Terry Brooks 135
"I am a sylph."
"Or sylphs."
Willow's lips tightened. "It is just that I am concerned for my
baby. I am required to do these things to protect its birthing, but
I do not know how I am to do them."
Dirk regarded her with genuine interest. "Cats learn early on that
very little is accomplished by worrying. Cats also know that things
have a way of working out, even when the means are kept hidden from
us. Best 10 deal with things as they arise, and let the future take
care of itself."
'That seems very shortsighted," she ventured.
Dirk might have shrugged; it was hard to tell. "I am a cat," he
offered, as if that explained everything.
She didn't talk to him about the matter again that night or all the
next day, and so by nightfall when they had crossed out of the lake
country and passed up into the foothills that bordered the fairy
mists, she was surprised when he brought it up again of his own
accord.
'Tomorrow morning, I will take you through the mists," he advised
as she worked on building the requisite evening fire. She had
spread her cloak on the ground close by, and Dirk had taken a
comfortable seat on it.
She looked over at him. "You can do that?" she asked.
"Of course I can do that," he replied, sounding a bit put-upon. "I
live there, remember? I know all the paths and passageways."
"I suppose I just wasn't sure what you could or couldn't do." She
rocked back on her heels. "I didn't know if fairy creatures could
pass out of the mists anywhere or into any land. I thought it might
be limited somehow."
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Dirk yawned. "You thought wrong. Cats can go anywhere. Nothing new
in that."
"Do you know where we will come out?" she pressed.
He thought it over a moment. "A city, I think. Does it matter?"
She felt her exasperation with him getting away from
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THE TANGLE BOX
her. "Yes, it does. I am going back to a world in which I once
almost died. J am doing so against my will and for the sake of my
child. I want to go there, do what I was sent to do, and leave
again immediately. What are the chances of that happening?"
Dirk rose, stretched, and sat. "I haven't the faintest idea." He
regarded her solemnly. "It all depends on you, I suppose."
"Yes, but I don't know where we are going," she insisted. "I know I
am supposed to gather soil from Ben's world, but I don't know where
that soil is supposed to be found. It is a rather big world to be
looking through, you know."
"Well, I don't know," the cat said. "I have never been there. But
everywhere is pretty much the same to a cat. I am quite certain we
will find what we need without having to look too hard. I have a
gift for uncovering secrets."
She went back to building the fire, finished the job, stepped back,
and looked over at him. "How many secrets do you know, Dirk?" she
asked quietly. "Do you know secrets about me?"
The cat blinked. "Of course."
"And about Ben?"
"Holiday? Yes, a few."
"Can you tell them to me?"
"If I choose." Dirk began washing himself. "But cats are secretive
by nature and tell little of what they know. It is because no one
listens to us, mostly. I spoke of that often to Holiday when I
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traveled with him last. He was like everyone else. I would tell him
things, but he wouldn't listen. I warned him that he was making a
mistake, that cats know many things, but no one ever seems to pay
attention. It was a mistake he should avoid, I cautioned."
"I will listen, if you will tell me something," Willow offered.
"Tell me anything, Dirk. Any of your secrets. I know
Terry Brooks 137
so little of what is happening, and I am hungry for even a small
bit of knowledge. Can you tell me something?"
Dirk looked at her, then began to wash. He licked himself fluffy
and then licked himself smooth, stopping every now and then to see
if she was still paying attention. He took his time with the job,
but Willow waited patiently, refusing to become perturbed. Finally
Dirk was finished, and turned his emerald gaze upon her.
"You are going to have a child," he declared. "But matters will not
work out as either you or Holiday expect them to. Expectations are
dangerous things for parents to have, you know. Cats have none and
are the better for it."
She nodded. "We can't help ourselves. Like not listening to cats."
"I suppose that is true," Dirk agreed. "A shame." "Tell me
something more."
Dirk narrowed his gaze. "Are you sure you want to hear what I have
to say? I mean, that is part of the reason no one listens to cats."
She hesitated. "Yes, I want to hear." "Very well." He considered.
"You and Holiday will be lost to each other for a time. In fact,
you are lost to each other already. Didn't you know?"
"The vision," she said softly. "My mother's vision." Dirk looked
off into the growing dark. "You spend so much time wondering who
you are, don't you think? You flounder about, searching for your
identity, when most of the time it is as plain as the nose on your
face. You struggle with questions of purpose and need, and forget
that the answers are found mostly inside yourselves." He paused
anew. "Cats are not included in that analysis. Cats don't waste
time wondering about such things. Cats just get on with the
business of living."
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"Is the vision true, then?" she asked, trying to mask the growing
sense of desperation she felt that something
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terrible was happening to Ben, something beyond her control.
Dirk blinked. "What vision?"
"Is Ben in danger?" she pressed.
"How would I know?" Dirk growled, stretching once more. "Better
step back from that deadwood."
She did so, and Dirk shimmered and turned to crystalline in the
fading twilight, gone from flesh and blood to liquid glass, drew in
the glow of sunset, two early moons, and a scattering of stars, and
sent fire lancing from his emerald eyes into the wood. The blaze
burned hotly, and the prism cat transformed back again, settled
himself down anew on Willow's cloak, closed his eyes, and was
instantly asleep.
Willow watched him for a time, then fell asleep as well.
She slept poorly, haunted by dreams of Ben and their child, of each
being drawn away from her, stolen by invisible hands that wrapped
about and pulled them from her side until nothing remained but the
echo of her voice calling after them. There was an unspoken
suggestion in her dream that somehow she was to blame for what had
happened to them, that somehow she had failed them when they needed
her most.
She had no appetite for breakfast, and since Dirk never showed any
interest in food, they washed and were on their way up to the
beginnings of the fairy mists shortly after sunrise.
The day dawned hot and still, the summer air a suffocating blanket
that clung to the land even in the high country. Dew formed a slick
upon the ground, and its dampness glimmered in the hazy first
light. They climbed the rest of the way into the hills, found a
narrows that led into a pass, and walked back toward the gray gloom
of the mists.
They reached their destination in less than an hour and started in.
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No words passed between them as they did. Dirk
Terry Brooks 139
had taken the lead now, no longer content to leave matters to
chance. He walked directly in front of the sylph, picking his way
carefully over ruts, around stones, and across bare ground where
lack of sunlight prevented any grasses from growing. They moved
into the haze, following the trail until there ceased to be a trail
and all the light from the rising sun had disappeared behind them
and there was nothing but mist, swirling about them with relentless
purpose, twisting first this way and then that, drawing the eyes to
one side and then to the other, obscuring any sense of direction,
any chance of keeping track of where they were going or from where
they had come. Willow ignored the distracting movement, focusing
her attention on Dirk, who sauntered along with his usual
indifference, seeming to find his way as much by chance as by plan.
He glanced neither left nor right and did not turn to see if she
was following. He sniffed the air now and again, but otherwise
showed no in-ter^st in their surroundings.
The minutes slipped away, but it was not clear to Willow how many
of them passed. Time and place lost meaning, and everything took on
a disturbing sameness. There was silence at first, deep and
numbing, and then a series of small sounds, like the scuffling of
forest animals in scrub or birds among leaves. After a time, the
noises took on definition and began to suggest the presence of
something else. Faces began to appear, just at the corners of her
vision, just where they could be glimpsed but nothing more. The
faces were sharp-featured and lean, with pointed ears and brows,
and hair like trailing moss and spiky straw. Eyes as penetrating as
an owl's watched her pass. The fairy folk had come out to see her,
to consider her, and perhaps to let her pass. She did not look at
them, keeping her eyes fixed on the movement of her feet and on
Edgewood Dirk. She did not look at them because she was frightened
that if she did, she would be instantly lost. Something brushed at
her cheek, and tears filled her
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eyes. Something nibbed against her hand, and she felt a sudden heat
rush through her. Her skin crawled and her mouth went dry. Don't
look, she told herself. Don't turn to see what it is. She pressed
on, following diligently after Dirk, thinking of the baby inside
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her, thinking of Ben waiting somewhere behind, hardening herself
against her fear ...
Until finally the mists began to drop away, and she could see
something solid ahead through the haze. A shadowed darkness cloaked
a wall of mortared stone, and rain drizzled down out of leaden
skies. There were strange mechanical sounds and muffled shouts, and
the wall rose high overhead and was lost in gloom. The mists
receded behind her, and she found herself standing in the rain in
an alleyway that ran like a deep crevice between two towering
buildings. Clouds masked the skies and scraped against the tops of
the buildings. Shadows cascaded down off the walls to pool
underfoot. Smells rose up from the cracked stone surface on which
they stood, pungent and rank.
"Where are we?" she whispered in horror.
Something moved to one side. It was a man in ragged clothing,
sprawled in the lee of a doorway, curled up and sleeping. He was
wrapped in pieces of cardboard to shield himself from the weather.
An empty bottle was clutched in one hand.
Dirk sniffed in the direction of the man and turned away. He looked
up and down the alley. One end went nowhere. The other led to a
noisy street. Turning toward the latter, he stepped daintily over
pieces of garbage strewn from an overturned container, flinching
with displeasure at what he felt, and started in the direction of
the noise. Willow followed.
They walked toward the end of the alley, watching the street beyond
come into focus through the rain, seeing movement begin, hearing
the sounds grow louder. There were cars and buses streaming past,
moving in fits and
Terry Brooks 141
starts, horns blaring, brakes squealing. Willow knew about these
things from her last visit. She had no idea what Dirk knew. What
she remembered was not pleasant. She was already cringing from the
impact of the sounds and smells. With the dirt and grit it
gathered, the rain smeared on the stone beneath her boots and
pooled in gutters and low spots amid the garbage. Broken glass
glinted everywhere.
They reached the end of the alley and looked out onto the street.
The cars and buses were locked close together in the gloom and
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drizzle, crawling in one direction toward another line of vehicles
traveling crosswise. Red and green lights blinked down from lines
overhead. Yellow lights shone from street lamps and through the
windows of buildings with peeling paint and cracked mortar.
And there were people everywhere, most in long coats, some in
boots. They walked with their heads bent and carried strange
implements—Willow didn't know the proper name—to shield them from
the rain. They shuffled along with a sense of urgency and
resignation that was palpable. A few glanced in her direction, but
looked quickly away again. They climbed in and out of the buses and
cars, and they moved in and out of doorways. A few spoke, but most
of what they said was shouted in anger at one another.
Dirk sniffed the air and looked about, seemingly unfazed. Then he
moved out from the alley and started left down the walkway. Willow
followed. A crush of people caught them up and swept them along.
Willow pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders, hating the
closeness of the people and the smell they gave off. She thought of
Ben living in such a world and found she could not imagine it.
They reached a corner and stopped because everyone else was stopped
as well. A few bold looks were directed at her, but she ignored
them. She stared about at the buildings, some of them monstrous
stone and glass monoliths that soared into the clouds, featureless
and impregnable-
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looking. Did people live in those? she wondered. What purpose did
they serve?
To her surprise she found she could understand what the people
about her were saying. She should not have been able to do that
unless they were speaking in the languages of Landover, but she
could. She looked up at a sign on the street corner beside her. She
could read it. It said Greenwich Avenue.
Above her the light changed, and people began to cross the street.
She followed with Dirk.
On the other side, about a block away, a woman with a ring through
her nose tried to kick Dirk when he walked in front of her. The
kick should have connected, but somehow it missed and struck an
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iron railing in front of a low window and caused the woman to lose
her balance and fall down. The woman shrieked in fury and swore
violently at Dirk, but the cat went past the woman without a
glance. Willow did the same.
"Hey, lady, spare some change?" a sallow-faced man with long hair
and a beard asked. She shook her head and walked on. "It's a little
late for St. Patrick's, isn't it?" he called after her, and
laughed.
She bent down to Dirk. "Do we understand their language?" she asked
curiously.
"We do," Dirk replied. "A little fairy magic lets us do that."
They walked for some time through the crowds. The rains diminished
and the skies cleared. The cars and buses began to pick up speed.
It grew more dangerous at the crossings. The crowds thinned
somewhat, changing character as they moved down the street. The men
and women in tailored clothing gave way to a more casual and
eclectic group. There were people in leather and chains and
metal-tipped boots who slouched along with exaggerated movements or
leaned against building walls; people in long, peach-colored robes
with shaved heads and earnest looks
Terry Brooks 143
passing out papers; ragged people with dogs and cats and babies
carrying small handmade signs that said things like PLEASE HELP and
NO FOOD; people with shopping bags and handbags clutched tightly
against their chests as they walked; people of all sorts, all
possessed of the same uneasy, guarded look, all with eyes that
shifted and searched, all with a posture that either challenged or
bordered on flight.
Comments were directed openly at Willow from those they passed,
some brazen and insulting, some joking and curious. A few people
tried to stop her, but she simply moved past them, following Dirk
along the walk.
They reached a particularly busy cross street and Dirk stopped. A
street sign read Avenue of the Americas. Dirk glanced at Willow as
if to say, See there? Willow did not see. She did not understand
where they were or why. She mostly wanted to get to wherever it was
they were going and then get out. Everything about this place was
unpleasant and unwelcoming. She wanted to ask Dirk if he had any
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idea at all where he was going, but she did not think he wanted her
to speak to him with all these people about. Besides, he must have
some idea; he was certainly moving down the street as if he did.
"Are you lost?" a young woman standing next to her asked. The woman
was dark-skinned. She was holding a small child in her arms.
"No," Willow said without thinking, but realized as she did that
she could speak the language of Ben's world as well as read and
understand it. Dirk must be at work with his fairy magic.
"Are you sure? You look confused." She smiled. "You can get lost in
this city pretty easy."
"Thank you, I'm'fine," Willow said.
The light changed, and the woman walked away. Dirk and Willow
crossed to a new street that read West 8th. There were people
everywhere. Storefronts opened onto the
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walkway, small markets of fruit and vegetables, craft shops with
jewelry and bright clothing, doorways leading to food and drink and
wares of all sorts. Stands were set up along the street with books
and more jewelry. Vendors called to her. Want to buy this, take a
look at that? They smiled, some of them, and she smiled back,
shaking her head no.
"What a great look!" someone said, and she turned. A young man with
a long dark coat, boots, a light beard, and a leather folder stood
looking at her. "You aren't an actress, are you?"
"No." She shook her head. Dirk was still moving down the street. "I
have to go."
"Wait!" He began walking with her. "Uh, look, I thought that ...
well, because you're colored green, I thought that ... that because
you were dressed up, you might be an actress or something. Like in
Cats. Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."
She smiled. "You weren't."
"My name is Tony. Tony Paolo. I live a few blocks away. I'm
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studying to be an actor. I'm in my second year at American Academy.
You been there? Dustin Hoffman went there. Danny DeVito. Lots of
people. I just finished a reading for a part on Broadway. A comedy,
Neil Simon. This is my portfolio, you know, my pictures and stuff."
He indicated the folder. "It's just a small part, just a few lines.
But it's a start."
She nodded and kept walking. She didn't have any idea at all what
he was talking about.
"Look, can I buy you a cup of coffee or something? If you have some
time?"
Ahead of her, Dirk had turned around and come back. Now he moved
between her legs and looked up at Tony. "That your cat?" Tony
asked. "Hey, kitty, kitty."
"Keep your hands to yourself," Dirk snapped as Tony started to
reach down to pet him.
Tony straightened instantly. He stared at Willow. "Hey,
Terry Brooks 145
that's pretty good! How did you do that?" He grinned. "That's the
best I've ever heard that done. Do some more."
"We could use something to eat," Dirk said.
"Man, I couldn't even see your lips move!" Tony declared in
amazement. "That's some talent! A bite to eat, huh? Okay, why not?
There's a little coffeehouse just around the corner. You know the
Village? You from around here?"
Hevled the way through the crowds to a small shop with round tables
covered with checkered oilcloth and straight-backed iron chairs
with matching checkered cushions. Tony waved to someone worfcing
behind the counter and took a table near the entry. Willow and Dirk
both sat down with him.
"So what do you want?" Tony asked. He had lank brown hair, dark
eyes, and a quick, unassuming smile.
"You decide," Dirk said.
Tony did, ordering food for himself and Willow and a saucer of milk
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for Dirk. When the food arrived, Willow found herself hungrier than
she thought, and she ate everything without bothering to decide
whether she liked it. Tony ate with her, talking about how good she
was at throwing her voice and about his life as an
actor-in-training. Dirk sat in front of the milk and ignored it.
"You know, I forgot to ask your name," Tony said in midbite.
"Willow," she answered.
"Really? What a great name. So, are you a ventriloquist all the
time or do you have a job doing something else?"
She hesitated. What was she supposed to say?
"That's okay, you don't have to tell me. But you're not an actress,
I guess, right?"
"No, not an actress."
When they were finished, Tony asked her again, "Do you live around
here somewhere?"
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She glanced at Dirk, who was staring out the door, ready to be off.
"No, just visiting."
"From where?"
"Landover." She said it before she could catch herself.
"Sure, Maryland, right? I know Landover. Who are you staying with
here? Do you have friends or something?"
She shook her head. "I have to go now, Tony. Thank you for the
meal. I hope you become a good actor."
She stood up and started for the door. Dirk was already outside on
the walkway. "Hey, wait!" Tony called, throwing some money on the
table and charging after her. He caught up with her outside. "Can I
see you again, maybe?"
She shook her head and walked on, wondering how to get out of this.
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Tony walked with her. "I know this is kind of sudden, but ... well,
I really would like to take you to dinner or a play or something.
Even if I have to come down to Landover ..."
"She's married," Dirk announced. "Happily."
Tony stopped in his tracks. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize ..."
They crossed the street in axelutch of traffic and left him groping
for something else to say. He carefully watched their progress. /
Nightfall set in shortly after, a sudden darkening of the skies as
the sun set and the clouds returned, a fading of the light that
brought up the city's lamps. Willow and Dirk were seated on a bench
in a park with a large marble arch. It was called Washington
Square. It had been filled with people until just a few minutes
ago, people with newspapers and babies, people with dogs and toys,
but now with the sun gone and with the day ending it was emptying
out. There were only a few old men left sitting on other benches
and a handful of young boys huddled under a tree at the far end. A
ragged man with a dog was holding out a metal cup by the street
corner.
Terry Brooks
147
• Only a few hours had passed since Dirk and Willow had arrived
from Landover where it had been early morning, and that meant time
did not pass at the same speed in the two worlds. How did that
effect aging when you crossed from one world into the other? Willow
wondered. Was she aging differently than Ben? She stared out into
the gloom, watching the city lights beyond the park brighten. Dirk
was hunched down beside her with his paws tucked underneath his
body and his eyes closed. He had told her when they were alone that
they must wait for night when the park was clear so that they would
not be disturbed. It appeared that it was here that she was
supposed to gather the soil she needed, but Dirk hadn't volunteered
anything specific. Dirk rarely did.
The darkness deepened and the hours passed, and still they sat on
the bench and waited. Willow was patient, and the wait did not
disturb her. She understood now why Dirk had wanted her to have
something to eat. She might have gone this long without food, but
her child needed nourishment even if she did not. The cat
understood this. She glanced down at him and wondered how much of
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his indifference was pretense.
Soon they were alone except for the odd passerby. Midnight came and
went, and the city showed no sign of shutting down for the night.
The wares shops had closed, but the places where food and drink
were served remained open. There were still people on the streets,
crowds of them, passing this way and that, calling out, laughing
and shouting, on their way to or from somewhere. No one seemed
interested in sleeping. No one seemed anxious to go home.
Willow watched the people and the lights in the distance, trying to
imagine what it must be like to live here. Stone and mortar and
glass everywhere you looked, the buildings long lines of soldiers
set at march, the roadways flat and endless, the visible earth
reduced to small squares of worn
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green like this park—it was nightmarish. Nothing was real;
everything was manufactured. The smell, taste, look, and feel of it
assailed her at every turn and threatened to swallow her up like a
tiny bit of light in a massive dark.
Someone left the sidewalk across the way and approached—a familiar
figure with long coat, boots, lank hair, and a ready smile. Willow
stiffened.
"Still here, I see," Tony declared as he came up and stopped in
front of her. 'Tell me the truth, Willow. Do you have a place to
sleep? I've been following you, and you don't seem to be going
anywhere."
She fixed him with her emerald eyes. "Go home, Tony."
"You don't, do you?" he pressed. "I've come by a couple times now
to see if you were still here, and sure enough, you were. You
wouldn't be out in the park this late if you had somewhere to go.
Look, I'm worried about you. Would you like a place to crash?"
She stared. "What?"
'To sleep, for the night." He held out his palms. "This isn't some
sort of come-on, I promise."
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"Come-on?"
"You told me you were married, right? So where's your ring? I think
you made all that up, but that's okay. I just want you to know I'm
not after your bod or anything. I like you, mat's all. I don't want
anything to happen to you. This is a dangerous city."
Dirk rose, stretched, and yawned. Without a word, he climbed down
off the bench and began walking across the park. Willow glanced
quickly at Tony, then got up and followed. Dirk crossed the park
north to south, ambling contentedly, sniffing at this and that,
seeming in no hurry, appearing to have no purpose in mind.
"It can be dangerous out here," Tony repeated, walking next to her,
looking over. "Especially at night. You don't know."
She shook her head. "I'll be fine."
Terry Brooks 149
"I can't just leave you out here like this," he declared. "Look,
I'll keep you company, okay? And don't tell me to go home. I won't
do it."
Dirk had moved to a spot at the far end of the park beneath an old
shade tree tucked within a gathering of small vine maples where the
earth was worn and so wrapped in shadows that almost no grass was
growing. It was here that a mother had read on a blanket with her
baby beside her until it was almost dark. Dirk sniffed about a bit,
then sat back on his haunches and waited for Willow to come up.
"Here," was all he said.
Willow nodded. She knelt and touched the earth, then drew her hand
back quickly, her fairy senses pricked by what she found.
"Much has happened in this place," Edgewood Dirk said quietly.
"Great ideas have been conceived and terrible plans laid Out. Hopes
and aspirations have been shared. Killings and mannings have been
perpetrated on innocent and guilty alike. A baby was born here
once. Animals have hidden here. Whispered promises have been given
and love consummated." He looked at her. 'The soil is rich with
memories. It is the wellspring and the epiphany of many lives."
Tony crowded close. "What are you talking about? Was that the cat
who said all that? Well, of course it wasn't the cat—I mean, how
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could it be, right? But it sure sounded like it was. What's going
on?"
Willow ignored him and began to dig. She used the hunting knife she
carried beneath her cloak, stirring up the earth, bringing buried
soil to light so that she could have a thorough sampling. The
lifeblood and memories of others to sustain her baby—were they
intended as a balm, a pre-ventative, or something else entirely?
Would they heal or sear? She did not know. She knew only that they
would make her child strong, that they would protect, that they
would instill something of life's truths as embodied in humankind.
i5o THE TANGLE BOX
She finished digging and began scooping the soil into the same
leather pouch that held the earth from the old pines. Tony was
still talking, but she wasn't paying attention to what he said.
Dirk had wandered off in the direction of another cat.
She filled the pouch halfway and laced it tightly closed again. She
stood up then and faced Tony.
'This is really weird," he was saying. "Creeping about the park in
the middle of the night and digging up bags of dirt? I mean, what's
the point? Look, are you a witch or something? Are you involved in
some sort of ..."
He stopped abruptly and looked past her, alarm spreading over his
face. She turned. A gang of boys stood behind her, watching. They
seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, so quietly had they
gathered. They were of varying ages and sizes, all dressed in black
T-shirts and blue jeans. Some wore boots, some leather jackets.
There was writing on the shirts and jackets, but she didn't
understand the words. One carried a baseball bat, one an iron bar.
Several sported tattoos. They had hard, old faces, and their eyes
were flat and mean.
She looked instantly for Dirk, but the prism cat was nowhere to be
seen.
"What's in the bag, Witch Hazel?" one said, smirking.
"Hey, look, we don't want any trouble ..." Tony started to say, and
the speaker stepped forward and hit him in the face. Tony dropped
to his knees, his nose and mouth bloody.
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"I said, what's in the bag?" the speaker asked again, and reached
for Willow.
She eluded his grasp effortlessly and moved over to stand in front
of Tony. "Get away from me," she warned.
Several laughed. One of them said something about teaching her a
lesson. There was muttered approval.
Edgewood Dirk moved out from the shadows to one
Terry Brooks 151
side. "I don't think you should say anything else. I think you
should leave."
The boys stared in disbelief. There was a raucous exchange and more
laughter. A talking cat! They spread out guardedly, trapping Willow
and Dirk against the trees. The one with the baseball bat started
forward. "Hey, cat?" he called. "How about lunch?"
In the next instant Dirk began to glow. The gang members hesitated,
shielding their eyes. The glow brightened, and Dirk began to change
form. His cat self disappeared and was replaced by something so
terrifying that even Willow was repulsed. He became monstrous and
huge, rising up like an apparition out of Abaddon, all teeth and
claws. The circle of attackers collapsed. Most broke and ran,
screaming at their fellows, cursing at Dirk. A handful froze,
undecided, and lived to regret their indecision. Dirk hissed at
them with such force that he knocked them off their feet and sent
them tumbling back twenty feet to land bruised and dazed. When they
were able to scramble up, they fled after the others.
In seconds, the park was empty again.
Dirk stopped shimmering and turned into a cat again. He gazed after
the boys for a minute, then yawned. He began to wash himself.
Willow helped Tony back to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asked
him.
He nodded, but there was blood smeared all across his face. "How
did the cat ... ?" He couldn't finish.
"Go home, Tony," she told him, brushing him off, . straightening
his coat about his shoulders. "Go on." | Tony stared at her. She
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did not like what she saw in his |g..eyes. Then he turned and
stumbled away into the darkness. |J She watched after him until he
reached the street and dis-|| appeared around the corner of a
building. He did not look back. She did not think she would see him
again.
She turned wearily to Dirk. She felt sick, as if the terrible
152 THE TANGLE BOX
harshness of Ben's world had found a way to burrow down inside her
soul. "I don't want to stay here any longer. Can we go now?"
Dirk blinked, emerald eyes glinting. "It was necessary that you
come," he said to her.
"Yes, but are we finished?"
Dirk stood abruptly and moved off. "Such impatience. Very well. The
fairy mists are this way."
She felt a chill pass up her spine. The fairy mists. But she would
do what she must. For herself, for Ben, for then-child. One last
leg to her journey and she would be home again.
Resolved, she set off into the night.
H
aze
D=
Three days into their journey through the Labyrinth, the Knight,
the Lady, and the Gargoyle came upon a town.
It was late afternoon, the light's wane barely perceptible, a
darkening of a gloom that they now knew never brightened beyond
twilight. They had walked steadily through a changeless forest
world until suddenly, unexpectedly, the town came into view as they
crested a small rise. A cluster of ramshackle wooden buildings and
worn dirty streets, it hunkered down in a hollow where the trees
had been cleared away so that it looked as if the forest had swept
around it like the waters of a river around an island. No roads led
into it and none away. There were people; the Knight could see them
moving on the streets. There were animals, though they were a
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shabby lot and had the look of creatures beaten down by life.
Lights burned in a few of the windows, and as the three stared down
more were lit They gave off a weak and singularly desperate glow,
as if they
1)4 THE TANGLE BOX
had fought their battle against the coming night too many times and
were tired of the struggle.
Overhead, where the trees opened to the skies, there was nothing to
be seen of moon or stars, only an endless layer of impenetrable
mist.
"People," the Gargoyle said, and there was both surprise and
distaste in his voice.
The Knight said nothing. He was thinking that he was weary of his
trek through this dismal world where everything looked the same and
nothing ever changed. The past three days had dragged away in a
mind-numbing crawl, filled with silence and darkness and an
implacable sense of hopelessness. Twice the Lady had tried to kill
him, once with poison in his drink, once with a sharpened stick
when she thought he was sleeping. Her efforts had been wasted, for
he sensed everything she was about. She seemed to accept this. She
went through the motions as if already resigned to her failure, as
if the attempt must be made even when the conclusion was foregone.
Yet he was damaged nevertheless. It was what he saw in her eyes
that wore at him. He was a warrior and could withstand her physical
attacks. But the looks of rage and loathing and sadness were less
easily dealt with, and he was made sick at heart by their
constancy.
Of course, she hated the Gargoyle as well, but her hatred of him
was inbred and impersonal and somehow more acceptable.
"Why is there a town here?" he asked them quietly.
For a moment, no one answered. Why, indeed? A town, come out of
nowhere, materialized as if from a vision, having no purpose or
excuse, existing in a vacuum. Where was the trade that would
support it, since there were no roads? Where were the crops that
would feed it, since there were no fields? Was this a town of
hunters and trappers? If so, to where did they carry their goods
and from where did their supplies come? The Knight in three days
had seen al-
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Terry Brooks '55
most no forest creatures, and what few he had seen had been small
and furtive and somehow natural to the gloom, existing because and
not in spite of it.
"What difference why it is here?" the Lady demanded irritably. "It
is here, and that is all that matters. We have a chance to find our
way again. What purpose is there in questioning that?"
The Gargoyle edged forward a step, stooped and hunched within his
dark cloak, keeping as always to shadow. "I mistrust this," he
said. "There is something wrong here."
The Knight nodded. He felt it, too. Something was not right. Still,
the town was here, and they could not simply pass it by. Someone
living there must know of a way to leave the Labyrinth; someone
must know of a way back out into the real world.
"We will go down to see what we can learn. We will not stay beyond
that." The Knight looked over at the other two.
"If they discover me, they will kill me," the Gargoyle said.
"Remain behind, then," the Lady snapped, unmoved.
"Ah, but I hunger for their words," the Gargoyle murmured, as if
ashamed. "That is the puzzle of me. I am loathed by those I would
come to know."
"You would be them, you pathetic creature," she sneered. "Admit
it."
But the Gargoyle shook his head. "I would not be them. Oh, no,
Lady—not for all the gold and silver in the world. They are such
uncertain, indecisive beings, all wrapped up in the small measure
of their lives. I, on the other hand, am certain, and have the gift
of immortality. I am not burdened by the smallness of their
existence."
"Nor do you have their beauty. Easy to belittle those whose lives
are finite when death for you is so distant you barely need
consider what it means." The Lady fixed him with her cold eyes. "I
have life beyond that of humans,
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i56 THE TANGLE BOX
Gargoyle, but I treasure beauty as well. I would not be ugly like
you even if I could live forever." "Your ugliness is within," the
Gargoyle whispered. "And yours, always and forever, is plainly
stamped so that no one can mistake what you are!"
The Knight moved to stand before the Lady, to draw her hard gaze
away from the Gargoyle to himself. He shuddered as those cold eyes
found his own and he saw the measure of himself mirrored there.
"We will keep to ourselves and not speak if we do not have to. You
and I, Lady, will seek the answers we need. He"—he nodded back
toward the slouched, cloaked figure behind him—"will remain silent
But be forewarned that if you attempt trickery or betrayal, you
will be silenced. Give me your word."
"I will give you nothing!" She sneered openly at him, drawing
herself up haughtily.
"I will leave you here with him then," the Knight said softly. "I
will be safer on my own down there."
The Lady paled at the suggestion, and the rage that emanated from
her was palpable. "You cannot do that!" she hissed.
"Then give me your word."
She trembled with frustration and despair. "Very well. You have it,
Sir Knight. May it rise up within you and devour your soul!"
The Knight turned away. He cautioned the Gargoyle to keep hidden
within his cloak and stay back from the light. "Do not be drawn
into conversation," he warned. "Do not stray from my side."
They descended rapidly in the failing light, the town beginning to
vanish already into the growing darkness, the buildings reduced to
glimmers of light framed in windows like pictures hung against a
black velvet curtain. They slipped through the cloaking gloom like
wraiths come from the trees of the forest, following the line of
the cradling
Terry Brooks 157
slope downward. In minutes they had reached the hollow floor and
the beginnings of the town. Their eyes adjusted to the shift hi
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light, and they followed one of the short roadways that ran through
the town's center, a rutted, worn stretch of earth that began on
one side of the clustered buildings and ended on the other. Men and
women passed them hi the gloom, but none spoke. The doors and
windows of the houses and shops on either side were closed. Dogs
and cats prowled the length of the building walls and scooted
beneath the walkways where they had been elevated above the earth.
Voices were muted and indistinguishable. The Knight listened with
his heart as much as his ears, and he found no hint of solace, no
measure of comfort. The town was a coffin waiting to be nailed
shut.
At the town's center there was a tavern. Here the doors were
blocked open, and the people came and went freely. There was the
smell of smoke and freshly drawn ale, the clink of glasses and the
scrape of booted feet, and the raw heartiness of laughter born of
momentary escape from the dreariness of life's toil. The Knight
moved toward the doorway, the Lady and the Gargoyle following. He
took note of the cloudiness of the interior, a mix of smoke and
poor lighting. Faces would not be easily distinguished here;
privacy would be valued. He stepped up onto the porch that fronted
the building and saw that while the tavern was crowded there were
tables empty and seats to be had. They would be recognized as
strangers, of course; it was unavoidable in a town so small. The
trick would be to draw attention to himself and away from his
charges.
They entered amidst a swell of raucous laughter that appeared to
have its origins at the serving bar where half-a-dozen workingmen
were crowded elbow to elbow over their glasses facing hi toward the
counterman. The Knight moved through the tables to the very back of
the room, drawing the other two with him, and they seated
themselves wordlessly. The Gargoyle turned toward the shadows, cir-
I58 THE TANGLE BOX
cumspect and wary, but the Lady faced directly into the room, as
bold as a spoken threat with her cloak flung open and her hood
lowered. Eyes shifted toward her at once. Some were filled with
hunger.
The Knight seated himself, partially blocking her. It was too late
to tell her to cover herself now. He must assume his stance as her
protector and hope that was enough.
There was a sudden lowering of voices as the room became aware of
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them, and all present paused to take their measure. The Lady's
strange eyes swept the room without settling anywhere, without
acknowledging that there was anything worth seeing. The Knight was
already regretting his decision to let her come with him; he would
have been better off if she had stayed behind. But he had not
wanted to let her out of his sight either; he could not chance
losing her.
He fixed the counterman with his gaze and signaled for three mugs.
The counterman nodded and hastened away to the casks.
The moment passed, eyes shifted away again, and conversation
resumed. The room was filled witii a mix of men and women, all
poorly dressed, all with the harsh, worn look of people who scraped
out an existence without luck or skill or me help of others. They
might have been anything from farmers to trappers to miners; the
Knight could not tell. That they worked with their hands was
certain; that they plied some specific trade less so. They were of
varying ages, and they sat together in such a fashion that it was
impossible to judge who was with whom. Relationships seemed not to
matter, as if perhaps they were still forming, as if they were not
yet even considered. Now and again people rose and changed tables,
but never as couples or in groups. It was as if each man and woman
lived a solitary existence and identified only as a singular part
of the whole community.
There were no children. There were no signs of any chil-
Terry Brooks 159
dren, no babies, no hint that anyone not grown lived within the
town. Not even a sweeping boy worked the floors or mopped the
counter.
The counterman crossed the room with the mugs of ale and set them
down before the Knight. He glanced at the Knight's weapons and
rubbed his hands nervously. "Where do you come from?" he asked as
the Knight fished in his pocket for coins he was not even sure he
possessed. The Knight finally produced a single piece of gold.
The Knight passed the gold piece over. "We are lost," he answered.
"Where are we?"
The counterman tested the gold piece with his teeth. "In the
Labyrinth, of course. Right at its heart, in fact."
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The counterman was looking at the Lady now, interested. The Lady
looked back and right through him.
"Does this town have a name?" the Knight pressed.
The counterman shrugged. "No name. We have no need for one. Did you
come from the north?"
The Knight hesitated. "I'm not sure."
The counterman lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned down a
bit, his attention on the Knight now. "Did you see anything strange
in the woods?"
"Strange?"
"Yes." The man wet his lips. He seemed reluctant to use a name, as
if speaking it might somehow bring what he inquired after through
the tavern door.
"We saw nothing," the Knight said.
The counterman studied him a moment as if to make certain he was
not lying, then nodded, relief in his face, and walked away.
The Lady leaned forward, and her voice was cool and measured. "What
is he talking about?"
The Knight shook his head. He did not know. They sat in silence and
drank the ale from the glasses, listening to the conversations
around them. There was talk of work, but in a general way. There
was mention of the weather and the
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THE TANGLE BOX
seasons and the absence of this and that, but it was all vague and
indistinguishable. No one spoke of anything specific or made
mention of the particulars of their lives. There was something odd
about the conversations, about their tone, about the inflection of
the voices speaking. It was quite some time before the Knight was
able to figure out that woven into the exchanges was a sense of
anticipation, of uneasy expectation, of waiting for something
unspoken to happen.
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An old man edged by the table and stopped. "Come a long ways, have
you?" He slurred his words, his speech thick from the ale he had
consumed.
"Yes," the Knight replied, looking up. "And you?"
"Oh, no, I don't go nowhere. This is my home, this town. Always and
forever. I been here, oh, years and years." He grinned, toothless.
"Can't go nowhere else, once you're here."
The Knight felt something turn cold in the pit of his stomach.
"What do you mean? You can leave if you choose, can't you?"
The old man cackled. "That what you think? That you can leave? You
must be new, son. This is the Labyrinth. You can't leave here.
Can't no one leave here ever!"
"If you can come in, you can go out!" the Lady snapped suddenly,
anger flaring in her voice.
"You just try it!" the old man replied, still laughing. "Been lots
who have before, but they always come back. This is where they have
to stay once they're here. You, too. You, too."
He tottered away, mumbling to himself. The Knight signaled the
counterman for three fresh mugs, trying to think his way clear of
the tangle of the old man's words. No way out, the Labyrinth a trap
that no one could escape—he listened to the whisper of the words in
his mind.
"Anything to eat?" the counterman asked, coming up
Terry Brooks
161
with the glasses of ale. "You got some credit yet from that gold
piece."
"Can you draw us a map?" the Knight asked perfunctorily.
The counterman gave them his patented shrug. "A map to where? Maps
all lead to the same place, eventually. Right back here."
'1 need a map that will show us a way out of the Labyrinth."
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The counterman smiled. "So does everyone else here. Trouble is, no
one can find it. Some—like that old fellow— been trying for years.
He can't get out, though. None of us can. We try, but we always end
up coming back here."
The Knight stared at him in stunned silence.
"It's all right, really," the other continued quickly, worried by
the look that appeared on the Knight's face. "You get used to it.
We don't have too many worries. Just the ..." He shook his head.
"The what? What are you talking about?" the Lady demanded.
The counterman took a slow breath. When he spoke again, the words
were barely a whisper. "The Haze."
The Knight glanced quickly at his companions. Neither spoke. He
turned back to the counterman. "We don't know what that is."
The counterman was suddenly sweating, as if the temperature in the
room had just risen to a midday heat. "Best if you never do!" he
hissed. "There's stories. It lives in the woods. It comes out when
you least expect it and devours everything! Eats it right up, and
when it's done there's nothing left!" His mouth tightened. "I've
never seen it myself. No one here has. But we hear it sometimes.
More so recently, like maybe it's looking us over. They say a
monster always precedes its coming—a thing out of myth and legend,
a beast out of the old world."
He shook his head. "I've said enough. It's bad luck to
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THE TANGLE BOX
even talk about it. It doesn't come often. But when it does ..."
He shook his head again, then wheeled about and walked hurriedly
away. The Knight stared after him, then turned back to his
companions. "Do you know of this?" he asked quietly.
"I have heard rumors," the Gargoyle offered, his voice a
disembodied growl from within the shadows of his hooded cloak. "An
ancient legend, thousands of years old. Men see the Haze as divine
retribution for their sins."
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"What rubbish!" the Lady sneered. "Would you give credence to the
superstitions of these common people? Is this how you would
identify with them?"
The Gargoyle said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed on the Knight.
The Knight drank his ale and tried to think. No one knew of a way
out of the Labyrinth. Whatever direction you went, they claimed,
you ended up back at this nameless town. Was this belief commonly
accepted by these people or was there at least one among them who
knew differently? The Knight had not spoked with anyone beyond the
counterman and the oldster. Perhaps he should try.
"Stay here," he ordered.
He rose, glass in hand, and walked to the counter. He was aware for
the first time of the notice being taken of his weapons and light
armor, for none of the townsfolk wore either. He began asking
questions of those men gathered at the bar. Had any of them ever
been outside the Labyrinth? Did any of them know of a way out? Was
there anyone who might know? The men shook their heads and looked
away.
"River Gypsies might," one said. "They been everywhere there is to
be. 'Course, you got to find mem first."
There was a burst of shared laughter, a private joke. The Knight
glanced back at the table where he had left the Lady and the
Gargoyle and froze. Two men had moved over and were taking seats,
one on either side of the Lady. She had
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163
pulled her cloak tight around her body and was staring straight
ahead while they talked and smiled at her. The Gargoyle was
shrinking farther back into the shadows.
The Knight moved away from the counter and began to cross the room.
He was too slow. One of the men touched the Lady, and she wheeled
on him, nails raking at his face. He surged to his feet with a yowl
and stumbled back into the Gargoyle. The concealing cloak fell
away, revealing the Gargoyle, and ,the other man lurched to his
feet screaming. Instantly, the room was bedlam. Men and women
shrieked in terror and loathing as the Gargoyle tried to cover
himself. Weapons flashed into view, long-handled hunting knives and
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daggers of varying shapes. Fighting to keep his balance in the
surging melee, the Knight bulled his way past those separating him
from his charges. Mugs crashed to the floor and lamps went out. Men
rushed for the doors.
"Look what you've done!" the counterman shouted wildly, pointing at
the Knight. "You've brought a monster into our town! You've doomed
us! Damn you forever!"
The Knight reached the table, snatched up the Lady, and threw her
over his shoulder. He had his broadsword free, and he swung about
to level it between himself and those threatening. The Gargoyle
crouched behind him, his ineffectual wings beating frantically, his
breath hissing through his sharp teeth. The Knight swung the
broadsword downward with all his might and splintered the table
before him. Men fell back quickly as he made his way toward the
door, the Lady kicking and screaming over his shoulder, the
Gargoyle hunching close against his back for protection. One man
tried to rush him from behind, but the Gargoyle's claws laid his
arm open to the bone.
Then they were through the door and back out into the night. The
screams and shouts followed after them, but the street had cleared
as the people fled to the protection of their homes. The Knight
moved quickly through the town,
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his eyes readjusting to the gloom. Nothing to do but to try to find
the way on their own. He cursed their misfortune and the ignorance
of the townsfolk.
At the base of the hollow's slope, he set the Lady on her feet,
keeping hold of her wrist to make certain she did not try to flee.
"Let me go!" she snarled, pulling back against him. "How dare you
touch me!" She spit at him. "I hate you! I will see you cut apart
while you are still alive for this!"
He ignored her, heading for the darkness of the trees, ascending
the slope toward the concealment of the forest beyond. Behind, the
lights of the town burned weakly from the windows of the buildings,
and the shadows of the people milled about in their glow. The
Knight spared them only a glance, his attention focused on the line
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of the trees ahead. Pursuit was not improbable.
They had reached the edge of the forest when the Gargoyle wheeled
about and went into a guarded crouch. "Something comes!" he warned,
his voice thin and breathless.
In the same instant, new screams of terror rose from the townsfolk.
The Knight and the Lady turned to look. A towering wall of wicked
green light had appeared within the trees on the far side of the
hollow. It flickered like fire and hissed like acid, eating away at
the silent dark. It moved steadily forward, and as it came it
seemed to change appearance, taking on the look of a heavy rain, a
rush of shadows and light that tore mercilessly at everything in
its path.
The screams of the people below heightened. "The Haze! The Haze!
It's here! Run! Oh, run!"
But there appeared to be nowhere to run and no time left in which
to do it. The greenish rain came out of the trees and descended the
slope toward the town. The world disappeared in its wake. Not a
tree, not a shrub, not a hint of life remained. All were consumed.
The Haze reached the town
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and began to tear at the buildings. One by one, they were drawn
into its strange curtain. The townsfolk went, too, shrieking in
frenzy, unable to escape. The Haze claimed them as they fled, and
they did not come out. Even their screams were swallowed.
On the ridge of the hollow, the Knight tensed as the last building
and inhabitant of the nameless town disappeared and the Haze came
on. But suddenly, without reason, the Haze began to draw back. In a
matter of seconds, it had reversed itself—a storm front that had
suddenly shifted, its thunderheads turned by an unexpected head
wind. Slowly, deliberately, it climbed back up the slope of the
hollow, melted into the trees, and vanished.
The Knight, the Lady, and the Gargoyle stared down into the empty
hollow. The town they had fled was gone—every building, every
person, every beast, every trace that any of it had ever been. Bare
earth alone remained, steaming like scalded flesh. The Haze had
burned it bare.
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The Knight looked over at the Gargoyle. The Haze was more than
legend, it seemed. But what had brought it from the woods this
night? Was it in fact preceded by a monster as the counterman had
warned? Was that monster the Gargoyle? Was there some link between
the two, a terrible pact to devour life and ravage the earth that
lived upon it? The Gargoyle was, after all, a monster come out of
the most ancient of times. The Knight pondered the possibilities.
The Lady was looking at the beast as well, and there was a hint of
fear in her cold eyes. Staring off into the dark, the Gargoyle did
not return their looks.
The Knight turned away. All those people gone, he thought. All. He
could see them vanish anew in his mind. He could hear them
screaming still. The sound was horrific, but familiar. He had heard
such screams before. He had heard them all his life. They were the
screams of the men he had fought and killed in battle. They were
the screams of his victims. The screams were captured in his memory
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like trapped souls in a net, and he would carry them with him
forever.
He wondered then, in the terrible aftermath of the destruction he
had witnessed, if the burden of these newest screams was his to
bear as well.
River
Crypsies
They walked all that night, too nervous to sleep. They did not
speak of what had happened, but each knew that the others were
thinking of it. The endless forest closed about them again, a vast
unpenetrable canopy of leafy boughs and misty skies. The Labyrinth
stretched on once more, and after a time it seemed as if the town
and her people might never have been at all.
When it was morning and the darkness lightened to gray, they found
a clearing and slept for a time. The Knight rested in the half doze
that he had long since mastered for when there was need, a sort of
trance in which some small part of him, some singular instinct,
remained awake and alert against danger. He might have dreamed, but
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he was haunted by the screams of all those he had seen die and by
his inability to rid himself of them. They were the shades of the
dead, all that remained of what had once been human. They lived on
in him, as if they had attached themselves and would not release
until death came to him as well.
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When he did not doze, he lay thinking on the Gargoyle, wondering
still what part the creature had played in what had happened to the
town. He was bothered anew by the fact that he could not remember
how the Gargoyle had come to be with him, why it was that they were
traveling together. He could remember nothing of the beast beyond
knowing that he should be there. Where had the Gargoyle come from?
What reason had he to be with the Knight and the Lady in the
Labyrinth? The Gargoyle might belong here, the Knight kept
thinking. He had known first of the common belief that the
Labyrinth was a maze without an exit He had said first what the
townsfolk had said later. The Gargoyle had known of the Haze. There
was so much that the Knight did not know that the Gargoyle did. It
was troublesome. The Knight did not fear the creature, but was wary
of his purpose. There seemed a fundamental honor and fairness to
the beast, but try as he might the Knight could not bring himself
to trust him.
On waking, they went on. They traveled now because they had little
choice. If they did not go on, they would be admitting defeat. The
Knight would not allow > that. He could sense his control of things
slipping away, his self-assurance and certainty of purpose slowly
eroding. Little by little he was coming to see how fragile was his
place in the scheme of things. Here, he was a pawn of circumstances
he could not fathom or control. There was nothing recognizable in
the Labyrinth, and what he remembered of life before was a shadowy
play of figures against a too-vague and distant backdrop. Try as he
might to concentrate and remember, nothing of his former life would
come into focus for him. It was as if he had been born here, and
only the presence of the Lady—and perhaps the Gargoyle— reassured
him that there was something that had gone before.
The Lady talked to him this day, almost as if she were
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169
compelled. She did not converse as a friend or intimate, merely as
his charge and companion on the road. She questioned him repeatedly
about who he was and why he was there. She questioned him about
what he remembered of his life before. She wanted to know why he
had taken her and for whom. He avoided her questions, turning each
aside as deftly as he could manage. He avoided them because he
could not answer them. He had no answers to give. She pressed him
until she grew weary, and then she fell silent once more.
"You toy with me," she said, the sadness and despair come back into
her voice, replacing the otherwise-always-present anger. "You play
games with me because I am your prisoner."
He shook his head, gazing off into the mist. "I would not do that
to you."
"Then tell me something of yourself," she begged, just managing to
keep her voice level and controlled. "Give me something as
reassurance that you do not lie."
He walked without speaking for a moment, then lowered his head. "I
do not like it that things must be this way. I wish they could be
otherwise. I am sorry for taking you, whatever the purpose,
whatever the cause. If there is a way to do so later, I will make
it up to you."
He thought she would laugh outright at the suggestion. He thought
she would simply scorn him. She surprised him by doing neither.
Instead, she simply nodded without speaking and walked on.
It was midafternoon when they reached the river. It appeared as the
town had appeared, coming into view as they crested a rise and the
trees broke apart. The river was broad and slow, and it ran in
either direction across their path for as far as the eye could see.
On the far bank, the forests of ••> me Labyrinth resumed,
stretching away forever. Overhead, the skies remained shrouded and
empty.
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They walked down to the river's edge and stopped, looking first
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across, then upstream, then downstream. There was no sign of life.
The water was cloudy and smooth where rapids and rifts did not
churn it to foam amid rocky out-croppings. No debris floated in it,
nor did fish jump to mar the glassy surface.
"If there is a river, there must be a town somewhere along it," the
Lady said hopefully.
"But does the town lie within the Labyrinth or beyond?" the Knight
queried. He looked at her. "We shall follow it and see. Which way
shall we go?"
Again, she surprised him. "You decide. You are the one who leads
us."
He took them downstream. The riverbank was broad and grassy and
easily traversed. The trees of the forest ended some hundred yards
back at most points, and the way was clear and open for travelers.
As gray daylight waned toward nightfall, the mist moved out of the
trees and settled down across the river and its banks. It crept to
their boot tops and then to their knees. By darkness, it was
waist-high and they could no longer see where the bank ended and
the river began.
The Knight had just decided to move back into the trees for the
night when they heard the singing. They stopped as one, listening.
The sound came from just a little farther ahead, around a bend not
two hundred yards away. The Knight took them back to the fringe of
the trees so that they would escape a fall into the river, and they
continued from there. When they reached the bend and*rounded it,
they saw light from several fires. The singing came from there.
They moved toward the fires, peering intently through the gloom. As
they neared, a handful of painted wagons came into view. There were
mules tethered nearby, and tents of bright cloth that had been tied
to poles and the ends of the wagons and made fast by rope stays.
The singers were more than a dozen in number, men and women
Terry Brooks 171
both, all dressed in colorful garb with many sashes, cloaks, and
headbands, all gathered about the fires as they sang.
The Knight and his companions approached and were seen, but the
singing continued as if their appearance did not matter. The
Gargoyle was hanging back, wrapped in his cloak for concealment,
but one of the singers rose and beckoned them all forward, making
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certain that the beast was included. They came up slowly, cautious
by nature and circumstance, even in these seemingly friendly
surroundings.
"Welcome to our camp," the one who had encouraged them to join in
greeted. "Will you sing with us? Sing for your supper, perhaps?"
The man was heavy and round and had great, gnarled hands. His hair
and beard were thick and black. He wore several gold earrings and a
chain with a locket. A brace of daggers were tucked in a sash at
his ample waist, and another protruded from the top of his boot.
"Who are you?" the Knight asked.
"Ah, ah—no names, my friend," the other said. "Names are for
enemies we would avoid, not for friends we would make. Will you sit
with us?"
"River Gypsies," the Gargoyle said, come to a full stop, and the
Knight looked quickly at him.
The big man laughed. "That's us! Well, look at you, my friend. A
Gargoyle! Not many of your kind left in the world, and none have
been seen in my lifetime, I think, within the Labyrinth. So, now.
Don't be shy, don't lurk about at the edges of the light. You are
all welcome. Come sit with us and sing. Come share the fire."
He shepherded them forward to join the others. Space was made,
drinks were brought, and the singing went on. Smiles passed from
face to face as songs were begun and finished. One man played a
stringed instrument of some sort. One played a flute. The Knight
and his companions listened to the songs, but did not join in. They
drank the
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wine they were offered, but only a little at first. They looked
about at the assemblage and wondered how they had gotten there.
"Have you come far?" the big man asked of the Knight after a time,
leaning close to be heard.
"Five days' walk," the Knight answered. "We cannot seem to find our
way out."
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"A common enough problem here," the other replied, nodding.
"Do you know a way?" the Knight pressed.
The other began to clap along with a song. "Perhaps. Perhaps."
The singing went on for a long time. The Knight began to grow
sleepy. The Lady had drunk more man he had and was already
stretched out upon the grass, eyes closed. The Gargoyle sat hunched
down within his cloak, featureless in his hood's shadows. Some of
the Gypsies had begun to dance, leaping and spinning in the
firelight. The women had fixed bells to their fingers, and the
silvery tinkle lifted above the singing. The men trailed scarves
that were crimson and gold. Wine was drunk freely. There had been
mention of food earlier, the Knight thought, but none had appeared.
"Is this not the way life should be lived?" the big man asked
suddenly, leaning over once more. He was flushed and smiling. "Give
no thought to tomorrow until it comes. Do not worry about (hat over
which you have no* control. Sing and dance. Drink and laugh. Leave
your troubles for another time."
The Knight shook his head. 'Troubles have a way of catching up with
you."
The other laughed. "Such a pessimist! Look at you! You neither sing
nor dance! You drink so little! How can you enjoy yourself? You
must give life a chance!"
"Is there a way out of the Labyrinth?" the Knight asked again.
Terry Brooks 173
The Gypsy shook his head merrily, climbed to his feet, and
shrugged. "Not this night, I think. Tomorrow, maybe." And off he
went, dancing lightly for all his size across the firelight.
The Knight drained away the last of his wine and looked over for
his companions. The Lady was still sleeping soundly. The Gargoyle
had disappeared. The Knight cast about for him in vain, even beyond
the firelight. He was gone.
The Knight tried to rise and found he could not. His legs would not
work, and his body felt encased in iron. He struggled against a
weight mat seemed to chain him down, managing to come almost all
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the way up before falling back. The River Gypsies danced and sang
about him, oblivious. Colors and shapes spun past him as he turned
toward the darkness. Something was wrong. Some trick had been
played.
He was still wondering what was amiss as he toppled over into
blackness.
When he came awake, he was alone. The River Gypsies were gone—the
men, the women, the wagons, the mules, everything. All that
remained were the ashes of the fires, still smoldering faintly in
the hazy dawn. The Knight was stretched full length upon the grassy
earth. He rolled over weakly and came to his knees. His head
throbbed from the wine, and his muscles were cramped from his
sleep. To his left, the river flowed past, smooth, soundless, and
undisturbed. To his right, the forest was a dark curtain filled
with mist.
The Knight rose to his feet and waited for the dizziness to pass.
The Lady was gone as well.
He felt his breatti quicken and his chest constrict with anger and
disbelief. Where had she gone? He cast about
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through the early morning gloom for some sign of her, but there was
none. She had disappeared.
He was still in the process of regaining his bearings when the
Gargoyle emerged from the trees and came toward him. The Knight
realized suddenly that his weapons were missing as well, all of
them. He was defenseless.
"Sleep well?" the Gargoyle queried as he reached the Knight, the
sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
"Where are my weapons?" the Knight demanded angrily. "What has
become of the Lady?"
The Gargoyle hunched down before him, dark-featured. "The River
Gypsies have them both. They took them while you were sleeping."
/
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"Took them?" The Knight was stunned. "You mean they stole them?"
The Gargoyle laughed softly. "The Gypsies do not look at it like
that. To them, the weapons and the woman are our payment for last
night's pleasures. Fair is fair, they think. They relieved you of
what you do not need."
The Knight glowered. "And you did nothing to stop mem?"
The Gargoyle shrugged. "Why should I? What difference does it make
to me what happens to the Lady 6r your weapons? I care for neither.
In truth, you are better off without them. There is no need for
weapons within the Labyrinth—only wits and patience. The Lady was a
millstone about bom our necks, an annoyance that no sane man should
have to bear."
"That was not your decision to make!"
"Nor did I make it." The Gargoyle was unruffled, his ugly face
lifting slightly into the light, his yellow eyes calm. "I let
events take their own course and nothing more."
"You could have warned me!"
"You could have warned yourself if you had been thinking straight.
There is no mystery to Gypsies of any kind—
Terry Brooks 175
they are the same the world over and always have been. They live by
their own rules, and if you choose to drink and sing with them you
accept that this is so. Consider it a lesson, Sir Knight, and let
it pass."
The Knight forced down his rage. Fear lurked just beneath, the
feeling that he was losing control and could do nothing to stop it.
The Lady and his weapons were gone, and he had been powerless to
prevent it. Why hadn't he seen better what might happen? Why hadn't
he taken the precautions he knew were necessary?
He breathed in deeply and looked up and down the river. "Which way
did they go?" The Gargoyle did not respond, and the Knight turned
on him quickly. "Do not give me reason to mistrust you further!" he
snapped.
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The Gargoyle held his angry gaze. "I have given you no reason
ever."
"Haven't you?" The Knight squared himself. "When I woke in the
Labyrinth, you were already there. You knew where we were; you
called the Labyrinth by name. You said that there was no way out,
before anyone else had even mentioned it. When we reached that town
and we were told of the Haze, you knew the story. The counterman
identified you as a monster that preceded its coming. Last night,
when we came upon the River Gypsies, you knew who they were when
the Lady and I did not. You seem to know a great deal about a place
which you do not claim to come from. I cannot help but wonder what
cause you serve in all of this."
The Gargoyle stared at the Knight, and for a long moment he said
nothing. "You have cause to be suspicious, I suppose," he replied
finally, reluctantly. "I would be suspicious as well, were I you.
It must seem as if I am duplic-itous. But I am not. What I know
comes from living for a very long time and having been to a great
many places. I have acquired knowledge for which I can no longer
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ered centuries ago. I am very old. Once, as the River Gypsy said,
there were many of my kind. Now there is only me in all the world."
He paused, as if reflecting. "This place and those who live here
and the things that happen within are familiar to me, known from
another time, one for which my memory has long since been erased. I
sense, as well, some of what will be. I know this place; I
recognize it. I anticipate some events. But I am not from here, and
I am not sure I have ever visited before." The Gargoyle scowled.
"It bothers me that this is so. My memory is quite fragmented, and
I confess that nothing of my previous life is clear to me anymore.
Save," he added darkly, "that I am no longer who or what I was."
The Knight nodded slowly. He sensed truth in the Gargoyle's words.
"Nor am I. The past seems long ago and far away."
"But there are associations that trigger memories, as with the
River Gypsies last night," the Gargoyle said. "I knew them without
ever having met them. I knew what they wergs about. I could have
told you, it is true. I did not. I wanted them to take the Lady. I
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wanted her gone." His gaze was direct. "I am not ashamed."
"I must get her back from them," the Knight said.
"Why? What reason is there to do so?" The Gargoyle seemed genuinely
interested.
The Knight was silent. His hands clenched as he struggled to speak.
"Because it is what I was given to do before I came here. It is the
only certainty I possess. Without her, I am lost. She is all that
keeps me going. She is the reason for my being. I exist because of
her. Do you see?"
The Gargoyle thought for a moment and then nodded. "I think I do.
You have no cause beyond taking her to your master, no cause that
you can remember. But do you remember anything even of that, Sir
Knight?"
Terry Brooks 177
The Knight shook his head. "This place seems to have stolen my
past."
"And mine." The Gargoyle's voice was bitter. "I wish my life back
again. I wish my memories restored."
"Did you see which way they went?" the Knight repeated.
"You are better off without her," the Gargoyle replied. There was
no response from the Knight, no change in his expression. The
Gargoyle sighed. "Upstream, back the way we came." He shook his
head wearily. "I will go with you."
They set out at once, moving through the long grasses of the
riverbank, following the earth-colored ribbon into the misty gray.
They found tracks almost immediately, and it wouldn't have been
hard for the Knight to have discovered for himself which way the
River Gypsies had gone. It made him suspicious anew of the
Gargoyle's place in the scheme of things; after all, the Gargoyle
might have told him simply to serve his own purpose. But that was
harsh thinking, and the Knight was not comfortable with it. He
believed the Gargoyle to be a fundamentally honorable creature. He
did not sense lies in what he had been told. They had both come
into this world from some other, and their destiny here, along with
that of the Lady, was of a single piece.
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They pushed on through the day, moving steadily ahead in the wake
of the wagon tracks, pausing infrequently to rest themselves,
intent on completing their chase by sunset. The river broadened
after a time, growing so large that the far bank was little more
than a dark line against the clouded skies. The Knight was growing
depressed by the constant grayness, by the absence of any sunlight,
by the oppressive lowering of the sky toward the earth. He missed
people and animals and the presence of other life. He had enjoyed
those once, he knew. Mostly, he felt the loss of his identity
beyond the vagueness of his present existence. It was not enough to
sense who and what you were; memories were
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needed as well, clear pictures of the life you had lived and the
things you had done while you lived it. He had almost none of
those—fewer, it seemed, than the Gargoyle. He was cast adrift in a
limbo, and the emptiness he felt was beginning to breed madness.
It was after sunset when they came upon the River Gypsies again.
They were fortunate to see the firelight well before they were
close enough to be seen themselves. The Gypsies were encamped on
the riverbank once more, and the sound of their singing rose into
the twilight stillness with careless disregard. The Knight and the
Gargoyle moved back within the trees and edged along within the
protective fringe until they were close enough to see what was
happening. There were no surprises. The River Gypsies sat about
their fires drinking wine, letting the night close in about them.
The Lady sat with them. She did not appear to be restrained in any
way. She held a cup in one hand and sipped at it. Her face was cold
and empty, but she did not appear afraid.
"Perhaps she wants to be with them," the Gargoyle whispered.
"Perhaps she is freer with them than she was v^ith you."
The Knight ignored him. "I need my sword back."
The Gargoyle shook his head reprovingly. "You are of a single mind,
aren't you? No deviation in your life." His laugh was deep and
soft. "We are both cast in a mold that can never be changed."
He rose abruptly. "Wait here for me."
He disappeared into the trees. The Knight waited, watching the
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camp. Darkness deepened until everything beyond the glow of the
firelight disappeared. The drinking and singing went on,
uninterrupted, unabated. All other sounds and movements disappeared
behind the gaiety, submerged as deadwood in a river's flow. Time
passed, and the Knight grew anxious.
Then the Gargoyle was there beside him again, holding
Terry Brooks 179
out the broadsword, sharpened teeth gleaming along the edges of a
smile. The Knight accepted the sword, balanced it in his hand to
study its condition, then slipped it back into the sheath he wore
across his back.
"Now we will ask them to give the Lady back," he said, rising.
"Wait." The Gargoyle's clawed hand restrained him. "Why ask when
there is no need? Wait until early morning, then slip down and take
her while they sleep. It might be the easier way."
The Knight thought it over a minute and nodded. "We will wait."
They sat together in silence within the concealment of the forest
trees. The River Gypsies began to dance, and the merriment went on.
It did not end until the night was mostly gone and the fires burned
away. Then the men and women rolled themselves into their blankets
and were still. The Lady slept with them. She had not moved from
the place she had been sitting; she had merely eased herself down
onto the grass. Mist edged in about the wagons and animals, no
longer kept at bay by the heat of the flames, and soon it covered
the sleepers.
The Knight and the Gargoyle rose then and slipped from the trees.
They made their way in silence through the long grasses toward the
camp. They searched for a sentry and found none. When they reached
the wagons, they paused again, listening. There was only the sound
of the Gypsies sleeping and the distant rustle of the river against
her banks. They edged along the wagons until they were close to
where the Lady lay. Then the Knight went forward alone.
He found her, knelt close, and placed his hand over her mouth. She
came awake at once, looking up at him with jcool, appraising eyes
that were free of any fear. He started ffo help her up, then saw
the chain that ran from a clamp fastened about her ankle to a wagon
wheel.
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The Knight stood, fury racing through him. He'd had
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181
enough. He walked through the sleepers heedlessly until he found
the one who had spoken so enticingly to him of leaving one's cares
for another day. He reached down, fastened his fingers in the man's
tunic, and hauled him to his feet.
"I will cut you end to end if she is not freed at once," he hissed.
The man looked him in the eye and nodded wordlessly. The Knight
steered him back across the camp to where the Lady waited. The
bearded Gypsy reached into his pocket, produced a key, released the
lock, and stood back.
"You should not be angry at us," he said quietly.
The Knight pulled free the clamp from the Lady's leg and brought
her to her feet. She reached down to rub her ankle, then turned and
strode out of the camp for the trees.
"Wine and entertainment come at a price," the Gypsy declared. "You
owe us."
The Knight turned. "Be grateful I do not kill you."
The Gypsy put his fingers to his lips and whistled, a shrill,
piercing sound. Instantly the camp was awake, and there were armed
men all about. They held daggers and short swords and axes, the
metal blades gleaming wefly in the damp air. They took in the
situation at a single glance and edged toward the Knight.
"Do not be foolish," the Knight warned, placing his back to the
nearest wagon.
"It is you who have been foolish, I think," the bearded Gypsy
replied.
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They came at the Knight in a swarm, but he scattered the rush with
a huge sweep of his blade. His chain mail protected him from the
dirks thrown at his chest, and he turned and moved swiftly past the
wagons for the woods. Where was his heavy armor? he wondered
suddenly. Where were his plates and greaves and helmet? He sensed
them somewhere close at hand once more, but still they would not
come to him. This was twice now that he had been forced to stand
and fight without them. He had never had to do so
before. His armor had always been there when he needed it. Why
didn't he have it now?
Again the Gypsies rushed him, and this time he was forced to defend
himself. He cut two of them down and wounded a third, taking no
injury himself. He could hear the Gargoyle calling. When he glanced
back, he saw the Lady standing at the edge of the trees, watching
him.
Rage at the stupidity of the River Gypsies washed through him. He
braced himself for another rush.
It never came. A familiar, wicked green light lifted off the river
in a towering curtain and began to advance on the camp. The Gypsies
turned at its coming and screamed in recognition. The Haze swept
out of the mist and dark, a terrible hissing rain that ate away the
landscape. The Knight turned and ran for the woods, taking
advantage of the Gypsies' terror and confusion. He gained the trees
as the Haze reached the camp. It ate its way through the wagons and
animals and people so quickly that they disappeared in seconds.
Even the screams lingered only an instant. No one seemed able to
escape.
It was over in moments. The Haze advanced until the camp was
devoured and then it drew back. As with the town, it retreated
across the scorched, barren earth and disappeared from view. As
with the town, nothing of the River Gypsies remained behind.
The ravaged ground steamed in the early dawn light. The Knight
stared out from the trees hi shock. The Lady stood at one elbow,
the Gargoyle at the other. No one spoke. The Knight was wondering
how this had happened, how it was that the Haze had come again, how
it could be that it took only the camp and left them alone. What
had brought it? What had kept it from destroying mem as well?
Something in all of this was not right. There was a surreal aspect
to everything that had happened—in then- discovery of that nameless
town, in their encounter with the River Gypsies, in the coming of
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the Haze. There was an unmistakable
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skewing of reality that lacked identity, but not form. Ignorant of
its source, he was nevertheless aware that it existed.
An unpleasant suspicion began to form at the back of his mind, one
so terrible that he could not give it voice. He buried it away deep
inside himself in despair and disbelief.
"What monstrous thing is this," the Lady whispered, stepping
forward to stare out across the river. "Does it track us Uke dogs
at hunt?"
"It does," the Gargoyle growled softly. "I can sense its hunger."
'
The Knight could sense it, too. And while he would not say so,
while he could not bring himself to speak the words, he thought
that its hunger had not yet been sated.
JLOU
Nothing
They must have seemed an odd sight, Abemathy thought as they
approached the gates of Rhyndweir, castle fortress of Kallendbor,
the most powerful of the Lords of the Greensward. A tall, scrawny,
gangly man with a bird on his shoulder, a smallish, wiry beast that
looked a little like a crazed monkey, and a dog with human hands
and wearing reading glasses—Horris Kew, Biggar, Bunion, and
himself. Up the roadway through the town surrounding the fortress
they trudged, carrying before them (well, Bunion carrying,
actually) the banner of the current and still absent King of
Landover. Their horses trailed on a line behind them, grateful no
doubt to be rid of riders who didn't much care for the beasts
anyway. The mule with the chests of mind's eye crystals plodded
along with them. The day was hot and humid, the air still, and the
prospect of a bath and a cold drink was foremost in everyone's
mind.
Townspeople gathered to watch them come, standing in the shade of
doorways and awnings, nudging one another
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and whispering. Perhaps they knew, Abernathy thought. Perhaps by
now, everybody knew.
They had departed Sterling Silver three days earlier, a delegation
of King's emissaries dispatched for the particular purpose of
distributing mind's eye crystals to the people of the Greensward,
both high-born and low. The decision to allow the crystals to be
shared had been reached with some reservations, but reached
nevertheless. Questor Thews was growing desperate in his efforts to
cover for the missing King. It was getting harder and harder to
invent excuses to explain why the King refused to see anyone
personally, delegating all meetings to his chief advisor. A
diversion of some sort was needed to keep the more persistent
questioners at bay. If nothing else, perhaps the crystals could
provide this. Take them out, spread them around, let them amuse for
a time, and hope the novelty wouldn't wear off too fast.
Questor, of course, could not go himself. So Abernathy, despite his
objection to the idea, was the logical choice to go in his place.
Someone had to represent the King besides Horris Kew and his bird.
Someone had to keep an*eye on Horris and maybe the bird as well. So
Abernathy was pressed into service, and Bunion was sent along for
protection and support. An escort of soldiers was offered as well,
but no one wanted them, including Abernathy, who preferred to keep
matters simple and straightforward. Visit the Lords of the
Greensward with an escort and you called immediate attention to
yourself. That was a bad idea, Abernathy had decided, and therefore
the escort was unnecessary.
Besides, this was a time of peace. What sort of trouble would they
run into witii the King's banner paraded before them?
So off they had gone, marching out of the castle gates and heading
northeast through the forests and across the hills to the
grasslands of the Greensward. Everyone they
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met along the way was offered one of the crystals. Most accepted
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them gladly, entranced by what they could do. One or two, more
curmudgeonly than their fellows, wouldn't even consider such
nonsense. There were a great many farms and small communities
between Sterling Silvej and the castles of the Lords of the
Greensward, so hundreds of crystals were distributed. Word began to
spread, and before long there were people waiting for them on the
road. More crystals were passed out, and more people went away
happy. So far, so good.
Abernathy had to give credit to Horris Kew. The conjurer made
certain that each person given a crystal knew that it was a gift
from the King and that he was acting solely as the King's
representative. There was no attempt to take credit for anything,
no hint of self-promotion. It was very unlike the Horris Kew
Abernathy remembered, and it made him suspicious all over again.
But the faithful Court Scribe was compromised on the matter. As
much as he distrusted Horris Kew and his schemes, including this
one, he was desperately attached to his own, personal crystal. When
he could admit it to himself, which was less and less often, he
worried that his attraction bordered on addiction. He seemed to
have been snared from the first moment he had looked into the
crystal's wonderous depths. What had he been shown, not once, but
each time he looked? Himself, restored to who and what he had once
been, a man with a man's features, the dog body in which he was
trapped forever gone. It was his deepest, fondest wish in life, the
dream he lived to fulfill, and when he gazed into the faceted light
of his mind's eye crystal, it all came to pass. He could stay there
and watch himself for as long as he chose—an increasingly longer
period of time each day. He could not only see but feel himself as
a man; he could remember what it had been like before Questor Thews
invoked his unfortunate incantation and consigned him to his
present fate.
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It was a wickedly pleasurable pastime, and Abernathy could not get
enough of it. It was not as good as being himself again, as looking
as he once had, but it was as close as he was likely to get. It was
immensely satisfying. And he owed it all to Horris Kew.
Even now, as he approached the towering gates of Rhyndwek and
thought gratefully of the bath and cold ale that would be waiting,
he was thinking as well of his crystal and the prospect of time
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alone in his roonx to look into its depths once more.
The gates opened to receive them, and they marched through and past
the handful of guards standing watch. A single minor court official
waited to receive them and guide them on. No trumpeted greeting, no
turning out of the garrison, no personal attendance by Kallendbor
as there would have been for the King, Abemathy thought. Minimal
respect was accorded to envoys, and less-than-minimal interest.
Kallendbor had never liked Holiday, but he was growing more open in
his disdain. Memories of Holiday's triumphs and accomplishments
were growing dim, it seemed. Holiday had faced down Kallendbor on
sa^eral occasions and done what the Lords of the Greensward had
been unable to do—defeat the Iron Mark, disperse the demons back to
Abaddon, and unite the kingdom under a single rule. He had defeated
every opponent sent against him and overcome every obstacle. All
this had been accepted by Kallendbor, if never appreciated. Now,
perhaps, even acceptance was in question.
Kallendbor met them at the palace doors, resplendent in crimson
robes and jewels, accompanied by his advisors and current
favorites. He was a tall, well-built man with hak and beard so red
they shone almost gold in the sunlight. His hands and forearms were
callused and marked with bat-tie scars. He stood waiting for them
to approach, arrogant head held erect, giving the impression that
he was looking down on them, that he was lending them his time and
atten-
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i87
tion out of the generosity of his heart. His attitude did not
bother Abemathy; the scribe was well used to it. Nevertheless, he
did not appreciate the deliberate insolence.
"Lord Kallendbor," Abernathy greeted, foremost of the three as they
came up to him, and inclined his head slightly.
"Scribe," the other replied with an even slighter bow.
"Awk! Mighty Lord! Mighty Lord!" Biggar squawked.
Kallendbor blinked. "What's this we have here? A trained bird?
Well, now. Is this gift for me, perhaps?" He was suddenly beaming.
"Of course it is! Very well chosen, Abernathy."
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Now here was an opportunity that Abernathy would have given almost
anything for—a chance to get rid of Biggar. Abernathy had not liked
the bkd from day one and the bird had not liked him—and each knew
how the other felt. There was something about Biggar that bothered
Abernathy more than he could say. He couldn't define what it was
exactly, but it was most certainly there. He had not wanted the
bird on this trip; he had argued against it vehemently. But Horris
Kew insisted that the bkd must accompany them, and in the end—in
large part because the mind's eye crystals were the conjurer's
offering and the entire reason for the journey—the bkd went.
Abernathy opened his mouth to speak, to tell Kallendbor that, yes,
indeed, the bird was all his. He was too slow.
"My Lord, forgive me for letting this poor creature distract you
from our purpose in coming to see you," Horris Kew interjected
quickly. "The bkd, alas, is not a gift. He is my companion, my sole
treasure in this world from my old life and the people who meant so
much to me, who gave me all that I have and made me what I am. You
understand, I am sure." He was speaking very quickly. "The bird,
truth be told, is an unpleasant sort, given to fits of temper and
biting. You would not be happy with him."
As if to emphasize the point, Biggar reached over and pecked hard
at Horris Kew's ear. "Ow! There, you see!"
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THE TANGLE BOX
Horns took a swipe at Biggar, who flew off a few yards before
settling back down on the other's shoulder, alert for further
attempts.
"Why am I not offered this bird if I wish it?" Kallendbor demanded,
his face darkening. "Are you saying I cannot have this bird if it
pleases me?"
Abernathy was thinking that this was the end of the crystal
distribution program, that they might all just as well turn around
and go home right now—except for Biggar, who, it appeared, was
destined to stay.
"My Lord, the bird is yours if you wish him," Horns Kew declared at
once. Biggar squawked anew. "But you should know that he speaks
very little, and what he said just now—'Mighty Lord'—is a phrase he
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learned from the King. In other words, the King taught him to say
that about himself."
Abernathy stared. There was a very long silence. Kallendbor flushed
and straightened further, looking as if he might explode. Then
slowly the dangerous color drained away.
"Never mind, I don't wish him after all," he said^disdain-fully.
"If he is mine to take, that is enough. Let Holiday keep him." He
took a steadying breath. "Now, then. Since we have dispensed with
the matter of this bird, what is it you wish?"
"My Lord," Horris Kew said, jumping in again before Abernathy could
speak, "you were right in your assumption. We do bring you a gift,
something far more intriguing and useful than a bird. It is called
a mind's eye crystal."
Kallendbor was interested once more. "Let me see it."
This time Abernathy was quicker. "We would be happy to show it to
you, my Lord, perhaps inside where it is cooler and we can be shown
to the quarters that I am sure you have arranged for us as envoys
of the King."
Kallendbor smiled, not a pleasant sight. "Of course, you
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189
must be exhausted. Riding is hard for you, I expect Come this way."
Abernathy did not miss the intended snub, but he ignored it and the
little company followed Kallendbor and his retinue inside to the
great hall. Glasses of ale drawn from casks kept cooled in the deep
waters of the Bairn and the Cosselburn, the rivers bracketing
Rhyndweir, were brought and arrangements were begun for rooms and
baths. Kallendbor took them over to an area before a series of
doors that opened onto a training field and seated them in a circle
of chairs. Most of his retinue was left standing, gathered at their
master's shoulder.
"Now, then, what of this gift?" Kallendbor asked anew.
"It is this, my Lord," Horris Kew declared, and produced from his
clothing one of the mind's eye crystals.
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Kallendbor accepted the crystal and studied it with a frown. "It
doesn't look to be precious. What is its worth? Wait!" He leaned
forward, looking now at Abernathy. He pointed at Horris Kew. "Who
is this?"
"His name is Horris Kew," the scribe answered, resisting the urge
to add more. "He is at present in service to the King. He is the
discoverer of these crystals."
"These crystals?" Kallendbor turned back to Horris Kew. "There are
more than one? How many are there?'
"Thousands," the conjurer replied, smiling. "But each is special.
Hold it before you, my Lord, so that it catches the light and then
look into it"
Kallendbor studied him suspiciously for a moment, then did as he
was bidden. He held the crystal out to catch a streamer of
sunlight, then bent down to peer into its depths. He remained that
way until the crystal seemed to ignite with white fire, then gasped
and jerked back sharply, but kept his eyes fixed. Suddenly he was
open mouthed, bending close once more, a bright gleam in his eyes.
"No, is it so?" he muttered. "Is it possible?"
Then he snatched the crystal from view, shutting off its
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light and whatever the light had shown him. "All of you, out!" he
demanded to those peering over his shoulder expectantly. "Now!"
They disappeared with surprising quickness, and when they were gone
Kallendbor looked again at Horris Kew. "What are these?" he hissed.
"What power do they command?"
Horris seemed confused. "Why, they ... they offer visions of many
things, my Lord—visions peculiar to each holder. They are a
diversion, nothing more."
Kallendbor shook his head. "Yes, but ... do they show the future,
perhaps? Tell me that."
"Well, yes, perhaps," Horris Kew went along, no fool he. "To some,
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of course, not to everyone."
And suddenly Abernathy found himself wondering if perhaps it was
so. Horris himself did not seem to know the truth of the matter,
but what if Kallendbor's guess was right? Did that mean that the
visions shown might come to pass? Did it mean that Abernathy might
be seeing himself not as he had been but as he would be again? «
"The future," Kallendbor whispered, lost in thought. "Yes, it might
be so."
Whatever he had seen had certainly pleased him, Abernathy thought,
barely interested in what that might be, too caught up in
considering his own use of the crystal. His chest constricted with
the emotions that gathered at the prospect that he might become a
man again. If it could only be true!
"How many of these do you have?" Kallendbor demanded suddenly.
Horris Kew swallowed, not sure where this was leading. "As I said,
thousands, my Lord."
"Thousands. How much do they cost?"
"Nothing, my Lord. They are free."
Kallendbor seemed to choke on something. "Have you given many out
yet?"
Terry Brooks 191
"Yes, my Lord, many. It is our purpose in coming to the
Greensward—to give these crystals to the people so that they may be
amused by what they see in them when their daily work is done. Of
course, for you, my Lord," he added quickly, not missing an
opportunity when he saw one, "they perhaps offer something more."
"Yes, something more." Kallendbor thought. "I have an idea. Allow
me to distribute those crystals intended for the other Lords of the
Greensward. I shall pass them about in the King's name, of course.
That would save you visiting each stronghold and leave you free to
visit the common people."
It was not a request. Horris Kew looked at Abernathy for help.
Abernathy surmised what Kallendbor intended. He would not give the
mind's eye crystals to the other Lords for nothing; he would charge
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dearly. Probably he would tell them that these crystals, unlike
those given for free to the working people, foretold the future.
But Abernathy frankly didn't care one way or the other. News would
travel fast enough. Let Kallendbor deal with his neighbors as he
chose.
Abernathy shrugged. "Of course, my Lord," he replied. "Whatever you
wish."
Kallendbor stood up abruptly. "Your rooms are ready. Wash and rest
until dinner. We will speak more of this then." He turned from
them, and it was apparent that he could barely restrain himself
from peering once more at his crystal. "Oh, yes. Ask my servants if
you require anything."
He went out the door as if catapulted, and was gone.
Alone in his room, Abernathy bathed, dressed, drank another glass
of the fine, cold ale, and settled back in his bed, I stretched
full-length across its covering. He took his crystal It from where
he kept it hidden, held it up to the light, and pf stared into it.
He was practiced in its use by now, to the extent such practice was
needed, and the light and images
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came at once. He watched himself appear in his old form, a young
man with a bright, happy smile and an expectant look, rather
handsome for his bookish appearance, rather appealing. He was
playing with children and there was a woman watching, pretty and
shy. Abernathy felt his breath catch in his throat. There had never
been a woman in his life before, no wife, no lover, and yet here
one was now. The future, perhaps? Was it possible he was seeing
what would be?
He closed his hand over the crystal abruptly and focused everything
on the idea. The future. Anything was possible, wasn't it? What
would he give if it were so? He knew the answer without asking. He
stared up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the old mortarwork, at
the faded paint that had once clearly detailed a pageant of some
sort. Like his past, time had faded the event. So much of what once
was had been lost in the passing of the years and in the changes
wrought. He would not wish to recapture much, he told himself. Just
the essence of who he was. Just the whole of who he had been. *
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He thought suddenly of Ben Holiday, who had been so anxious to
leave his past behind. The King had few memories to sustain him,
and the changes he had sought had been not of lifestyle but of
life. It was not so with Abernathy, but there were parallels to be
drawn. He wondered where Holiday was, what had become of him. There
remained no trace of the King, no sign of him anywhere, though the
search had been long and thorough and was continuing still. It was
disturbing mat he should vanish so utterly; it did not bode well
for any of them if he was gone for good. Another King could bring
changes that were not necessarily welcome. Another King would not
possess Holiday's strength of character and determination. For
another King, the magic might not work.
He drank the last of his ale, sitting on the edge of his bed,
dejected. Nothing seemed right with Holiday gone. Ev-
Terry Brooks 793
erything seemed disrupted and out of joint. He wished that there
were something he could do to change things.
Bunion had gone out to scout the surrounding countryside, to see if
there was anything to be learned of the missing King. Perhaps he
would find something in his quest. Perhaps something good would
come of this trek through the Greensward. Perhaps.
Abernathy lay back upon his bed once more and held his crystal out
to catch the light.
Kallendbor did not appear for dinner. Neither did Bunion. Horris
Kew and Abernathy ate dinner alone with Biggar looking on from the
back of the conjurer's chair like some foul omen of doom. Abernathy
tried to ignore him, but it was difficult since the bird was
sitting directly across the table, staring down malevolently from
his perch. Abernathy couldn't help himself. At one point, when
Horris wasn't looking, he bared his teeth at the bird.
Biggar told Horris about it later, but Horris wasn't interested.
They were back hi their room, sitting in near darkness with but a
single candle burning on the bedside table. Horris was seated on
the bed, and Biggar was hunched down on the deep window ledge.
"He growled at me, I tell you!" the bird was insisting. "He
practically snapped at me!"
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Horris was looking about the room nervously. The tic was working
furiously at the corner of his eye. "Growled at you? I didn't hear
anything."
"Well, all right, maybe he didn't actually growl." Biggar was not
up to hair-splitting. "But he showed all of his considerable teeth,
and there was no mistaking his intent! Horris, pay attention, will
you? Quit looking all over the place!"
Horris Kew was indeed scanning the room end to end. He stopped long
enough to stare at Biggar in a rather bar-
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BOX
tied, suspicious manner. Tic, tic went the eye. The bird cocked his
head. "Are you all right, Horris?"
Horris nodded doubtfully. "I keep seeing something ..." He gestured
vaguely. "Out there." He shrugged. "Sometimes in the shadows of
trees and buildings, and sometimes at night in dark corners I think
I see it. I feel like I'm being watched." He took a deep breath. "I
think it might be here."
"The Gorse?" Biggar sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. How could it be
here? It never leaves the cave. You're imagining things."
Horris hugged his lanky frame as if cold. His plow-blade nose
thrust forward. "I keep thinking about Holiday and the witch and
the dragon and what it did to them. I keep worrying that you were
right, that it might do the same to us."
"Well, you can't say I didn't warn you." Biggar felt an immense
satisfaction at the admission. "On the other hand, we've gone a bit
far with this crystal business to bj: worried about that now."
Horris rose and walked about the room uneasily, checking into
corners and behind furniture. Biggar cocked his white-crested head.
A waste of time, he was thinking. If the Gorse doesn't want to be
seen, it won't be. Not a creature like that.
"Will you sit down and relax?" he said irritably. Horris was making
him nervous.
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Horris moved back to the bed and seated himself once more. "Do you
know what the Gorse said when I asked what would become of Holiday
and the others in the Tangle Box?"
Biggar couldn't remember and didn't care. But he said, "What,
Horris, tell me."
"It said they would become entangled in me fairy mists. It said
that the spell of forgetfulness would start them down a road that
had no end. They would not know who they
Terry Brooks 195
were. They would not remember from where they had come. They would
be sealed away in the mists, and the mists would play with them and
eventually drive them mad." Horris shuddered. "The Gorse said it
would take a very long time to happen."
"None of this is our concern," Biggar sniffed. "We have enough to
worry about as it is."
"I know, I know." Horris fidgeted and looked off into the shadows
as if he had heard something. "I just can't stop thinking about
it."
Biggar was disgusted. "Well, you better find a way to stop thinking
about it. We have a lot to lose if this crystal-giving program
doesn't work out the way the Gorse expects. On the other hand, we
have a lot to gain if it does. For the Gorse, Landover is a
stepping-stone to other things, but for us it's the pot of gold at
the end of the rainbow. If we stick to business, we can do a lot
better than we did with Skat Mandu."
"I know, I know."
"Stop saying that—I hate it when you're condescending!"
Horris came to his feet, shaking with anger. "Shut up, Biggar! I'll
be condescending if I choose!" He wrung his hands and swept the
room with his eyes. "I know what to do, and I'll do it! I've been
doing it right along, haven't I? But I don't like being watched! I
don't like the idea of someone being there when I can't see them!"
1 Biggar spit. "Horris, for the last time, the Gorse isn't here!"
Horris clenched his fists in frustration. "But what if it is?"
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"Yes, what if I am," the Gorse said from the shadowy depths of the
clothes cabinet, and Horris fainted dead away.
When it was done with them, when it had frightened them both so
thoroughly that it was satisfied they would
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do exactly as it wanted them to and not step one inch outside the
lines it had directed them to follow, the Gorse went down the
outside wall of the castle like a spider. Once on the ground, it
changed to a man and went out through the gates to the town beyond.
It was getting easier to move about, its magic growing stronger the
longer it was free of the fairy mists and the Tangle Box. It was
now able to assume different forms. It could be anything or anyone
it wished.
It smiled inside to think of the possibilities.
Horris and the bird were idiots, but useful idiots, and the Gorse
intended to keep them just long enough to complete its plan for
Landover's destruction. After that, it would dispense with them.
They had not expected it to come with them on their journey. They
could not fathom how it had managed to do so. Well, a few more
surprises awaited them on &is trip. It was best to keep them just a
little off balance, a little uncertain. They could say what they
wished about it as long as they worried when they did. A little
fear was a useful thing.
Once outside the castle and the town, the Gorse shape-changed once
more and moved off toward a darkened stretch of woods in the
countryside beyond, becoming barely more than a shadow skimming
over the land. Worried for Holiday, the witch, and the dragon, were
they? Well, they should worry. It could happen to them just as
easily. It could be as terrible as they imagined. Surely his three
captives in the Tangle Box must be wishing they could escape their
nightmare existence just about now. They must wonder what it would
take. Too bad they would never know.
It reached the woods and gathered its magic to summon up the demons
of Abaddon. Time for another conference. Their entry into Landover
was not far off. The Gorse
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wanted them ready and waiting. Lines of fire speared downward from
its hands into the earth.
The answering rumble of discontent came almost immediately.
Gristlies
L-t
The Knight, the Lady, and the Gargoyle followed the river
downstream through the Labyrinth for the remainder of that day and
all the next. It broadened at times so that the far bank
disappeared entirely in the mist, and the flat, gray surface
stretched away like smooth stone. No fish jumped from its depths;
no birds flew over its surface. Bends and twists came and went, but
the river flowed on unchanged and unending.
They encountered no other people, River Gypsies or otherwise. They
saw no animals, and the small movements that caught their attention
came from the deep shadows of the forest and were gone in the blink
of an eye.
The Knight searched often for the Haze, but there was no sign of
it. He thought long and hard on its origins, compelled to do so by
his certainty that it was somehow tied to them. There was, as the
Gargoyle had said, a hunger in the way it came after them. It
tracked them for a reason, and the reason was somehow connected to
why they were 198
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trapped in the Labyrinth. He could not see or hear the Haze, but he
could sense its presence. It was always there, just out of sight,
waiting.
But what was it waiting for?
On the evening following her rescue from the Gypsies, the Lady
asked the Knight why he had come after her. They were seated in the
gloom as the last of the day's faint light filtered away into
darkness, staring out at the mist as it crawled out of the trees
toward the river. They were alone; the Gargoyle had gone off by
himself, as he frequently did at night.
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"You could have left me and gone on," she observed, her voice cool
and questioning. "I thought you had done so."
"I would not have done that," he replied, not looking at her.
"Why? Why bother with me? Am I really so important to your master
that you would risk your life for me? Am I such a rare treasure
that you would die before losing me?"
He stared off into the dark without answering.
She brushed at her long black hair. "I am your possession, and you
would not let anyone take your possessions from you. That is why
you came for me, isn't it?"
"You do not belong to me," he said.
"Your master's possession, then. A chattel you dare not lose for
fear of offending him. Is that it?"
He looked at her and found derision and bitterness in her eyes.
"Tell me something, my Lady. What do you remember of your life
before waking in the Labyrinth?"
Her lips tightened. "Why should I tell you?"
He held her gaze, not looking away this time when the anger sparked
and burned at him. "I remember almost nothing of my own life. I
know I was a Knight in service to a King. I know I have fought
hundreds of battles on his behalf and won them all. I know we are
tied together somehow, you and I and, I think, the Gargoyle as
well. Something happened to me to bring me to this place and
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200 THE TANGLE BOX
time, but I cannot recall what it was. It is as if my whole life
has been stolen away."
He paused. "I am tired of not answering your questions because I
have no answers to give. I do not know the name of the master I
serve. I do not even know my own name. I do not know where I came
from or where I was going to. I came for you not out of loyalty to
a master I do not remember or to fulfill an obligation that I
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cannot recall, but because you are all I have left to hold onto of
my life before coming here. If I lose you, if I give you up,
nothing would remain."
She stared at him, and the anger and bitterness dimmed. In their
place there showed understanding and a hint of fear. "I cannot
remember anything either," she said softly, speaking the words as
if it caused her pain to do so. "I was important and strong, and I
knew what I was about. I had magic once."
Her voice caught in her throat, and he thought she might cry. She
did not. She regained control of herself and continued. "I think
that magic sent me here. I think you are right, that we were
together before and sent here for the same reason. But I think,
too, that it was your fault that it happened, not mine."
He nodded. 'That may be."
"I blame you for this."
He nodded again. "I am not offended."
"But I am glad that you are here and that you came for me, too."
He was too astonished to reply.
On the second night, when the Gargoyle had disappeared into the
growing darkness and they were hunkered down by the riverbank, she
spoke to him again. She was wrapped in her cloak as if cold,
although the air was warm and humid, and there was no wind.
"Do you think we shall escape this place?" she asked in a very
small voice.
Terry Brooks 201
, "We shall escape," he replied, for he still believed they wduld.
"The forest and this river go on and do not show any sign of
ending. They show no change. The mists still wrap us about and
close us away. There are no people or animals. There are no birds."
She shook her head slowly. "There is magic everywhere; it controls
everything in the Labyrinth. You may not be able to feel it, but I
do. It is a place of magic, and without magic to aid us we shall
not escape."
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"There will be a town or a pass through mountains or—"
"No," she interrupted, her slim white hand coming up quickly to
stop him. "No. There will be nothing but the river and the forest
and the mists forever. Nothing."
He woke early the following morning, having spent an uneasy, mostly
sleepless night. The Lady's words haunted him, a grim prophecy he
could not forget. She was sleeping still, curled into her cloak in
the tall grass, her face serene and smooth, no trace of anger or
despair, no hint of bitterness or fear. She was very beautiful
lying there, all pale skin and dark hair, flawless and perfect, the
coldness that sometimes marked her when she was awake replaced in
sleep by softness.
He looked down at her, and he wondered what they had been to each
other before coming into the Labyrinth.
After a moment, he rose and went down to the river's |f edge. He
splashed water on his face and wiped himself dry. When he rose, the
Gargoyle was standing next to him. The beast had cast off his
cloak. Dew glistened on the bare | patches .of his bristly hide,
like water on a reptile newly risen from the river's depths. His
wings hung ribbed and |-listless against his hunched back. His
face, so ugly and mis-§ shapen, seemed contemplative as he looked
out over the I river. He did not speak at first, but simply stood
there.
"Where do you go at night?" the Knight asked him.
The Gargoyle smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "Into the
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woods where the shadows are thickest. I sleep better there than in
the open." He looked at the Knight. "Did you think I was off
hunting down and eating small creatures too slow and soft to escape
me? Or that I was performing some diabolical blood rite?"
The Knight shook his head. "I did not think anything. I simply
wondered."
The Gargoyle sighed. "The truth is, I am a creature of habit. We
spoke of what we remembered—or did not remember? I remember my
habits best. I am ugly and despised by most; it is a fact of my
life. Since I am loathsome to others, I take comfort in keeping to
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myself. I search out the places others would not go. I conceal
myself in darkness and shadows and the privacy of my own company.
It works best for me when I do."
He looked away again. "I did eat other creattres once. I ate
whatever I chose and traveled wherever I wished. I could fly. I
soared the skies unfettered, and there was nothing that could hold
me." The yellow eyes shifted back. "But something changed that, and
I think it is tied somehow to you."
The Knight blinked. "To me? But I do not even remember you."
"Odd, isn't it? I heard what the Lady said to you, about how she
believes the Labyrinth is magic. I was listening from the trees. I
think she is right. I think we were somehow transported by magic,
and that magic keeps us prisoners. Do you feel it as well?"
The Knight shook his head. "I don't know."
"The Labyrinth does not feel like any real place," the Gargoyle
said. "It lacks the small things that would make it so. It feels
artificial, as if it were created by dreams, where everything
happens a short step out of time from how we know things to be. Did
you not sense it to be so with that town and after the Gypsies?
Magic would do that, and I think it has done so here."
Terry Brooks 203
"If so," the Knight said quietly, "then the Lady is also right when
she says we shall not escape."
But the Gargoyle shook his head. "It only means that since magic
brought us in, magic must take us, out. It means we must look for
our escape in a different way."
The Knight stared off again. What other way was there? he wondered.
He could not think of any. They lacked magic themselves; to sustain
them they had only the weapons he carried and their wits. That
didn't seem enough.
They followed the river again that day, and nothing changed. The
river rolled on, the forest stretched away, and the mist and gray
permeated everything. The Labyrinth's sameness was growing almost
unbearable. The Knight found himself imagining that the ground they
were covering now was the same ground they had covered before. He
found himself catching sight of landmarks he recognized and
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geography he knew. It was impossible, of course. They had gone on
the same way without once turning back, so there was no chance that
they could be repeating their Steps. Still, the feeling persisted,
and it began to wear at the Knight's resolve.
They camped at a bend in the river where the forest came almost to
the water's edge and they could settle themselves back within its
shelter. They did so because the Knight wanted the Gargoyle to be
able to sleep with them and not have to go off by himself. The
creature was scarred already by his hideous appearance, and it
seemed cruel that he should be compelled to hide himself away from
them each night. They were companions on this journey and had only
themselves for support. They must do what they could to keep the
bond between them strong. Even the Lady had quit baiting the
Gargoyle, had ceased referring to him in derogatory terms, and had
begun to speak to him in a civil tone now and again. It was a
start, the Knight believed.
His thoughtfulness was rewarded when the Gargoyle did not go off
into the dark, but curled up only a few feet off,
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in the shadow of an old shade tree. For this night, at least, he
would sleep with them.
Rough hands brought them awake, pulling them from their sleep as if
they were logs from a woodpile. The Knight came to his feet with a
bound, staring about wildly. How had they managed to get so close
without his hearing them? The Lady was pressed against him, and he
could hear the harsh sound of her breathing. The Gargoyle was
hunched down a few feet off, yellow eyes gleaming in the faint new
light.
There were monsters all about them, ringing their camp and closing
off any avenue of escape. There wtre at least a dozen huge, gnarly
brutes, standing upright on two legs, but bent over in a half
crouch as if they might be just as comfortable going down on all
fours. They were vaguely manlike in appearance—two legs, two arms,
a torso, hands and feet, and a head—but their bodies were knotted
and muscled grotesquely and covered with some sort of rough hide.
Their faces were almost featureless, but their eyes and snouts
gleamed wetly as they peered at their three captives.
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One of them spoke, his mouth splitting wide to reveal huge fangs.
He gibbered at them, a mixture of snorts and grunts. He gestured
vaguely, first at them, then at the river, and finally at the
forest.
"They want to know where we come from," the Lady said.
The Knight stared at her in surprise. "Do you understand them?"
She nodded. "I do. I can't explain it. I've never seen them before.
I don't speak their language. I am not even able to put words to
all of the sounds. But the meaning is clear. I can decipher it.
Here, let me see if I can make them understand me."
She made a few deft motions with her fingers and hands.
Terry Brooks 205
The creature who had spoken grunted some more. Then he looked about
at his fellows and shook his head.
"They want to know what we are doing here. They say we don't
belong, that we are intruders." The Lady had stepped away again
from the Knight, her composure recovered. "They don't like the
look' of us."
"What sort of things are they?" the Gargoyle growled, his own teeth
showing.
There was another exchange. "They call themselves Gristlies," the
Lady reported. Her face tightened. "They say that they are going to
eat us."
"Eat us?" The Knight could not believe he had heard right.
"They say we are humans and humans are to be eaten. I can't make
all of it out. It has something to do with custom."
"They had better keep away from me," the Gargoyle hissed. His
muscles bunched into iron cords, and his claws came out. He was on
the verge of doing something that would doom them all.
The Gristlies had engaged in a new discussion, all of them grunting
loudly and gesturing. There was apparently some sort of
disagreement. The Knight made a quick appraisal of the beasts. All
of them were huge, and any two more than a match for him in a
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contest of strength. He felt the weight of his broadsword on his
back. The sword would give them a better chance, but still there
were too many to stand against. He had to find a way to even the
odds.
: The Gargoyle had been thinking the same thing. "We will have to
make a run for it," he rasped. "• "Stay where you are." The
Lady's voice was cool and ealm. "They are arguing over what is to
be done with us. •They are very primitive and superstitious.
Something about gjjs bothers several among them. Let me try to
determine swhat it is."
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The argument continued, sharper now. Fangs bared, claws unsheathed,
two of the Gristlies began growling at each other. They were
ferocious-looking creatures, and the Knight began to suspect that
they were much quicker and stronger than he had first believed.
"We have to get out of this circle," he said quietly, and his hand
stole back toward the handle of his sword.
In that instant, the two combative Gristlies attacked each other,
tearing and ripping and shrieking horribly. Their fellows fell back
before the onslaught, and the circle about the Knight and his
companions collapsed. Instantly the Gargoyle bolted for the river.
The Knight followed, pulling the Lady after him. To their surprise,
the Gristlies did not give chase. The Knight looked back over his
shoulder as he ran, but no one was there. From the shadow of the
trees came the sounds of the battle between the two who had argued.
Improbable as it seemed, the captives no longer appeared to matter.
They had reached the river's edge and were looking for a way to
cross over when the Gristlies reappeared. It was immediately
apparent why they had been in no hurry. They bounded from the trees
like cats, covering ground so fast that they were upon the three in
seconds. There were only seven now, but they looked formidable in
the dim light, massive bodies uncoiling, claws and teeth gleaming
like knives.
"Draw your sword!" the Lady cried in warning, and, when he was too
slow to act, seized the weapon in her own hands and tried to draw
it free.
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"Don't!" he snapped, breaking her grip and thrusting her away.
She held her ground furiously. The Gristlies slowed and began
circling. "Listen to me!" she snapped. "Your sword does more than
you think! Remember the townsfolk? Remember the Gypsies? It was
when you drew your sword and did battle that the Haze appeared!"
Terry Brooks ''- 207
He stared at her in disbelief. "No! There is no connection!" ,,
"There must be!" she hissed. "We have seen the Haze no other time.
And when it comes, it never comes for us, only for those who
threaten us! The two must be joined in some way! The Sword and the
Haze, both weapons that eliminate our enemies! Think!"
She was breathing hard, and her pale face was bright with
perspiration. The Gargoyle had moved close to them, keeping his
sharp eyes fixed on the circling Gristlies. "She may be right," he
said quietly. 'Take heed of her." The Knight shook his head
stubbornly. "No!" he said again, thinking, How could that be, how
could it possibly ... ?
And suddenly he knew. The truth appeared like a beast come out of
hiding, monstrous and terrible. He should have recognized it
earlier; he should have seen it for what it was. He had suspected a
link between the Haze and themselves, known there was a tie he
could not fathom. He had thought all this time that the Haze hunted
after them, a stalker awaiting its chance to strike. He had been
wrong. The Haze did not track after them; it traveled with them.
Because it belonged to him. The Haze was his missing armor. He went
cold to the bone. His armor had not been there j, when he awoke in
the Labyrinth, and yet he had sensed it * close at hand. His armor
had always been like that, hidden, I awaiting its summons. It came
on command and wrapped |. itself about him so that he could do
battle against his ene-; pies. That was how it worked.
But here, in the mists of the Labyrinth, its form had been IP
altered. Magic had subverted it, had poisoned it, had made | it
over into a thing that was unrecognizable. His armor had fjbecome
the Haze. It must be so. Why else would the Haze tjeome to their
rescue each time they were threatened and
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then retreat back into the mists? What other explanation was there?
He could not breathe, the cold so deep inside him that he was
paralyzed. It was true, as he had feared, that he was responsible
for the deaths of all those people, that he had destroyed the
townsfolk and the River Gypsies, that he had killed them all in his
warrior's guise without even realizing what he was doing.
He stood there, stunned by the impact of his recognition. "No," he
whispered in despair.
He felt the Lady's hands on his shoulders, bracing him, trying to
give him strength. The Gristlies were edging closer, emboldened by
his indecision, by his inability to act. "Do something!" the Lady
cried. The Gargoyle made a quick feint at the Gristlies, but the
foremost only snarled in challenge and held its ground.
"I have no magic!" the Lady wailed in despair, shaking the Knight
violently.
He shook her off then, come back to himself, recognizing their
danger. The Lady was powerless. The Gargoyle was overmatched. They
needed him if they were to survive. But if he drew his broadsword
the Haze would come, destroying these creatures as it had destroyed
the townsfolk and the River Gypsies—and he could not bear that. But
what other weapon did he possess? In desperation, almost without
thinking about what he was doing, he reached into his tunic and
pulled out the medallion with its graven image of a knight riding
out of a castle at sunrise. He yanked it free and held it forth
before him, as if it were a talisman. What he hoped it would do, he
did not know. He knew only that it was all he possessed from his
former life, and that it had the same feel of strangeness and
remoteness as his armor.
The effect of its appearance on the Gristlies was astonishing. They
cringed away from it instantly, some dropping to their knees, some
shielding their eyes, all shrinking from
Terry Brooks 209
it as if it were anathema to them. Whining, weeping, shivering with
fear and awe, they began to withdraw. The Knight lifted the
medallion higher and took a step toward them. They broke and ran
then, bolting for the trees as if pursued by demons, all the fight
taken out of them, anxious only to put as much distance between
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themselves and the medallion as they could manage. They bounded
away on all fours and were gone.
Why? the Knight wondered in amazement.
In the silence that followed, his breathing was audible. His hands
lowered to his sides, and he lifted his face to the mists.
The Lady went to the Knight and stood so that her face was directly
before his. He did not see her; he was staring straight ahead at
nothing, his eyes dangerously fixed and empty.
"What did you do?" she asked quietly.
He did not answer.
"You saved us. Nothing else matters."
He made no response.
"Listen to me," she told him. "Forget about the people of mat town,
and forget the Gypsies. What happened to them was not your fault.
You could not have known. You did what you had to do. If you had
acted otherwise, we would be dead or imprisoned."
The Gargoyle hunched down at her elbow, his cloak pulled about him,
his face hidden away. "He does not hear
The Lady nodded. Her voice hardened. "Would you I abandon us now?
Would you give up on yourself because this? You have killed men all
your life as a King's Champion. It is the essence of who you are.
Can you deny this? Look at me." His eyes did not move. There were
tears in them.
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She reached out and slapped him hard three times, each slap a sharp
crack in the silence. "Look at me!" she hissed.
He did then, the life coming back into his eyes as they turned to
meet hers. She waited until she was certain he saw her. "You did
what you should have done. Accept that sometimes the consequences
are harsh and unforeseen. Accept that you cannot always allow for
every result. There is nothing wrong in this."
"Everything," he whispered.
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"They threatened us!" she snapped. "They might have killed us! Is
it wrong that we killed them first? Is your guilt such that you
would give them their lives at the cost of ours? Have you lost all
reason? Where is your great strength? I would not have you for my
keeper if it is gone! I would not be taken by such a man! Give me
my freedom if you are so compromised!"
He shook his head. "I acted out of instinct, but I should have used
judgment. There is no excuse."
"You are pathetic!" she sneered. "Why do I waste my time with you?
I owe you nothing! I am trapped in this world because of you, and I
don't even know why that is so! You have stolen away my life; you
have stripped me of my magic! Now you would deny us the protection
of your own small measure as well! Don't use it, you would say,
because it might cause harm! You would pity those who try to
destroy us because we must destroy them first!"
His lips tightened. "I pity anything that must die at my hands."
"Then you are nothing! You are less than nothing! Look about you
and tell me what you see! This is a world of mist and madness, Sir
Knight! Could it be that you have failed to notice? It will destroy
us quickly enough if we underestimate its dangers or show weakness
in the face of its considerable strengths! Stand on your hind legs,
or you are just another dog!"
"You know nothing of me!"
Terry Brooks 211
"I know enough! I know you have lost your nerve! I know you are no
longer able to lead us!" Her face was as cold and hard as ice. "I
am stronger now than you. I can make my own way! Stay on your
knees, if you must! Stay here and wallow in your pity! I want
nothing more to do with you!"
She started to rise, shoving past the Gargoyle. The Knight reached
out, grasped her arm, and pulled her back down before him. "No!" he
shouted. "You will not leave!"
The Lady swung at him with her fist, but he blocked the blow. She
swung again, but he caught her wrist. She looked into his face and
found it hard-edged and taut. The weakness was gone from his eyes.
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"When you leave," he hissed at her, "you will leave with me!"
She stared at him without speaking. Then her free hand came up
slowly and touched his cheek. She felt him flinch, and she smiled.
She let her fingers trail down to his neck and drop away.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
Handful of Dust
Abernathy stopped halfway down the stairs leading from his bedroom
to the great hall of Rhyndweir and listened in dismay. At the foot
of the stairs, Kallendbor was screaming at Horris Kew. At the gates
of the fortress, the people of the Greensward were trying to break
through. Across the countryside, there was chaos.
It was not a happy time.
From the start Abernathy had known that something would go wrong
with Horris Kew and the great mind's eye crystal giveaway. He had
known it as surely as he had known his own name. It was so
predictable that it could have been written in stone. Horris Kew
had been involved in a lot of schemes over the years, had come up
with a whole bushel full of ideas for quick fixes and cure-alls,
and not a one of them had ever worked. It was the same story every
time. Things would start out in promising fashion and then
somewhere along the way go haywire. No matter what the
circumstances, the result was always the same. Some-
Terry Brooks 21}
how, some way, Horris Kew invariably lost control of the events he
had set in motion.
In this instance, however, knowing it was so was not enough to save
Abernathy. Knowing didn't do you any good if you didn't also
believe. In truth, Abernathy needed to believe the exact opposite,
because once he accepted that nothing had changed with Horris Kew
and his schemes, even twenty years later, he had to acknowledge
that the mind's eye crystals weren't what they seemed, and he
couldn't possibly bring himself to do that. Abernathy was in the
throes of serious denial. His own wondrous crystal had captivated
him totally. Its visions had enslaved him. He was a prisoner of the
prospect of being forever able to recapture glimpses of his former
self and to live with the hope that what he was seeing might be a
promise of what one day would be again. The visions were his
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private ecstasy, his own secret personal escape from the hard
truths of life. Abernathy had always been a pragmatic sort, but he
was helpless before this particular lure. The more he called the
visions up, the more entranced he became by them. His addiction
progressed from mild to severe. It wasn't just that he found
pleasure in the visions; it was that they offered him the only
escape that meant anything.
So he ignored his suspicions, his innate distrust, and his common
sense, and he accompanied Horris Kew and his hateful bird down the
path to chaos.
Hard evidence of where things were going surfaced quickly enough.
The little company had progressed from Kallendbor and Rhyndweir to
the other parts of the Greensward and to other people who had
learned of the mind's eye crystals and were waiting to see if what
they had heard was true. Crowds gathered at every crossroads and
hamlet, and crystals were passed out by the handfuls. When Horris
Kew failed to visit the remaining Lords—in deference to
Kallendbor's false promise to deliver their crystals himself—the
Lords quickly came to him. Where were their
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crystals? Was there to be none for them? Were they to be deprived
of a treasure given so freely to common folk? Fearing personal harm
and silently cursing Kallendbor for his duplicitous nature, the
conjurer quickly gave them what they wanted. It became clear to
Abernathy that Kallendbor hadn't taken those extra crystals to sell
them. He had taken them to be certain that if his own was lost or
stolen or broken, he would still have others. His greed was
pointless, though. There were more than enough crystals to go
around. The supply appeared inexhaustible. No matter how many were
given out, the number remaining never seemed to diminish. Abernathy
noted this phenomenon, but as with everything else connected with
the great crystal giveaway, he blithely ignored it.
Then the rumors started. There were only a few at first, but the
number quickly grew. People were starting to balk at doing their
work. Farmers were letting thek lands lie fallow and their stock go
untended in the fields. Fences broke and bams collapsed, and
repairs went unmade. Shopkeepers and merchants were opening and
closing when they felt like it and showing little interest in
selling their goods. Some were simply letting their wares be
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stolen, some were giving thek merchandise away. Road and
construction crews were failing to show up for thek jobs. Building
had come to a halt. The courts were down to half-day sessions and
sometimes less than that. Justice was being dispensed in a cavalier
and disinterested manner. Couriers with important dispatches were
arriving days late. The dispatches themselves were being written in
haphazard fashion by scribes. Home life was no better than the
workplace. Husbands and wives were ignoring each other and thek
children. House-cleaning was being left for someone else, and
unwashed dishes and cookware were piling up. No one had clean
clothes. Dogs and cats were going hungry.
The cause of this mass neglect was no secret. Everyone
Terry Brooks 215
was spending every free moment gazing into thek newly acquired
mind's eye crystals.
It was astonishing how quickly things began to fall apart once the
obsession with the crystals set in. One failure led to another, one
moment of disregard to the next, and pretty soon it was like
toppling a line of dominoes. Work could wait, the reasoning went;
after all, there was always tomorrow. Besides, work was boring.
Work was hard. Gazing into the crystals was infinitely more
interesting and enjoyable. It was amazing how quickly time passed
when you peered into thek depths. Why, entire days seemed to
disappear in the blink of an eye!
So it went. And the loss of one day led to the loss of the next.
Everyone quit doing everything, and soon no one was doing anything
except sitting around staring into the crystals. Abernathy knew,
somewhere in the back of his mind, where the truth of things still
flickered with a candle's dim glow, that what was happening to the
people of Landover was also happening to him. But he could not
accept it. He could not give up his use of the crystal, not even
for a single second. Not today—maybe tomorrow. Anyway, things
weren't really so bad, were they?
They were, of course. And they quickly got worse. Abernathy was the
first to discover how bad they would get. One morning, two weeks
out of Rhyndwek, he awakened, reached into his pocket, pulled out
his crystal, summoned up his favorite vision, and watched the gem
turn to dust in the palm of his hand. He stared at it in disbelief,
then in shock, and finally in despak. He waited for it to come back
together again, but it stayed a pile of dust. He carried it to
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Horris Kew, desperate to have it restored. But Horris didn't have a
clue about what was happening. Maybe it was a bad crystal, he
suggested. He would give Abernathy another.
But when he opened the chests to get one, they found both empty.
Not a crystal remained, although Abernathy was certain there had
been crystals the day before or at
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least the day before that—no one was quite sure. Had they somehow
given them all away without realizing it? Where had all the
crystals gone?
They were far out on the eastern border of the Greensward by now,
having visited most of that land and some parts of the Melchor, and
they quickly turned for home. Maybe more crystals could be found on
their return, Abernathy suggested hopefully, trying the very best
he could not to sound too anxious, conscious of Horris and that
stupid bird hanging on his every word. Maybe so, Horris agreed.
Yes, quite possibly so. But he didn't sound like he believed it.
As Abernathy, Bunion, Horris, and the bird journeyed back, new
rumors began to crop up. Crystals everywhere were turning to dust.
People were furious. What was happening? What were they supposed to
do without their visions? Lethargy gave way to violence. Neighbors
turned on one another, looking to beg, borrow, or steal crystals to
replace the ones they had lost. But no one had any to give.
Everyone was in the same terrible position, deprived of what had
been seen initially as a diversion but had evolved all too rapidly
into a necessity of life. The people milled about and bumped up
against each other for a few days in anger and despair, searching
for crystals. Then they did what people always do when they get
frustrated enough— they turned on the government. In this case,
they turned on the Lords of the Greensward. Hadn't they authorized
and facilitated the dispensing of the crystals in the first place?
Surely they must be able to get more.
With single-minded resolve, the people marched on the castle
fortresses of their Lords, determined to seek redress for their
perceived wrongs.
Abernathy should have seen then where things were headed, but he
was still so traumatized over the loss of his own crystal that he
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could not think of anything else. He trudged along despondently,
trying to imagine what life
Terry Brooks 217
would be like if there were no more crystals and the visions were
really gone for good. It was a prospect too awful to contemplate.
He was barely aware of the others and what they were doing. When
Horris and his bird began whispering anxiously at each other and
casting uneasy glances over their shoulders, he failed to pay
attention. When the black-cloaked stranger joined them—absent one
moment, there the next—he didn't see. Even when Bunion reappeared
from one of his frequent scouting patrols and hissed in warning
that there was something wrong with the stranger, Abernathy only
just heard him. He was beyond such concerns, consumed by private
grief, on the edge of slipping away completely.
They arrived at Rhyndweir and found matters in such turmoil that
they almost bypassed the castle completely. But they were without
supplies by now and anxious to discover if Kallendbor still had his
own crystal supply intact. They had heard nothing to suggest
otherwise, and indeed by the time they worked their way past the
crowds jammed up against the gates and gained the interior of the
fortress they discovered that, yes, things were apparently just
fine. Kallendbor met them with self-absorbed indifference, provided
a brief greeting, and then immediately disappeared again. His
crystals were fine, it seemed. Why they remained unaffected when
all the others were turning to dust was a mystery, but it was a
mystery they thought it wise not to pursue. The plan was to spend
the night, replenish supplies, and leave at first light for
Sterling Silver. No lingering about, they decided. None of them
wanted to be there if anything went wrong with Kallendbor's
crystals.
Abernathy retired to his room and stayed there. He wasn't hungry,
so he didn't go down for dinner. He wanted to spend as little time
with Kallendbor as he had to. Bunion disappeared almost immediately
after they arrived, and Abernathy neither knew nor cared where the
kobold had gone. Bunion had escaped the trap of the crystals and
their
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visions. Like most kobolds, he was disinterested in and mistrustful
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of magic and had refused the offer of one early on. Leaving Horns
and Abernathy to manage the great crystal giveaway, Bunion had
spent his time scouring the countryside in search of the missing
Ben Holiday. He had found nothing so far, but he refused to give up
looking. Sooner or later, he was convinced, he would find some
trace of the missing King.
So Abernathy was alone when night set in and the mob at the gates
began to light huge watch fires before the castle, fueling them
with the thatched roofs and wooden walls of the closest of the
city's shops and market stalls. As the fires rose and the heat
built, the mood of the people began to grow uglier and uglier. Soon
they were throwing things against the gates and over the parapets.
Shouts turned mean and threatening. Something had to be done, they
cried, and it had to be done right now! Where were their crystals?
They wanted their crystals back! The castle guards hunkered down
and waited out the storm, their own mood a bit uncertain. Many
among them had lost crystals as well and were sympathetic to the
crowd's demands. Many had friends and relatives out there yelling
up at them. There were some who were leaning toward opening the
gates. The only thing that kept them from doing so was a threadbare
sense of duty, an ingrained force of habit, and a healthy fear of
Kallendbor. It was not clear how long such barriers would keep them
in check.
Kallendbor seemed oblivious to the problem. There had been no sign
of him since they arrived, and Abernathy had been just as grateful.
But when the sound of the mob without began to undergo an ominous
change, he found himself wondering what the Lord of the manor house
was planning on doing about it. Boiling oil would be a likely
choice, if temperament dictated Kallendbor's reaction. But maybe
Kallendbor was ensconced in his private chambers, curled up alone
with his wondrous crystal, gazing into its depths,
Terry Brooks 219
absorbed in what he found there, in the kind of visions that
Abernathy himself had once enjoyed ...
Abernathy squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. It was too
much, really. He was suddenly furious at the prospect of Kallendbor
and his mind's eye crystals. It wasn't enough that he enjoyed the
use of one; he was hoarding several dozen! Shouldn't he be willing
to share one or two with his guests, especially emissaries from the
King himself? Shouldn't custom and good manners dictate it?
Shouldn't a complaint be lodged and a demand be made?
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Abernathy went out of his room in a huff, driven by an itch in his
soul, compelled by a need he could barely comprehend.
So it was that he was halfway down the stairs when he heard the
sound of Kallendbor and Horris Kew arguing over the din of the
crowds outside the castle walls.
"They're gone, charlatan!" Kallendbor was screaming in fury, his
voice echoing up the stairwell from the great hall below. "Every
last one of them, gone! Turned to dust! What do you know of this?"
"My Lord, I don't—"
"You listen to me, you idiot!" Kallendbor wasn't interested in
explanations. "You are responsible for this! I hold you
responsible! You had better find a way to restore them right now,
right this instant, or I will inflict such pain on your body that
you will beg me to put you out of your misery! You and your bird
both!" »
Abernathy caught his breath. So Kallendbor's crystals had turned to
dust as well! He felt both satisfaction and disappointment.
Steeling himself, he crept slowly down the stairs, one cautious
step at a time.
"Well?" Kallendbor's patience had the life span of a moth caught in
a candle's flame.
"My Lord, please, I shall do what I can .. ."
"You shall do what I tell you!" Kallendbor screamed,
220 THE TANGLE BOX
and there was the sound of shaking, of teeth rattling together, and
of Biggar squawking and flying off in a rush.
Abernathy gained a bend in the stairs that allowed him to look down
on what was happening below. Kallendbor was holding Horris Kew off
the floor by his supplicant's robes and shaking him as hard as he
could. The unfortunate conjurer was whipping back and forth in the
big man's grasp like a rag doll, his feet kicking wildly, his head
snapping on his skinny neck. Biggar circled overhead, crying out in
dismay, swooping here and there, looking decidedly undecided about
what to do.
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"Give—me—back—my—crystals!" Kallendbor spit out the demand iike a
curse, giving Horris Kew a punctuating shake with each word
uttered.
"Put him down," a voice said from the shadows.
Kallendbor turned, startled. "What? Who speaks?"
"Put him down," the voice repeated. "He isn't to blame for any of
this."
Kallendbor threw Horris Kew to the floor, where the conjurer lay
twitching and gasping for breath. The Lord of the Greensward
wheeled toward the voice. His hand dropped to his broadsword, the
weapon he always carried. "Who's there? Show yourself!"
A black-cloaked figure detached from the wall to one side,
materializing out of nowhere. It glided into view rather than
walked, all darkness and smooth motion. Abernathy shrank back
instinctively. It was the stranger who had joined them on the road.
How did he come to be here? Had he entered the fortress with them?
Abernathy could not remember him doing so.
"Who are you?" Kallendbor asked sharply, but the edge had
disappeared from his voice and been replaced by a hint of
uncertainty.
"A friend," the stranger answered. He stopped moving a dozen feet
away. Although Abernathy tried, he could not see the man's face.
"You can shake Horris Kew until his
Terry Brooks 221
bones come out of his skin, but that won't get your crystals back.
Horris Kew doesn't have them to give."
Kallendbor stiffened. "How do you know this?"
"I know a good many things," the stranger said. His voice had an
odd hissing quality to it, as if the vocal cords had once suffered
some severe injury. "I know that Horris Kew and his companions are
dupes hi this matter, that they do only what they were instructed
to do, and that they have no more crystals to give you. I know as
well that they did not realize that the crystals they were giving
you would turn to dust after only a short period of use. You have
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been cheated, my Lord. You have been tricked."
Kallendbor's hand tightened on his sword. "Who is responsible for
this? If you know so much, tell me that!"
The stranger was motionless, enigmatic, impenetrable in the face of
the other's rage. "Take your hand away from your weapon. You cannot
hurt me."
There was a long moment of silence. Horris Kew inched carefully
away from Kallendbor, crawling on his hands and knees. Biggar sat
on the edge of the stair banister as if carved from stone.
Abernathy held his breath.
Kallendbor's big hand dropped away. "Who are you?" he repeated once
more, confused.
The stranger ignored the question. "Think a moment," he said
softly. "Who sent you these crystals? Who sent the conjurer and his
bird? Who sent the scribe and the runner? Who do they serve?"
Kallendbor went rigid. "Holiday!" he hissed.
Oh, oh, Abernathy thought.
The stranger laughed, a curiously grating sound. "Do you see now?
How better to weaken your position, my Lord, than to make you seem
a fool? You have been a thorn in the King's side from the
beginning, and he would have you removed for good. When the
crystals turn to dust, me people turn on you. You are their Lord
and therefore must an-
222 THE TANGLE BOX
swer for their misery. The plan works well, don't you think?"
Kallendbor could not seem to manage an answer. He was choking on
whatever he was trying to say.
"There are more crystals to be had," the stranger was saying, his
voice gone smooth and persuasive. Abernathy was leaning forward to
hear every word now. Who was this lying troublemaker? "There is an
entire chamber full of them at Sterling Silver, hidden away for a
time when they are needed. I have seen these crystals myself; there
are thousands and thousands of them. Shouldn't they be yours?"
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For just a moment Abernathy was persuaded. All he could see was a
shimmering pile of the precious crystals, hoarded away like gold,
selfishly kept from those who needed them. But in the next instant
he saw the argument for the lie it was, knowing that Ben Holiday
would never do anything like that, remembering in fact that the
crystals had come from Horris Kew and not until after the King had
disappeared.
He wondered suddenly and for the first time if the two events were
connected somehow.
"There is a simple solution for your problem," the stranger was
saying. He had walked over to Horns Kew and pulled him to his feet
again, seemingly without effort. 'Tell your people the truth of the
matter. Tell them that the crystals are being kept secretly at
Sterling Silver by the King. Tell them to march on his castle and
demand that he give them up! Call together all the Lords of the
Greensward. Have them gather their armies and their subjects and
march them down to the King's doorstep. He cannot refuse all of
you. He cannot withstand you even if he tries."
Kallendbor was nodding, persuaded. "I have had enough of
Holiday—enough of his interference!"
"Perhaps," the stranger whispered thoughtfully, "it is time for a
new King. Perhaps it is time for a man who
Terry Brooks 223
would be more responsive to those like yourself, a man who would
not behave so intractably toward his betters."
Abernathy almost barked. He was not proud of the reaction, but it
was an honest one. He swallowed the sound in a muffled gasp.
"There are those who appreciate the proper uses of power." The
stranger's voice was low and compelling. He made a brief,
encompassing gesture toward Horris Kew. "There are those who
understand the nature of loyalty, who comprehend the realities of
its implementation. In other words, Lord Kallendbor, there are
those who would serve any master who paid the right price."
Horris Kew was staring at the stranger, openmouthed. There was
another long moment of silence.
Then Kallendbor nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps so. Yes, why not? If
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he would agree to certain terms, of course. Yes. Why not make
another King?" Then he shook his head abruptly. "But there is still
Holiday to contend with. It is one thing to demand the release of
the crystals and another altogether to remove him from the throne.
He commands the services of the Paladin, and none can stand against
him."
"Ah, but what if Holiday were to simply vanish?" the stranger asked
in response. He paused meaningfully. "What if he already has?"
Abernathy felt his heart drop. So there it was—the truth at last.
Ben Holiday's disappearance was indeed tied to Horris Kew and his
mind's eye crystals, and all of it was tied to this mysterious
stranger. Something terrible was going on, something that Abernathy
still didn't fully comprehend, but the stranger was most definitely
behind it.
What was he going to do?
He exhaled softly. He didn't know, but whatever it was he would
have to get out of here to do it.
He began to back carefully up the stairs.
Not carefully enough, however. His boot scraped on the
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stone as he turned. It was a small noise, but one pair of ears was
sharp enough to hear it.
"Awk! Someone's there!" Biggar rasped out in warning.
They all wheeled toward the stairs. "Find him!" the stranger hissed
at once.
Abemathy bolted, deciding that it would not be a good idea for him
to be captured at this juncture. He remained upright on two legs
for die first couple of steps, then gave it up and went down on all
fours. Speed took precedence over dignity, and after all a
considerable part of him was dog. He raced up the stairs and down
the hall for his room, not knowing where else to go. He could hear
the flapping of wings behind him and the pounding of boots farther
back. All chance of slipping away quietly in the dead of night was
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gone. What was he going to do? If tfiey found him they would throw
him into the darkest hole in the castle keep. If he was lucky, that
was. Otherwise, they would just eliminate him on the spot.
He reached his room and raced inside, slamming the door shut behind
him and throwing the bolt. The room was shadowed and dark, the
candles not yet lit. He stood gasping for breath with his back to
the door and listened to the beating of wings as Biggar flew past,
shrieking, "Up here! He's hiding here!"
Stupid bird talks a lot better than he lets on, Abernathy thought
darkly, and found himself staring through the gloom at a pair of
yellow eyes that stared back.
"Arf!" he barked, unable to stop himself this time. He flattened
back against the door, frozen in place. He was trapped now on both
sides. He groped through his clothing for a weapon, but he didn't
have one, so he bared his teetii instead. The yellow eyes blinked
curiously, and a familiar face came into view.
"Bunion!" Abernathy gasped in relief, for it was indeed the kobold.
"Am I glad to see you!"
Bunion chittered something in response, but Abernathy
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225
wasn't listening. "We have to get out of here, Bunion. Kallendbor
and Horns Kew and that stranger caught me listening in on them.
They want Holiday off the throne! They have done something to him
already, I think. I will tell you all about it later if you can
just get us out!"
Bunion jumped down off the window ledge where he had been perched,
sped across the room to the door, threw it open, and made a diving
grab for Biggar, who was trying to fly inside. Biggar shrieked and
swooped aside, but Bunion came away with a handful of black
feathers. The bird flew off, crying out in pain and indignation.
Bunion beckoned hurriedly to Abernathy, and the scribe followed him
out the door. Kallendbor and Horns Kew were just round-ing the head
of the stairs. There was no sign of the stranger.
Bunion and Abernathy fled in the opposite direction, both of them
down on al! fours. Like whipped curs, Abernathy thought as he ran.
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They went down a back stairs and along a lower hall and into a
small storage room. There was a hidden passageway behind a section
of the wall, and in seconds they were groping their way through the
dark—or at least Abernathy was, since he lacked Bunion's
extraordinary eyes. It took them a long time, but when the
passageway ended they were outside the castle walls once more.
From there, they made their way back through the mostly sleeping
town and out into the countryside. As they traveled, Abernathy
remembered anew the loss of his crystal. It made him cry, and he
hid his tears from Bunion. But the pain faded after a while,
lessened considerably by the knowledge that the recapturing of his
past had been the gift of a false prophet. Horns Kew had used him,
and that hurt far more than the loss of his visions. As unpleasant
as it was to admit, his self-indulgence had allowed a travesty to
take place, and now perhaps Ben Holiday was paying the price for it
Certainly he must do what he could to salvage the situation, and
that meant getting word to Questor Thews
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as quickly as possible. It would be hard to face the wizard after
what had happened. It would be hard to tell him the truth. Questor
had not taken one of the crystals, after all. He was too stubborn
and proud to accept anything from Horris Kew, Abemathy guessed—and
right in being so, as it turned out. Yes, facing him would be
terribly hard. But it was necessary. Perhaps there was still a way
to put things right.
They slept that night in an old bam some miles south and west of
Rhyndweir. The straw they used for bedding was rife with fleas and
smelled of manure, but Abernathy reasoned that it was minimal
penance to pay for his gross stupidity and a small price for his
freedom. As he lay squirming and shifting in the dark, listening to
Bunion breathe easily next to him, Landover's Court Scribe promised
himself that one day soon there would be a reckoning for all this,
and that when that day came he would make certain that Horris Kew,
his bird, and that black-cloaked stranger got what was coming to
them.
Dream Dance
Night waned toward morning, a slow, dull ebbing of sound and
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motion, and the streets of Greenwich Village grew empty and still.
A few cars and trucks crawled by, aimless and solitary, and people
still meandered the walks, but that was all. The traffic lights
blinked through their sequence of green, yellow, and red with
steady precision, and their colors glared off the concrete where a
light rain had left its gritty sheen. In the doorways and alleys
there were homeless sleeping, ragged lumps of clothing, shadows
hunched down against the gloom. The rank smell of garbage wafted on
the air, mingling with the steam and mist that rose out of me sewer
and subway grates and off the newly washed streets. Somewhere out
in the harbor, a fog horn blew.
Willow walked in silence with Edgewood Dirk, feeling trapped and
alone. She should not have felt that way. Her confidence should
have been higher, her expectations greater. Two-thirds of her
journey to gather the soils of three worlds for the birth of her
child was complete. Only
227
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one leg remained. But it was the one she dreaded most. For as much
as she disliked and abhorred Ben's world with its sprawling cities
that ate away at the land and its almost compulsive disregard for
the sanctity of life, it was the fairy mists that frightened her
most.
It was a difficult fear to reconcile. It grew out of the history of
her people and their deliberate distancing from the mists, their
choice to accept the burdens and responsibilities of reality over
fantasy, their decision to embrace mortality. It grew out of the
stories of what happened to mortals who ventured into the fairy
mists, of the madness that claimed them because they could not
adjust to the dictates of a world where everything was imagined and
nothing fixed. It grew as well out of the Earth Mother's warning to
beware the motives of the fairy people in offering their help, for
in all things they kept their real purposes hidden, secret from
those like her.
She glanced at Edgewood Dirk and wondered what secrets the prism
cat kept from her. How much of what he did was for reasons known
only to him? Was there duplicity in his accompanying her to this
world and the next? She could ask him, but she knew he would not
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answer. Neither the part of him that was fairy nor the part that
was cat would let him tell. He was an enigma by nature, and he
would not give up his identity as such.
So she walked and tried not to diink too hard about what would
happen next. They left the main streets and maneuvered their way
down alleys clogged with garbage bins, debris, and rusting
vehicles. They passed out of street light into misty gloom, the way
forward marked faintly by faraway lamps, a dimly reflected glow on
the building walls. Mist and steam mingled in the close corridor,
shrouding the passageway, cloaking the night. Willow shivered with
its touch and wished she could see the sun again.
Then they were at a gap in the buildings where the haze was so
thick she could see nothing of what lay beyond.
Terry Brooks 229
Dirk slowed and turned, and she knew instantly that all her choices
were gone.
"Are you ready, my lady?" he asked deferentially, unusual for Dirk,
and she was instantly afraid all over again.
"Yes," she replied, and could not tell afterward if she had spoken
the word.
"Stay close to me," he advised, and started to turn.
"Dirk," she called quickly. He glanced back, hesitating. "Is this a
trap?"
The prism cat blinked. "Not of my making," he said. "I cannot speak
for what you might intend. Humans are known well for stumbling into
traps of their own making. Perhaps this will happen to you."
She nodded, folding her arms about herself for warmth. "I am
trusting you in this. I am afraid for myself and my child."
"Trust not the cat," Dirk philosophized, "without a glove."
"I trust you because I must, glove or no. If you deceive me, I am
lost."
"You are lost only if you allow it to happen. You are lost only if
you quit thinking." The cat regarded her steadily. "You are
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stronger than you think, Willow. Do you believe that?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
A veil of mist blew between them, and for a moment the cat
disappeared. When he was back again, his eyes were still fixed on
her. "I told Holiday once that people should listen more closely to
what cats would tell them, that they have many useful lessons to
teach. I told him it was a failing common to most humans—that they
did not listen as closely as they should. I tell you the same thing
now."
"I have listened well," she said. "But I am not sure I have
understood."
Dirk cocked his head. "Sometimes understanding has to wait a bit on
events. So. Are you ready?"
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She came forward a step. "Do not leave me, Dirk. Whatever happens,
do not. Will you promise me that?"
Edgewood Dirk shook his head. "Cats do not make promises. Are you
ready or not?"
Willow straightened. "I depend on you." The cat stayed silent.
"Yes," she said then. "I am ready."
They moved into the narrow passageway and the mists that clogged it
and were immediately swallowed up. Willow kept her eyes lowered to
where Dirk walked before her, vaguely visible in the haze. The
mists were dark at first, and then lightened perceptibly. The walls
of the buildings fell away, and the smells of the city disappeared.
In the blink of an eye, everything about them changed. They were in
a forest now, a world of great old trees with canopied limbs that
hid the skies, of thick brush and tall ferns, and of smells of an
ancient, forgotten time. The air was thick with must and rot and
with a misty gloom that shrouded everything, turning the forest to
shadows and half light. There was a suggestion of movement, but
nothing could be certain where everything was so dim.
Dirk walked steadily on, and Willow followed. She glanced back
once, but there was nothing left of the city. She had come out of
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that world and into this. She was within the fairy mists, and it
would all be new again.
She heard the voices first, vague whisperings and mutter-ings in
the gloom. She strained to understand the words and could not. The
voices rose and fell, but remained indistinct. Dirk walked on.
She saw their faces next, strange and curious features lifting from
the shadows, sharp-featured and angular with hair of moss and
corn-silk brows, eyes as penetrating as knife blades when they
fixed on her, and bodies so thin and light-seeming as to be all but
ethereal. The fairy folk darted and slowed, came and went, flashes
of life in the shifting gloom. Dirk walked on.
They arrived at a clearing ringed by trees, fog, and
Terry Brooks 251
deeper gloom, and Dirk walked to its center and stopped. Willow
followed, turning as she did to find the fairy people all about,
faces and bodies pressed up against the haze as if against glass.
The voices whispered to her, anxious, persuasive.
Welcome, Queen of Landaver
Welcome, once-fairy, to the land of your ancestors
Be at peace and stay with us awhile
See what you might have here with the child you bear . . .
And she was walking suddenly in a field of bright red flowers, the
like of which she had never seen. She carried a baby in her arms,
the child wrapped carefully in a white blanket, protected from the
bright light. The smells of the field were wondrous and rich, and
the sunlight warm and reassuring. She felt impossibly light and
happy and filled with hope, and below where she walked the entire
world spread away before her, all of its cities and towns and
hamlets, all of its people, the whole of its life. The child moved
in her arms. She reached down to pull back the blanket so that she
could peek at its face. The baby peeked back. It looked just like
her. It was perfect.
"Oh!" she gasped, and she began to cry with joy.
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She was back in the clearing then, back within the fairy mists,
staring out into the gloom.
The voices whispered once more.
It will be so, if you wish it
Make your happiness what you would, Queen of Land-over. You have
the right. You have the means
Keep safe within the mists, safe with your child, safe with us, and
it shall be as you were shown
She shook her head, confused. "Safe?"
Stay with us, once-fairy
Be again as your kind once were
Stay, if you would have your vision come true ...
She understood then, saw the price that she was being
232 THE TANGLE BOX
asked to pay for the assurance that her child would be as the
vision had shown. But it was not really so, for they would both end
up living in an imaginary world and the vision would be nothing
more than what they created in their minds. And she wou!d lose Ben.
There had been no mention of Ben, of course, because he was not to
be included in this promised land, an outsider, an other-worlder
who could never belong to the fairy life.
She looked down at Dirk, but the prism cat was paying no attention
to her. It sat turned slightly away, washing its face carefully,
lick, lick, scrub, scrub. The indifference it showed was studied
and deliberate.
She looked back at the sea of faces in the mist. "I cannot stay
here. My place is in Landover. You must know that. The choice was
made for me a long time ago. I cannot come back here. I do not wish
to."
A grave error, Queen of Landover.
Your choice affects the child as well. What of the child?
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The voices had changed in tone, turning edgy. She swallowed back
her fear of what that might mean. "When my child is old enough to
decide, it shall make its own decision."
There was a general murmuring, and it did not sound supportive. It
whispered of dissatisfaction and thinly veiled anger. It whispered
of bad intent.
She held herself stiffly. "Will you give me the soil my child
needs?" she asked.
The whispers died into stillness. Then a voice answered.
Of course. You were promised this soil in coming. It is yours to
take. But to take it, it must first be made your own
Fairy earth cannot pass out of the mists until it has been
celebrated and embraced by its taker
Willow glanced again at Dirk. No response. The cat was still
washing as if nothing else in all the world could be quite so
important.
"What must I do?" she asked of the faces.
Terry Brooks 233
What is in your blood, sylph child. Dance as your wood nymph mother
has taught you to dance. Dance across the earth on which you stand.
When you have done so, it will be your own, and you may take it
with you and depart these mists
Willow stood transfixed. Dance? There was something hidden here.
She could feel it; she was certain of it. But she could not fathom
what it was.
Dance, Queen of Landover, if you would have the soil for your child
Dance, if you would complete your journey and give birth
Dance, Willow of the once-fairy
Dance ..,
So she did. She began slowly, a few cautious steps to see what
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would happen, a few small movements to test if all was well. Her
clothes felt heavy and cumbersome, but she was not persuaded to
take them off as she might have done otherwise, anxious to stay
ready to flee if something should go wrong. Nothing did. She danced
a bit further, increased the number of her steps, the complexity of
her movements. Her fear and caution eased a bit in the face of her
joy at doing something she loved so much. The faces of the fairies
seemed to recede into the mist, sharp eyes and thin noses, stringy
hair and sticklike limbs, bits of light and movement gone back into
the gloom. One minute they were there, and the next they were gone.
She was alone.
Except for Dirk, who had moved away from her and was watching
carefully. He sat as if carved from stone.
She danced faster, caught up suddenly in the flow of the steps, in
the rhythm of the movements, in the joy that swelled and surged
inside. It seemed to her as if she could dance more quickly, more
lightly, more precisely here in the fairy mists than in the real
world. All of her efforts were rewarded with success beyond
anything she had ever known. Her joy increased as she performed
ever more com-
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plicated movements, spinning and twirling, leaping and twisting, as
light as air, as swift as the wind. She danced, and she could tell
that she was suddenly far better than her mother had ever been,
that she had mastered in seconds that which her mother had worked
for all her life.
She shed her clothes now, her inhibitions forgotten, her promise of
caution and restraint abandoned, hi seconds, she was naked.
Across the clearing she flew, alone in her flight through mist and
half light, oblivious to all else. Yes, the dance was everything
she had ever wanted it to be! Yes, it would give her things she had
never thought possible! She rose and fell, rose again, and sped on.
Colors appeared before her eyes, rainbow-bright and as fresh as
flowers in a vast, limitless garden, all carefully arranged and
fragrant beyond belief. She was flying over them, soaring in the
manner of a bird, as free as air. There were other birds with her,
all brightly colored and singing wonderfully, sweeping about her,
showing her the way. She lifted from the garden into the sky,
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rising toward the sun, toward the heavens. Her dance carried her,
bore her on, gave her wings.
She was dreaming anything she wished, any possibility, any hope. It
was all there, and it all belonged to her. She danced, and all else
was forgotten. She no longer remembered where she was or why she
had come. She no longer remembered Ben or her child. The dance was
everything. The dance was all.
From the mists surrounding the clearing, the fairies watched and
smiled among themselves, unseen.
Willow might have been lost then, caught up forever in her dance,
had Dirk not sneezed. There seemed to be no reason for it; it just
happened. It was a small sound, but it was enough to draw her back
from the precipice. For just a second she caught a glimpse of the
prism cat somewhere at the corner of her vision and remembered. She
saw him looking at her, his steady, impenetrable gaze an open accu-
Terry Brooks 235
sation. What was it he had told her? She had asked him of traps,
and he had warned her that humans mostly stumbled into those of
their own making. Yes, like this one. This dance.
But she could not stop. She was too deep in the throes of its
pleasure, of its wonder, to cease moving. The dreams it induced
were too compelling to give up. She had done what he had warned her
against and trapped herself, and now she could not get free. It was
the fairies' plan for her, she saw—that she should dance and keep
dancing and never leave. Here is where her child would be born,
here in the fairy mists, and when it was born it would belong to
them. They would both belong to the fairies for all time.
Why? Why did they wish it so? She had no answer.
Her thoughts scattered, and for a moment she was in. danger of
slipping back into her dreams. But she kept her eyes on Dirk as she
spun across the clearing, watching him watching her, desperately
trying to think what to do. Dance forever. She would never stop.
But she must. She must! She would not let this happen to her, she
told herself. She would find a way to break free.
Ben. If Ben were there, he would help her. Ben, who she could
always rely upon to stand with her, who had pledged himself to her
forever. Ben, the strength that sustained her when all else failed.
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He would always come. Always.
But how could he come this time?
Ben!
Had she called out loud to him? She couldn't be sure. She felt Dirk
beginning to slip away. She could barely see him through the haze
of her dance, through the magic that ensnared her.
Ben!
And for just an instant, he was there—a glimpse of his face, of his
eyes come out of time and distance. He was mere, still a long way
off, but within reach.
Suddenly she saw a chance for escape. She would use
236 THE TANGLE BOX
the fairy magic to her own advantage, turn it to her own use. It
had been set to trap her and she had allowed it to do so, but there
was still a way out. The dance was a dream, and the dream couJd be
altered if she was strong enough. She was not completely lost, not
yet. Not if she didn't wish it. Not if she didn't forget.
She closed her eyes and in the sweep of her dance called out to Ben
Holiday. She could imagine him as she could imagine everything
else. That was the magic of the fairy world. Banish her fear, and
she would be able to control her vision, to make it her own, to
affect its direction. That was the lesson Ben had once learned. It
was the one Dirk had cautioned her to. Use the magic to free
yourself. Use the dance to escape.
Ben! She called to him, her voice strong and steady.
And then something wondrous and completely unexpected happened.
The Knight lay sleeping in the Labyrinth, stretched full-length
upon the ground within the cover of a grove of hardwood that
canopied overhead like a tent. The Lady lay pressed against him,
curled to his body, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm
draped across his chest. She was smiling, the hardness that so
often marked her features absent this night. Mist and gloom hung
all about, shrouding the world and those who stalked it, but for
the moment at least the Knight and the Lady had left it behind.
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The Gargoyle sat hunched down within his cloak a few feet away and
watched them uneasily. It did not feel right to him. He could not
explain it, but there was a lie in what was happening. That was
unmistakable. These two were enemies and this new alliance lacked
wisdom and reason. Their impetuousness would catch up to them, he
believed. Perhaps it would destroy them.
His misshapen features wrinkled in distaste, and he looked
purposefully away.
Terry Brooks
237
As he slept, the Knight began to dream. At first the dream lacked
focus, a blurring of sound and movement as he was carried across
time and space toward some unknown destination. He was at peace,
and so he did not resist the pulling that bore him on. Then he
began to hear voices—no, a single voice—calling out a name. He
could hear it repeating, over and over. He recognized the voice,
but could not place it. The name seemed familiar, too.
Ben.
He listened to the sounds as he traveled, knowing he was closing on
them, that he was being drawn, that he was called deliberately.
Ben.
Then he was jolted as if by a massive hand and found himself
earthbound once more and upright. The voice was distinct now and
quite close. It was a woman, and she called with need. She was
someone he knew, someone to whom he was bound, and she called for
his protection.
The Knight went to her at once, drawing forth the great broadsword
as he pushed through the trees of a forest that loomed about him.
It was the Labyrinth and yet it was not. He could not explain it,
but while the two were separate they were also somehow joined. All
of the elements were the same. He brought the broadsword before
him, prepared to do battle. He lacked his heavy armor still,
cloaked only in chain mail, in his leather clothing, in his belt
and boots and gloves. He gave it less than a passing thought. He
felt no fear of what waited for him. The certainty he felt for his
cause overwhelmed any doubts. He was meant to give aid to those to
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whom he was pledged, and the woman who called was foremost of
these.
He reached a clearing, the light where it widened to the skies a
vague brightness in the smoky haze. Figures scattered at his
coming, small creatures that were thin and angular, all sharp edges
and bits of moss and stick. They fell
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THE TANGLE BOX
back from him as if he bore a plague, hissing and muttering like
cornered rats. He went through them without slowing to the
clearing's center and stopped.
The woman who danced through the shadows and half light spun into
his arms and held him as if he were a line to safety from a raging
sea. Naked, she shivered as if chilled to the bone, and her face
and body pressed up against him.
"Ben," she whispered. "You came."
The Knight held her close in an effort to still her shaking, and as
he did so recognition flooded through him.
"Willow!" he whispered back fiercely.
He knew then. The deception that had shackled him fell away at her
touch, at the sound of her voice, at the sight of her face. Though
he dreamed, in some way the dream was real. He had been called to
her in sleep, but they were joined as surely as if awake and
together in the flesh. She clung to him, whispering his name,
telling him things he could not understand. They were within the
fairy mists. She was imprisoned by the fairies in a dance and could
not break free. Their child was to be kept from them, kept here
forever. But all was reality if you could imagine it, and so she
had imagined him coming to save her in a desperate effort to break
free. And come he had, but not as she had believed he would. He was
really there. How had this happened? How had he breached the fairy
mists?
All about the fairies swarmed like maddened bees, hissing and
darting through the gloom, enraged. He saw Edgewood Dirk sitting
close by, watching in his cat way. Edgewood Dirk? What was he doing
here?
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Ah, but more important, what had been done to the Knight of the
Labyrinth, who knew himself now to be Ben Holiday? Memories flooded
through him, the spell of for-getfulness broken. He had been
snatched away from the Heart by magic and imprisoned in a
rune-carved box. It was the !ast thing he remembered had happened
before his
Terry Brooks 239
waking in the Labyrinth. Except that Horns Kew had been standing
there, had set the box down, had stepped away just before Ben fell
into it, tumbling down with ...
His heart stopped.
With Nightshade and Strabo.
With the Lady and the Gargoyle.
The truth stunned him so that for a moment he could not breathe or
move. He held onto Willow as if then' positions had been reversed
and now she was the lifeline that kept him from being swept away.
She sensed his shock and looked up at him quickly, and her hands
came up to hold his face.
"Ben," she whispered anew. "Please. It's all right."
With a massive effort he shrugged off his immobility. There was a
tearing at the corners of his vision. The dream that bound them was
fragmenting, coming to a close, the magic expending itself. Willow
could feel it as well. With the ending of the dance, the dream
could not sustain itself. She moved to dress, ignoring the small
sounds of fury that emanated from the mists, come back to herself
once more and determined that she would not be tricked again.
Clothed, she bent to the earth across which she had danced and
scooped a handful of the soil into the pouch she carried.
Ben watched her without understanding. He started toward her, then
found he could not move. He looked down at himself and saw to his
horror that he was fading away.
"Willow!" he cried out in warning.
She rose at once and hurried toward him. But he was already losing
shape and definition, returning to his dream, to his sleep, to the
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prison that still held him. He heard her call out to him, saw her
reach for him, watched her try to hold him back. But she could not.
The magic that had joined them from the fairy mists of two worlds
was breaking up.
"Willow!" he cried out again, desperate now, unable to
240
THE TANGLE BOX
slow his going. 'Til find you somehow! I promise! I'll come for
you!"
"Ben!" he heard her call to him one final time, and then he was
lifting away, transparent in the mists, a bit of air and wind borne
back across the gap that separated them in waking, back into the
sleep from which he had come.
Alone once more in the silent clearing, Willow stared skyward at
the roiling gloom. Ben was gone. The magic of her vision had been
strong enough to bring him, but not to hold him. He had set her
free of the dance, but could not stay to help her further. She felt
a renewed desperation settle through her and fought back against
her tears. But there was no time for grief, for anything but her
child, and she used her anger as armor and wheeled on Edgewood
Dirk.
"I want to go home," she said quietly, deliberately. "Right now."
The prism cat blinked. "Then go, Queen of Landover."
"You will not stop me?"
"Not I."
"Nor the fairies that ring this clearing?"
Dirk yawned. "They have lost interest in playing this particular
game. Interesting, don't you think, how they failed to challenge
Holiday?"
She considered. It was interesting. Why had they let him go? And
her. What was it mat stopped them from interfering?
"What path do I take, Dirk?" she asked him.
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Edgewood Dirk rose and stretched. "Any path will do. All lead to
where you are meant to go. Your instincts will guide you. As I said
earlier, you are stronger man you think."
She did not respond to him, too angry with what had been done to
her to accept compliments. He had helped her in his own peculiar
way, whether by accident or on purpose she still wasn't certain,
but the prism cat was no friend in
Terry Brooks 241
either case. The fairy mists and the creatures who lived within
them, Dirk included, were anathema. She wanted gone from them all.
"You are not coming with me?" she questioned.
"No," he answered. "You have no further need of me. Your quest is
finished."
So it was. She had the soils she had been sent to gather, the soils
of the three worlds to which her child's blood could be traced. If
the Earth Mother spoke the truth, the birth of her child could take
place now. There was nothing more for her to do, nothing else
required. She could go home.
Folding her cloak about her, clutching her pouch of soils close
against her body, she turned and began to walk. She did as she was
told and followed her instincts. Surprisingly, they seemed quite
clear. They took her in a straight line through the trees.
They took her deep into the mists until she disappeared.
Wak
enin
Ben Holiday awoke with a start. His eyes snapped open, and he
stared straight ahead through the predawn gloom into the trees of
the Labyrinth. He did not move; he could not make himself. He was
frozen in place as surely as if he had been encased in ice.
Questions raced through his mind, one after the other, whispers and
dark teasing. Had he dreamed of his meeting with Willow or had it
actually taken place? Was it trudi or a wild concoction of his
imagination? How much of anydiing that had happened to him that he
could remember was real?
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The Lady lay pressed up against him, still sleeping. The Gargoyle
sat hunched down at the edge of the trees several yards away, head
bowed. Ben blinked. Nightshade? Strabo?
He closed his eyes and kept them shut for a moment, thinking.
Something had happened to reveal the truth—that much was certain.
He was not the Knight; he was Ben Holiday. The Knight was some
personification of his real identity. It was so with the Lady and
the Gargoyle as well. They 242
Terry Brooks 243
had been changed by the Labyrinth and its magic, or by the magic
that had sent them here, or by some foul deception they did not yet
understand. They had been given identities that mirrored some part
of who they were but concealed the rest. They appeared
significantly different than they were. Strabo had been changed
most; he was not even a dragon anymore. Nightshade was
recognizable, yet she was different, too, in a way he could not
quite explain. Neither had the use of their magic. Neither
possessed the strength and power that was theirs in Landover.
He opened his eyes again. Mist hung amid the trunks and limbs of
the trees. It carpeted the grasses on which he lay. The Labyrinth
was a vast, endless mirage their vision could not see through.
What had been done to them?
Horns Kew. The conjurer had something to do with this, though in
truth it was hard to believe he possessed power enough to imprison
them in this otherworld. But he had been there watching. He had
provided the box into which they had been lured, in which they were
now trapped. Ben repeated the words. Trapped in a box. How, he
wondered abruptly, had that been done? Horris Kew. He breathed
slowly, carefully, trying to think. Did knowing Horris Kew was
involved help in any way? Where were they? Oh, yes, the Labyrinth,
but where was that?
His mind sideslipped. Willow. He had gone to her. He had not
dreamed it—or if he had, there had been a large piece of reality in
the dream. All was possible if you went into the fairy mists, where
reality was fluid and anything could be brought to pass. Magic had
brought him to her, magic born of her dance and of her imaginings.
She had called him to her because she could not break free. Was she
free now? Had he helped her escape before the dream had ended? What
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was she doing in the fairy mists in the first place?
There were no answers for his questions, only more
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THE TANGLE BOX
questions. He could not allow too many. Too many would strangle
him. Only one thing mattered now—that he break free of the
Labyrinth and find her. There must be a way. Magic had been used to
conceal the truth about who he >vas, and there was a reason for
that Somewhere in that concealing there was something that would
help him, that would help them all.
He looked back at them again, at their silent, sleeping Forms.
Once they knew, of course. Once they were told.
He eased himself away from Nightshade, thinking of what had passed
between them as the Knight and the Lady, •ecognizing the damage
they had inadvertently done to ihemselves. He remembered how she
had kissed him. He remembered her touch. His eyes closed in dismay.
How could he tell her tiiat it was all a lie? How could he tell her
hat she was not his charge as he had believed, that the magic of
their prison had misled them, had tricked them into thinking that
their relationship was something other lian what it really was and
caused them to ...
He could not finish the thought. Only one thing mattered, fhere was
now and had always been only Willow.
He climbed to his feet, not yet ready to do so. He walked iway from
her, moving toward the trees, trying to assemble lie fragments of
what he knew into some recognizable whole. He thought of how he had
been made to appear, a Knight with no past and no future, a
nameless warrior, a champion for a master with no name and of a
cause without identity. His worst nightmare. His worst ...
Fear.
He saw it then, the truth that had been hidden from them ill this
time. They were in the fairy mists, too!
The Gargoyle was next to him suddenly, a dark shadow noving out of
the haze. Gnarled hands balanced his dis-lointed body as he leaned
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forward. "What is it?" he asked, >eeing Ben's face.
Terry Brooks 245
Ben looked at him, trying to see past the ugliness, past the mask
the magic had created. He could not. "I know what has been done to
us," he said. "I know where we came from. I know who we are."
The Gargoyle's face twisted and froze, his eyes glittering like
candles. 'Tell me."
Ben shook his head. He motioned to the Lady. "We must wake her,
too."
They walked to her, and Ben reached down and touched her arm. She
awoke at once, flawless, cold features softened by sleep, a smile
upon her face. "I dreamed of you," she began.
He placed a warning finger to her lips. "No, say nothing. Don't
speak. Sit up and listen to me. I have something to tell you." He
moved back from her, letting her rise. "Listen carefully. I know
who we are."
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head quickly. "I
don't want to know." There was fear in her voice, recognition that
something was about to be stolen away. "What difference does it
make to us here?"
He kept his voice calm, even. "By knowing who we are and where we
come from, we give ourselves a chance to escape. Our only chance, I
think."
"How is it that you know and we do not?" she snapped at him, angry
now, defensive.
"I was given a dream," he told her. "In the dream I discovered what
had happened to us. We have been trapped in this place by magic. We
were sent here from another world, our world. Magic was used to
make us forget who we are, to make us seem different. We were sent
here to wander about forever, I think—to spend what was left of our
lives futilely attempting to find a way out. But there is no way
out of here except by using magic. You were right—magic alone can
save us. But first we have to understand how that magic works. To
do that, we have to understand ourselves, who we are, where we came
from, what it is we do."
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46 THE TANGLE BOX
"No," she said quietly and shook her head back and 3rth. "Don't say
anything else."
"I am not the Knight," he said, pressing quickly ahead, nxious to
get this over with. "I am Ben Holiday, King of .andover."
Her hands flew to her mouth, shaking. She made a noise eep in her
throat.
Unable to bear her iook, Ben turned to the Gargoyle. The lonster
was staring at him, expressionless. "You are called itrabo. You are
a dragon, not a Gargoyle."
He turned back to the Lady, determined. "And you re ..."
"Nightshade!" she hissed in fury. She shrank from him, nd her
smooth face contorted with despair and recognition. Holiday, what
have you done to us? What have you done 3 me?"
Ben shook his head. "We have done it to ourselves, each f us in
turn. This place has made it possible. Magic stole ur memories when
we were sent here from the Heart. Do ou remember? There was a man
with a box. There were otes purportedly sent by each of us to the
other, bait for ic trap that was used to ensnare us. Some sort of
spell /rapped us about and sent us here, into the box
"Yes, I remember now!" Strabo growled, who in spite of aving his
identity uncovered still did not look like the ragon. "I remember
the man and his box and the magic etting us like fish! Such power!
But why was it done? xx>k at me! How could I have been changed so?"
Ben knelt before him. The clearing was hushed and losed about. It
was as if their world had stopped moving.
"We are in the fairy mists," he said quietly. "Think about ow we
appear. We have become the things we most fear /e might really be.
You are a monster, loathed and de-pised, an outcast that no one
wishes to look upon, hunted y all, blamed for everything that
cannot otherwise be ex-lained. And you cannot fly, can you? Your
wings have
Terry Brooks 247
been stripped away. Haven't you always feared being earthbound?
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Flying has always provided you with a form of escape, no matter how
terrible things were. Here, you have been cheated even of that."
He paused. "And look at me. I am what I feared most to become. I am
the King's Champion, his handpicked destroyer, his butcher of
enemies, nameless and empty of everything but my fighting skills
and my desire to use them. Even my armor has become a weapon, a
monstrous apparition called the Haze that eliminates any enemy who
threatens. I fear killing more than anything, and so for me it
comes to pass."
He stopped himself, unwilling to say more. They did not know he was
the Paladin, only that the Paladin served the King. He would not
have them know more.
"Nightshade," he said softly, turning back to her again. She
crouched down like a cornered beast. "What is it you fear most?
What frightens you? Loss of your magic, certainly. You have said as
much. But something more ..."
"Silence!" she screamed.
"Being human," Strabo snapped. "She loses power when she
acknowledges her humanness. Her emotions make her weak; they steal
away her strength. She must not let herself feel. She must not be
tender or soft or give love ..."
Nightshade flew at him, nails raking at his face, but Ben pushed
her aside, bore her to the ground, and pinned her there while she
spit and screamed like a madwoman. Nightshade had been changed in
more ways than one, he thought as he held her. He would never have
been able to do this in Landover, for Nightshade had ten times his
strength. She was indeed without her power.
She went quiet finally and turned her head aside from him, tears
coursing down her pale face. "I will hate you forever," she
whispered, the words barely audible. "For what you have done to me,
for what you have made me feel—all of it a lie, a monstrous deceit!
That I could care
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for you, could love you, could have you as a woman would a man—how
could I have been so stupid? I will hate you forever, Holiday. I
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will never forget."
He stood up and left her lying there, still turned away. There was
nothing he could say to her that would help. That she had been made
to feel something for him was unpardonable; that she had been
deceived into thinking him her lover unforgivable. It did not
matter what she had_felt before. The chasm that had opened between
them would never be bridged now.
"The Labyrinth is a part of the fairy mists." He straightened his
cloak, knocked askew in his struggle. "It was Willow who called to
me in my dream. She called from another part of the mists. When I
went to her, I could sense that where she was and where I was were
joined. I was reminded how the mists work on those who are human or
have left that world. They use fear against us, to change who we
are, to make us over, to confront us with that which will drive us
mad. Where there is no reality but that which we create,
imagination plays havoc with our emotions. Particularly fear. We
are lost when that happens. We cannot control it as the fairy
people do. They told me so once. They warned me against it."
He took a deep breath. "What we have done in our travels, where we
have gone, who we have encountered, is not real. Or not real beyond
the Labyrinth. Do you see? We made it up, all of it! Together or
separately, I don't know which. The townsfolk, the River Gypsies,
the Gristlies— they were all representations 6f creatures from
Landover. The people of the Greensward, the once-fairy, Rock
Trolls, G'home Gnomes, or whatever. They don't exist outside our
minds or these mists or this prison in which we are confined."
Strabo shook his head. "The fairy mists would not affect me or the
witch as they would you. We are fairy creatures ourselves. Yet look
at me. I am more changed than you!
Terry Brooks 249
And no less riddled with the fear you describe. And I did not sense
it! I should have been able to do so, having access to the mists in
my passage from world to world. Nightshade might be banned from the
mists, but I am not. No, Holiday. There is more to this."
"There is the box!" Ben snapped. "The box is something more than a
container for the mists. It is a trap strong enough to hold such as
we. Another magic works within it."
"It is possible," the other agreed thoughtfully. "But if so, then
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what magic can free us?"
"I've been thinking about that," Ben said. "When I remembered who I
was, I remembered something else, too. I think that our identities
were stripped from us to wipe out any chance that we might remember
anything that would help us escape. This trap was set up to work
two ways. First, to make us forget who we are. Second, to steal
away any magic we commanded, to render us impotent. Well, we've
overcome the first, so that leaves the second. No magic. And we
can't escape this trap without magic."
He glanced from one to the other. Nightshade was back on her feet,
ramrod straight, her expression flat and set. "But I think that
Horns Kew or whoever it was who put us here might have made a
mistake. The magic intended to be stolen from us was innate. That's
why we were changed in different ways. You were changed most of
all, Strabo. Your magic is inherent in what you are—a dragon—so you
were changed to something else entirely. Otherwise, you could use
your fire to escape this trap, because your fire is your greatest
power and among other things it lets you cross between worlds."
He turned to Nightshade. "And you were stripped of your magic for
the same reason, although it was not necessary to change your
appearance because how you looked made no difference to whether
your magic worked. But the result was the same. Like Strabo, you
were trapped without
25o THE TANGLE BOX
a means of escape because the magic you relied on most, the magic
inside yourself, was gone."
He paused. "But it is different with me. I have no innate magic. I
came to Landover without any and still possess none. So I was not
affected. My memory was stolen, and that was enough. As long as I
didn't remember who I was, what danger did I pose?"
"Get to the point," Nightshade snapped coldly.
"This is the point," Ben replied. He reached into his tunic and
pulled forth the medallion with the graven image of the Paladin
riding out of Sterling Silver at sunrise. "The medallion of the
Kings of Landover, given to me when I was brought over from my own
world. It invests me with the right to rule, it gives me command
over the Paladin, and it does one thing more. It lets me pass
through the fairy mists."
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There was a protracted silence. "Then you think ..." Strabo began
and stopped.
"It is possible that the magic of the talisman was not leached away
in the same manner as your own, that our prison is designed to
render the magic of living creatures useless, but not the magic of
inanimate things." Ben paused. "Beyond Landover, the medallion
lends no authority to rule and will not summon the Paladin. But it
will allow passage through the fairy mists. Perhaps it can do so
here. It has retained its link to the armor of the Paladin, even
though that armor comes in the form of the Haze. It was recognized
by the Gristlies and warded us from them. Perhaps it can set us
free as well."
"If we are indeed imprisoned in some part of the mists," Strabo
pointed out dourly.
"If," Ben agreed.
"This is a very slim chance you offer us," the other mused.
"But the only one we have."
Terry Brooks 2}i
Strabo nodded, his ugly face almost serene. "The only one."
Nightshade came forward then, all black anger and hard edges, and
stopped before Ben. "Will this really work?" she demanded, her
voice dangerously quiet.
He met her gaze and held it. "I think so. We will have to take the
medallion into the mists and test it. If it does what it should, we
will emerge from the mists where we entered them."
"Restored to ourselves?" Her eyes glittered.
"I don't know. Once we are beyond the prison and its magic, we
should be."
She nodded. Her face was white marble, her eyes gone almost red.
There was such fury mirrored there that he shrank inwardly from it.
"You had better hope so, play-King," she said softly. "Because if
we do not escape this madness and I am not made whole again, every
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part of me, every piece of who and what I am, I will spend the rest
of my days waiting for a chance to destroy you."
She drew her long cloak close about her, a dark ghost in the misty
dawn. "You have my word on that. Now get us out of here."
Time seemed stopped.
Willow walked slowly, steadily through the mists, placing her feet
carefully with each step. She could not tell where she was going.
She could barely see the ground she trod. If this was a trap, she
was finished. The haze was so dense that she would be on top of
whatever snare might be waiting long before she could identify it.
She was proceeding on trust, and where the fairies were concerned
this was not particularly reassuring.
But after a while, the air began to clear. It thinned gradually,
like dawn coming out of night, a slow giving way of greater shadows
to lesser. The light strengthened from black
252 THE TANGLE BOX
to gray, but still there was no sun. Gradually the mist receded
until it was entwined within a wall of trees and scrub. Willow
looked about. She was in a jungle of tangled trees and vines, damp
and fetid earth, and silence. There was no sound about her, no
movement, as if all life had been destroyed.
She moved forward a few tentative steps and stopped. She looked
about again. A sinking feeling unsettled her stomach. She knew
where she was. She was in the Deep Fell, the home of Nightshade.
For an instant she thought she must be mistaken. How could she
possibly have come here, of all places? She moved forward again,
searching the jungle about her, trying to peer through the thick
canopy of the trees, to see beyond the shadows, to convince herself
she was wrong. She could not Her instincts and memory were quite
clear on the matter. She was in the Deep Fell.
She took a slow breath to steady herself. This might be another
fairy trick, she thought. It might be their revenge on her, letting
her wander into Nightshade's lair. Trust your instincts, Edgewood
Dirk had advised. Trust not the cat. She exhaled. Whatever the
case, she must escape quickly or she would be discovered.
She moved swiftly through the thick, green tangle of the Fell,
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anxious now to gain the rim of the Hollows while it was still
light. Though morning was not yet here, it was quite conceivable
that she could wander the Fell until nightfall without getting
free. Many had. Many had never come out. She kept silent in her
passage, using her skills as once-fairy, taking heart in the fact
that at least she was back in Landover. She wondered how her
instincts could have misled her so. She had to have been deceived
by fairy magic. How cruel and spiteful of them, she thought
angrily.
Then sudden pain shot through her stomach and limbs, and she
doubled over. She dropped to one knee, gasping. The pain lasted
only a moment and was gone. She came
Terry Brooks 253
back to her feet and hurried on. Within minutes, it returned. It
was stronger this time and lasted twice as long. She knelt in the
tall grass and clutched at herself. What was happening to her?
A jolt of recognition snapped her head up.
It was the baby! It was time!
She closed her eyes in frustration and disbelief. But not here!
Please, not here!
She struggled to her feet and continued on, but in seconds the pain
returned, dropping her back to her knees, so strong she could
barely breathe. Her teeth clenched, she tried to rise one final
time and then gave it up. The baby would decide, the Earth Mother
had said. Apparently the baby was doing so now. Willow knelt on the
floor of the Deep Fell and cried. Her child should not be born in
this foul place! It should not be born in shadows and darkness,
born out of the sunlight! Did the fairies have anything to do with
this? Had they planned it this way, their spite so great at losing
the child that they now wished it harmed?
Tears continued to leak from Willow's clenched eyes as she groped
at her waist for the pouch containing the precious soils. She found
it and pulled it free. She loosened the drawstrings. The pain was
coming in sudden spurts that wracked her body. No preparation for
this birth, no time to adjust. It was happening quickly, coming so
fast that there was no time left for thinking.
She crawled a few feet farther to a patch of bare ground and clawed
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at the soil with her fingers to loosen it It was not difficult to
do; the Deep Fell's earth was damp and soft. When she had
cultivated a small patch, she opened the pouch and spread the soils
she had gathered in a wide swath about her, reaching down to mix
them in. The pain was continuous now, rising and falling in steady
waves. She wished she knew more about what to expect, wished she
had asked the Earth Mother. Giving birth for the once-fairy was an
inconstant and differing experience with each child
254 THE TANGLE BOX
conceived, and she knew so little of how it worked. She gritted her
teeth harder, mixing the soils together, those of the old pines in
the lake country, of the place called Greenwich in Ben's world, and
of the fairy mists, working them into the soil of the Deep Fell.
Please, she thought Please don't let this harm my child.
Then she cast down the empty pouch and with an effort came to her
feet. Wracked with pain, feeling the child stirring anxiously now
within her womb, she prepared to give herself over to the change.
The child would come when she was hi tree form. She had not been
able to tell Ben that. She did not know that she ever could.
She shed her clothing and was naked. Then she placed herself at the
very center of the soils she had mixed and dug her toes into the
earth.
At the moment of her transformation, she was at peace, It was out
of her hands now. She had done all she could do to assure her
child's safe birthing. She had kept the trust of die Earth Mother;
she had brought back the soils that were required. There was
nothing left for her to do but to let her child be born. She wished
suddenly for Ben. She wanted to feel his presence, to have him
touch her, to hear some small words of reassurance. She did not
like being alone now.
Her eyes closed.
Slowly she transformed, fingers and toes lengthening to twigs and
roots, arms splitting into branches, legs fusing to a trunk, the
whole of her body changing shape and color and look. Her hair
disappeared. Her face vanished. She twisted sinuously as bark
covered her over. She sighed once, and then she was still.
Hours passed and nothing moved within the Deep Fell where the
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willow tree rooted. No wind rustled its leaves. No birds flew onto
its branches. No small creatures climbed its smooth trunk. The air
brightened to a dull, hazy gray, and the summer heat intensified,
trapped within the jungle's
Terry Brooks 2
dank tangle. A rain passed through and faded. Water dripped from
the supple limbs onto the ground.
Noon approached.
Then the tree seemed to shiver with some inner turmoil. Slowly,
agonizingly, where the trunk began to branch skyward, the skin
split apart and a broad shoot pushed out into the light. It
appeared quickly, as if its growth were accelerated, thrusting and
twining upward. It broadened as it grew and changed shape.
In moments, it had become a pod.
Within the pod, there was movement.
Otasn
Questor Thews and Abemathy stood together on the parapets of
Sterling Silver and looked out across the lake that surrounded the
castle island to the throngs of people streaming onto the
grasslands. They had been coming all day, tens growing to hundreds,
hundreds to thousands. Most had come from the Greensward, though
there was a scattering of Trolls from the Melchor, wights from the
barren wastelands east, and villagers and farmers from some dozen
or so small communities directly north and south. They came as if
vagabonds, bearing no food or blankets or even the most rudimentary
implements for firemaking. They seemed not to care. Men, women, and
children, some with old plow horses and mules, some with a ragtag
following of dogs and cats, they had trekked their way here from
wherever, as diverse a gathering as ever there was. Now they milled
about across the lake from the castle and stared over at it as if
hoping someone might invite them in for a good meal. 256
Terry Brooks 2*-,
It was not food they sought, however. What each of them craved,
what every single one of them had come to obtain, what all of them
were determined to have at any cost, was a mind's eye crystal.
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"Look at them," Abernathy muttered, then shook his head so that his
dog ears flapped gently. "This is truly dreadful."
"Worse than what we had anticipated, I'm afraid," Questor Thews
agreed solemnly.
They had been anticipating some sort of trouble ever since
Abernathy and Bunion had returned from Rhyndweir with the story of
the black-cloaked stranger and Honis Kew. A vast stash of mind's
eye crystals awaited them at Sterling Silver, the stranger had
insisted. It was there for the taking. Abemathy had dutifully
reported every last word to Questor Thews, and so they had braced
themselves. But it was Kallendbor and the other Lords of the
Greensward they had expected to face, appearing with their armies
to exact an accounting, marching up to the gates to force an entry.
Instead they found themselves confronted by thousands of fanners
and tradesmen and their families, simple people who bore no weapons
and wore no armor, all of them hungry and tired and misguided, all
of them standing about like cattle waiting for someone to lead them
to the barn.
Well, the barn was back the way they had come, of course, but none
of them wanted to hear that. They didn't want to hear anything that
didn't involve the words "mind's eye crystals" and that was the sad
but inescapable fact of the matter.
They certainly weren't listening to anything Questor Thews or
Abemathy had to tell them. When the first of them had arrived,
quite early that morning, they had come onto the bridge that linked
the island with the mainland. The portcullis had been lowered
during the night, so they halted at the gates and shouted up for
Ben Holiday to come down. Questor Thews had appeared on the
ramparts and
258 THE TANGLE BOX
shouted back that the King was absent at the moment— what did they
want? Mind's eye crystals, they declared vehemently, one for each
of them. Well, there weren't any to be had, Questor had replied.
They called him a liar and a few other names, and started making
disparaging remarks about his lineage. Abernathy had appeared
beside his friend, still feeling very responsible for the whole
mess, and assured the people massed on the bridge—the number
growing even as they argued—that Questor Thews was telling the
truth, that there were no mind's eye crystals inside the castle.
That didn't fly with anyone. The threats and name-calling
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continued. The mob grew larger.
Finally Questor sent a squad of King's soldiers out to move the
people back off the bridge and to set up a picket line on the far
side of the lake. Amid much pushing and shoving, the soldiers
cleared the bridge, but no one turned about and started for home as
the Court Wizard had hoped. Instead they held then- ground just
beyond the picket line and waited for something to happen. Nothing
did, of course. Questor wasn't entirely sure what they thought
might In any event, the number of people swelled into the thousands
by midday, all crammed down off the high plains and surrounding
hills onto the lower grasslands fronting the castle. The summer
heat worsened on a day that was gloriously clear and cloudless, and
tempers grew short
Then someone on one side of the picket line said something and
someone on the other side said something else, and as quick as that
the mob rushed the line, overpowered the soldiers, and threw them
into the lake. Then they charged across the bridge for the castle
gates.
This might have been the start of real trouble except that Questor
was still standing out on the battlements with Abernathy trying to
decide what else he could do. When he saw the mob rush the castle,
he pushed up the sleeves of his old gray robe and called on his
magic. This was a precipitous act if ever there was one, since
Questor's conjuring
Terry Brooks 2*n
never worked well when rushed (or even when it wasn't, for that
matter), but no one was really thinking too clearly by now. He
meant to send a bolt of lightning flashing down into their midst
something to scatter them or to fling mem into the waters of the
lake. Instead, he sent down the equivalent of several gallons of
oil—not the flaming kind, the plain old greasy kind—right into the
foremost of those leading the charge. The oil splashed down across
the wooden surface of the bridge and the entire leading edge of the
mob went down in an oily tangle of arms and legs. Those following
stumbled over their fellows while trying to slow themselves or
break past, and they went down, too. In seconds, the entire bridge
was awash in oil-slicked bodies.
Questor Thews ordered the gates closed, and the castle was
summarily sealed up. The mob dragged its collective self back off
the bridge, cursing and threatening with every step. This isn't
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finished by any means! You watch and see if it is, Questor Thews!
Just wait until the Lords of the Greensward arrive! You'll see what
real trouble is then, all of you!
True enough, Questor Thews had agreed silently, but there wasn't
much he could do about it. So here they were, some long hours
later, the day edging toward night, waiting to see which would
arrive first, Kallendbor or sunset.
Sunset seemed a pretty good bet. The skies east were already
darkening and the skies west turning gold. Several of the moons
were out to the north, hanging low in the horizon, lifting
gradually toward the stars. There was no sign of Kallendbor and the
Lords of the Greensward—no shouts announcing their imminent
arrival, no dust upon the approaching plains, no thud of horses'
hooves or clank of armor. It looked as if any further trouble was
going to be delayed until morning.
Abernathy hoped so. It had been difficult telling Questor Thews how
he had been tricked by Horns Kew. It had been like pulling teeth to
admit that he had been duped so thor-
260 THE TANGLE BOX
oughly that he had aided and abetted the dissemination of the
wretched mind's eye crystals to the people of Landover, thereby
permitting the present situation to come to pass. He was still
struggling with the loss of his own crystal and the visions it had
presented, and in the end he told that to Questor Thews as well.
Might as well admit everything, he decided. What difference could
it make now?
As it happened, Questor had been extraordinarily understanding and
supportive. Quite all right, he had said. Who could blame you? I
would have done the same if it were me. He actually thanked
Abernathy for putting aside personal feelings in favor of the
greater well-being of the Kingdom of Landover and of the missing
Ben Holiday in particular.
"I was as much a fool as you," he said solemnly, his wispy hair
stuck out as if he were a porcupine taking a defensive stance. "I
accepted Horns Kew's word as gullibly as you. I did not question
the worth of these crystals he presented to us. They seemed the
perfect answer to our dilemma. To tell you the truth, I was on the
verge of asking for one myself."
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"But you did not," Abernathy observed sadly. "I have no such
excuse."
"Nonsense!" Questor shook his head vehemently. "I practically
forced one on you when he asked for a trial. I could have tried it
out myself, but I let you take the chance. Anyway, it was not too
long ago that I stood in your shoes, old friend. I was the one who
conjured the magic that sent you and the King's medallion back to
his old world. No, I can't allow you a bit of the blame in this."
All of which made Abernathy feel not a minute's worth better about
what he had done. Still, Questor was trying to make him feel less
guilty, and Abernathy appreciated it. What would make him feel a
whole lot cheerier was finding out what had become of Ben Holiday.
Questor had used the Landsview anew just that morning, Bunion had
scoured
Terry Brooks
261
the countryside close at hand once more, and neither had a thing to
show for their efforts. Wherever Ben Holiday was, he was well
hidden. Abernathy wanted to get his teeth on that black-cloaked
stranger and bite down real hard on his ear or some such. He was
ashamed that his animal side was coming to the fore in this matter,
but he was desperate to redeem himself for the harm he had caused.
"Uh-oh," Questor Thews said suddenly, and put an end to the
scribe's contemplation. "Look over there."
Abernathy looked. A gang of men had emerged from the trees of the
forest west bearing a huge log that had been fashioned into a
battering ram. They lugged the log down the hillside and onto the
grasslands. They bore it across the flats toward the lake. They
were chanting and huffing as they came, and those thousands of
their fellows gathered about cheered them on lustily.
"They can't be serious," the wizard gasped.
But they were, of course. They were dead serious. There were thirty
or more, evenly split to either side of their makeshift ram,
trotting slowly across the grasslands and up to the bridge. All
about them, people had come to their feet and were thrusting their
fists into the air.
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"You, there!" Questor Thews shouted, white hair flying. "Turn back
right now! Drop that log!"
No one could hear him; they were shouting too loud. They were
practically screaming in anticipation. The gang of men and then-
ram turned onto the bridge and started across, picking up speed. A
howl of determination burst from their lips.
Questor Thews rolled up his sleeves once more atop the parapets.
"We'll see about this!" he muttered furiously.
Abemathy stood frozen in place. What should he do? His ears
twitched, and he let out a growl.
The men on the bridge crossed in a final rush and slammed then-
battering ram into the castle gates. There was a monstrous thud and
a splintering of wood. The ram
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and the men carrying it bounced back a few feet and collapsed on
the causeway. It seemed to Abernathy as if he could feel the force
of the blow on the gates all the way atop the wall where he stood
in his half crouch, hands clamped over his muzzle.
"All right for you!" Questor Thews cried out, arms and robes
flying. He looked ready to do something. He looked poised to
strike. White light gathered at ends of his fingertips. Abernathy
clenched his teeth. Something bad was about to happen.
The men with the ram picked themselves up and charged once more,
undaunted.
Questor's arms windmilled wildly. Too wildly. He was working so
hard at whatever spell he was conjuring that he lost his balance.
When he tried to regain it, he tripped on his robes. He stumbled
forward dangerously close to the edge of the ramparts. Abernathy
reached out hurriedly and grabbed him. As he did so, Questor's
magic released from his fingers and flew down into the mob. From
the sound that emanated from the wizard's lips, Abernathy could
tell that something unexpected was about to happen.
He was not wrong. The magic fell onto the bridge like silver rain,
soft and gentle. Perhaps it was meant to be a bolt of lightning
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that would scatter the men with the ram. Perhaps it was supposed to
be another dousing of oil. Neither happened. Instead the magic fell
upon the causeway and disappeared into its wooden surface as if
water into sand, and a moment later the bridge shuddered and arched
as if a sleeping snake awakened. Down went the men with the ram a
second time, only yards from their objective, cursing and
screaming. The bridge heaved, throwing the men about like rag
dolls. The ram flew up into the air and rolled off the bridge and
into the moat. The men screamed and cursed some more. Questor and
Abernathy hung onto each other and stared downward in disbelief.
The bridge was writhing now. It detached from the castle and the
far
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263
shore and began to twist back on itself. The few men still clinging
to its surface abandoned their perch and dived for safety. Boards
cracked and snapped apart. Iron nails popped. Bindings frayed and
gave way. Up rose the bridge one final time, a serpent breaching
from the deep, then it broke into a million pieces and collapsed
into the lake and was gone.
There was a long moment of stunned silence. The men who had carried
the battering ram were pulling themselves back ashore with the help
of friends and relatives. The rest of the ragtag mob was gathered
on the shoreline, staring. The waters churned and roiled like a
kettle set to boil.
Questor looked at Abernathy and blinked. "Well, what do you know
about that!" he said.
Sunset arrived and there were no further incidents. The mob had
apparently had enough for one day and now turned its attention to
building cooking fires and scrounging for food. With the causeway
destroyed, the last open link with the mainland was severed, and
Sterling Silver was truly an island in the middle of a lake. No way
to reach her now, it was clear, unless you wanted to swim. Most of
those gathered couldn't swim and in many cases distrusted water in
general. Questor was inclined to congratulate himself on a
well-executed bit of magic, but he refrained from doing so since
the whole business had gone completely awry and Abernathy knew it.
Abernathy, for his part, had gone back to wondering how ever in the
world they were going to get out of this mess without Holiday.
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It was still light when, despite Questor's and Abemathy's fondest
hopes and unspoken predictions, Kallendbor and a substantial army
arrived to take up a position directly across from the castle
gates. Peasants and common folk were shoved aside and room was made
for the fighting men and their leader. Close by Kallendbor's side
was Horns
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Kew and his bird, the former shuffling about distractedly, the
latter riding his shoulder like the proverbial omen of doom.
Abemathy watched them bleakly. The cause of all of this, he thought
darkly. Horris Kew and his bird. If he could just reach them. If he
could just get his hands on them for five seconds. The image
lingered.
There was no sign of the black-cloaked stranger. Questor and
Abernathy both searched for him without success. Maybe he had
stayed behind, but neither of them believed so.
Darkness fell, the sun disappeared, and the fires brightened
against the night. Sentries took up positions on the banks of the
lake, visibly placed so that those in the castle could see that a
siege had been laid. Questor and Abernathy remained on the ramparts
where they had stood all day and brooded.
"Whatever are we going to do?" Abernathy muttered disconsolately.
The camp milled about below, people jostling for room in the
crowded meadow. The smell of meat cooking wafted up. Cups of ale
were being passed about, and laughter grew loud and raucous.
"A regular picnic, isn't it?" Questor replied irritably. Then he
started. "Abernathy, look there!"
Abernathy looked. Kallendbor was standing at the edge of the lake
with Horris Kew and the bird. Right next to him was the
black-cloaked stranger, bold as you please. They stood apart from
everyone else, staring out across the water at Sterling Silver.
"Making plans for tomorrow, I'll warrant," the wizard said. He
shook his head wearily. "Well, I've had enough of this. I'm going
up to the Landsview to see if there is anything new to be learned
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of the King. I shall scour the countryside once more, and maybe
this time something will reveal itself." He made a dismissive
gesture with his hands
Terry Brooks 265
and started away. "Anything is better than watching those idiots."
He departed in a sweep of gray robes, leaving Abernathy to keep
watch alone. Contemplating the unfairness of life and the stupidity
of men become dogs and wondering anew what he could do to redeem
himself, Abernathy continued standing there despite Questor's
assessment of the act as a waste of time. There seemed little he
could accomplish so long as he was penned up in the castle. He
thought vaguely about swimming the lake and sneaking up on Horris
Kew and his bird, but that would only get him taken prisoner or
worse.
On the far bank, Kallendbor, Horris Kew, Biggar, and the stranger
continued to huddle in the near dark, co-conspirators of the night.
Abernathy was trying quite unsuccessfully to read their lips when a
commotion from behind brought him sharply about. Two of the castle
guards had appeared from out of the stairwell holding in their
burly hands two small, grimy, struggling figures.
"Great High Lord!" one moaned pitifully.
"Mighty High Lord!" the other wailed.
Well, there you are, Abernathy thought as the two were brought
forward. Just when you think things can't get any worse, somehow
they always do. There was no mistaking these two—the stout, hairy,
dirt-encrusted bodies; the bearded, ferretlike faces with pointed
ears and wet noses; the peasant-reject clothes topped off with
ridiculous leather skullcaps and tiny red feathers. They were as
familiar and unwelcome as deep winter cold and sweltering summer
heat, unavoidable visitations that came and went more frequently
than the weather. They were G'home Gnomes, the most despised people
in the entire kingdom of Landover, the lowest of the low, the final
step down the evolutionary ladder. They were thieves and pilferers
who lived hand-to-mouth and by the deliberate misfortune they
brought to oth-
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THE TANGLE BOX
ers. They were that variety of creature that scavenges what it
consumes and thus cleans up what all others leave behind—except, of
course, that G'home Gnomes also cleaned up much of that which was
not intended to be left behind in the first place. They were
particularly fond of pet cats, which was all right with Abernathy,
and pet dogs, which was decidedly not.
These two Gnomes, in particular, were a source of unending distress
to the members of the court of Ben Holiday. Ever since they had
appeared unexpectedly to pledge their fealty to the throne some
three years earlier—a decidedly mixed blessing if ever there was
one—they had been underfoot. Now here they were again, the same two
troublemakers, back for another shot at making Abernathy's life
miserable.
Fillip and Sot cringed when they saw him. They were still whining
for Holiday, who at least would tolerate them. Abernathy had no
such compunction.
"Where is the High Lord?" Fillip asked immediately.
"Yes, where is the King?" Sot echoed.
"Found them messing about in the King's bedchamber," one of the
guards advised, giving Fillip a good shake in an effort to still
his struggling. The Gnome whimpered. "Thieving, I expect."
"Never, no never!" Fillip cried.
"Never from the High Lord!" Sot cried.
Abernathy felt a headache coming on. "Set them down," he ordered
with a sigh.
The guards dropped them in a heap. The Gnomes fell to their knees,
groveling pitifully.
"Great Court Scribe!"
"Mighty Court Scribe!"
Abernathy nibbed his temples. "Oh, stop it!" He dismissed the
guards and motioned the Gnomes to their feet. They rose hesitantly,
glancing about with worried looks,
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thinking perhaps that some terrible fate was about to befall them,
thinking perhaps of trying to escape.
Abernathy studied them wearily. "What is it that you want?" he
snapped.
The G'home Gnomes exchanged a hurried glance.
'To see the High Lord," Fillip answered hesitantly.
'To speak with the High Lord," Sot agreed.
They were terrible at lying, and Abernathy saw at once that they
were being evasive. It had been a very long, disappointing day, and
he had no time for this.
"Eaten any stray animals lately?" he asked softly, leaning forward
so that they could see the faint gleam of his teeth.
"Oh, no, we would never ..."
"Only vegetables, I promise ..."
"Because every so often I have this craving for roast Gnome,"
Abernathy interrupted pointedly. They went as still as stone. "Now
give me the truth, or I shall not be responsible for what happens
next!"
Fillip swallowed hard. "We want a mind's eye crystal," he answered
miserably.
Sot nodded. "Everyone has one but us."
"We just want one."
"Yes, just one."
"That is not asking too much."
"No, not too much."
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Abemathy wanted to throttle them. Was there no end to this
nonsense? "Look at me," he said, a very real edge to his voice.
They met his gaze reluctantly. "There are no mind's eye crystals
here. None. Not a one. There never were. If I have anything to say
about it, there never will be!" He almost checked himself on that
last statement, but then decided he really meant it. He reached out
and caught mem by their skinny, gnarly arms. "Come here."
He dragged them over to the parapets, ignoring their moans and
cries about being thrown to their doom. "Look out there!" he
snapped irritably. "Go on, look!" They
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looked. "See that man with the bird? Next to Lord Kallendbor? Next
to the man in the black cloak?"
They hesitated, then nodded as one.
"That," Abernathy declared triumphantly, "is the one who has the
mind's eye crystals! So go talk to him!"
He let go of them and stepped away, hands on dog hips. The G'home
Gnomes looked at each other uncertainly, then back at Horns Kew,
then back at Abernathy.
"There are no crystals here?" Fillip asked, sounding hurt
"None?" Sot asked.
Abernathy shook his head. "You have my solemn word as Court Scribe
and servant to the King. If there are any crystals to be found,
(hat is the man who can find them."
Fillip and Sot wiped dirt-encrusted fingers across damp snouts and
teary eyes and stared down at the conjurer with increasing interest
They sniffled rather anxiously, and their jaws worked to no
discernible purpose. They stepped back.
"We shall speak with him, then," Fillip announced, taking the lead
as always.
"Yes, we shall," Sot reinforced.
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They started to turn away and move back toward the stairwell. In
spite of himself, Abernathy called them back. "Wait!" he hailed.
"Hold on a moment." He walked over to them. He didn't owe them
this, but he couldn't let them go unwarned either. "Listen to me.
These men, the one in black particularly, are very dangerous. You
cannot just walk up to them and ask for crystals. They are likely
to cut you into tiny pieces for your trouble."
Fillip and Sot looked at each other.
"We will be very careful," Fillip advised.
"Very," Sot agreed.
They started away again.
"Wait!" Abernathy called a second time. Something had just occurred
to him, something he had missed before. The G'home Gnomes turned.
"How did you get in here?" he asked suspiciously. "You did not come
over the bridge.
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And you do not look like you swam the lake. So how exactly did you
get in?"
They exchanged another in mat endless series of furtive looks.
Neither spoke.
Abernathy came right up to them then and bent down. "You tunneled
in, didn't you?" Fillip bit his lip. Sot clenched his jaw. "Didn't
you?"
They nodded. Reluctantly.
"All the way from the far bank?" Abernathy was incredulous.
Fillip sulked. "The forest, actually."
Sot sulked harder. "Back in the trees."
Abernathy stared. "No, how could you? That would take days, weeks."
He stopped himself. "Wait a minute. How long has this tunnel of
yours been in place?"
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"Awhile," Fillip muttered, and scuffed the stone rampart with the
claws of his feet.
"And where does this tunnel come out?"
Another pause, this one longer. "The kitchen larder," Sot admitted
finally.
Abernathy straightened once more. Memories of food mysteriously
disappearing from the larder surfaced like dead fish at moonrise.
Cooks' helpers had been blamed. Accusations had been made. No
resolution had ever been reached.
"So," he said softly, drawing the word out like a hangman's noose.
"The kitchen larder."
Fillip and Sot cringed and waited for the blow to fall. But
Abernathy wasn't even looking at them. He was looking away, toward
the ramparts and beyond. He was not considering retribution against
the G'home Gnomes; he was weighing instead the prospect of getting
even with Horns Kew. With the glow of the watch fires dancing off
the shadowed stone of Sterling Silver, he stood poised on the brink
of a decision that would either redeem him or cost him his life.
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It took him only a moment to make up his mind. He bent down again
and asked pointedly, "Is this tunnel of yours big enough for me?"
•L
Cmome Time
Abernathy was not by nature compulsive in his behavior or even
remotely venturesome, so it was with some surprise that he found
himself contemplating squeezing into the narrow tunnel hollowed out
by Fillip and Sot far back in a corner of the kitchen larder,
intent on crawling its length to the woods behind the siege lines
ringing Sterling Silver, there to undertake some precarious and
probably foolhardy effort to capture and squeeze information out of
Horris Kew. It wasn't that he didn't realize what it was he was
doing or appreciate the danger involved that disturbed him; it was
mat he would even consider such madness in the first place.
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He consoled himself by determining it was his dog side taking over
and therefore entirely the fault of Questor Thews.
The wizard had no idea what Abernathy was about. If he had known,
he would have put a stop to it at once or insisted on going
himself, neither of which the Court Scribe could permit. After all,
this was Abernathy's mess to clean
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up, his pride to redeem, his self-esteem to regain. Besides,
Questor was needed where he was, within the walls of the castle
where he could present at least a semblance of a defense against
the inevitable assault Kallendbor and his army would mount.
Questor's magic might be erratic, but it was a force to be reckoned
with nevertheless and would give the castle's assailants at least
some pause in their efforts.
Meanwhile, he hoped, he would be able to find out what had become
of Ben Holiday.
He was forced to strip off his clothes to get into the tunnel; it
was that tight. Nudity was an indignity he was prepared to endure.
The G'home Gnomes had made the tunnel for themselves, after all,
and not for him. In the shadows of the larder, the kitchen staff
dismissed summarily and without explanation to other parts of the
castle, Abernathy pulled off his clothing and thought for a moment
about what he was doing. He did not think about Horns Kew or his
bird or Kallendbor or the black-cloaked stranger this time. The
danger from that quarter was known. He thought instead about
placing himself in the hands—and possibly teeth—of Fillip and Sot:
They were dubious allies at best, given their history as scavengers
and consumers of cats and dogs. He was quite certain that if the
opportunity presented itself they would not hesitate to eat him.
Why not? It was in then- nature, wasn't it? Since that was so,
however, it was incumbent on Abernathy, given his present
precarious circumstances, to give them a very good reason not to
make a meal of him.
He decided to appeal to the one character virtue he was able to
accord them.
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"Listen carefully to me," he told them, crouching naked at the
tunnel entry, trying hard not to feel foolish. "There is something
I have not told you. What we are doing is very important to the
well-being of the High Lord. We have not given out the news, but
something bad has happened to him. He has disappeared. Those men
out there, the one with
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the mind's eye crystals and the black-cloaked one, are responsible.
I have a plan to save Holiday, but you will have to help me. You
want to save the High Lord, don't you?"
"Oh, yes!" Fillip declared.
"Yes, indeed!" Sot insisted.
They nodded so hard he thought their heads might shake loose from
their shoulders. He was stretching the truth here concerning
Holiday and any plan for his rescue, but in a good cause. The one
thing he could count on where the G'home Gnomes were concerned was
their unswerving loyalty to the High Lord. It had been set in
concrete from the time of their first meeting, when Ben Holiday had
done what no one else would have even considered doing—he had gone
to their rescue in a cause that was recognizably questionable,
determined that a King must serve all of his subjects equally. He
had saved their lives, and they had never forgotten. They continued
to be thieves and scavengers and acted in misguided ways more often
than not, but as they had shown already on more than one occasion,
they would do anything for the High Lord.
Abernathy was counting on that now. He was counting on it quite
heavily.
"Once we are through the tunnel, I will tell you my plan," he
continued. "But we must work together on this. Holiday's life is at
risk,"
"You can depend on us," Fillip advised eagerly.
"You can," Sot agreed.
Abernathy hoped so. His life was at risk as well.
They went down into the tunnel, Fillip first, Abernathy second, Sot
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trailing. They crawled in headfirst, stretching out full-length
along an earthen passageway that twisted and burrowed down into
blackness. Abernathy found that he could not see a thing. He could
hear Fillip moving ahead of him and followed the sound of his
squirming. From behind, Sot nudged his feet to prod him along.
Roots scraped his belly and back. Insects skittered past him in a
flurry of
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legs, hi places, patches of damp soaked into him and matted his
fur. Everything smelled pungent and close. Abernathy hated tunnels.
He hated anything that confined him (another dog trait, he
assumed). He wanted out of there very badly, but he forced himself
to go on. He had initiated this venture and he was determined to
see it through.
The Gnomes must have tunneled all the way under the lake, a feat
that Abemathy could not comprehend, given its well-known depth. He
envisioned the earth collapsing on top of him; he imagined the lake
waters pouring in. The crawl went on endlessly, and at more man one
point he thought that he had reached the limit of his endurance.
But he refused to quit.
When he emerged once more into the light of moons and stars within
a clump of bushes behind the siege lines, there to brush dirt and
insects away and to breathe anew and with much gratitude a cool
night air which smelled and tasted sweeter than anything hi recent
memory, he vowed that whatever happened from here on out, he was
not under any circumstances going back into that tunnel.
His composure regained, he followed the G'home Gnomes out of the
bushes and through the trees to the rise that looked down on the
meadow and the makeshift army besieging Sterling Silver. Cooking
fires were dying out, and people were stretched out on the grass
sleeping. Sentries from Kallendbor's war party still patrolled the
shores of the lake, keeping close watch over the island castle, and
small knots of men still drank and joked restlessly, but for the
most part everyone had settled in for the night. Abemathy searched
the meadow, particularly along the shoreline, for some sign of
Horris Kew or the black-cloaked stranger. There was none to be
found. Not even Kallendbor was visible.
"What do we do now?" Fillip asked anxiously.
"Yes, what?" Sot echoed.
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Abernathy wasn't sure. He licked his nose worriedly.
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Somehow he had to find Horris Kew. But how was he supposed to do
that given his present circumstances? To begin with, he looked like
a dog, and without any clothes he had little hope of disguising the
fact. If he went down into the camp like this, he would be spotted
in a moment.
Reluctantly, he turned to the Gnomes. "Do you think you could sneak
down there and find the man I showed you from the castle, the one
with the bird?"
"The man with the mind's eye crystals," Fillip announced brightly.
"That one," Sot declared.
Abernathy had hoped they might focus on something besides the
crystals. It was Ben Holiday he was after, and G'home Gnomes were
easily distracted from what mattered in favor of what interested.
It was Abernathy's biggest fear that they would get sidetracked.
They just couldn't seem to help themselves.
"We can find him," Fillip said.
"Easily," Sot said.
Abernathy sighed. "All right, give it a try. But just find him,
then come right back and tell me where he is. So I can tell you my
plan. Do not do anything else. Do not let him know you are there.
Can you remember that?"
"Yes, we can remember," Fillip said, nodding.
"Easily," Sot repeated.
They slipped away into the darkness and disappeared from view. We
can remember, they had promised. Abernathy wished he could be sure.
Not too far away, back somewhat from the rabble that crowded the
meadow, Horris Kew and Biggar sat conversing quietly in the dark.
Horris was crouched within the shadows of an old spreading maple
that edged out from the forest behind, coming halfway down the
slope like a scout. Biggar was perched on the trunk of a tree that
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had once been the maple's companion but had fallen victim to light-
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ning. Horris sat with his back against the maple, the trunk of the
other tree close by his legs where they stretched out before him
like tent poles.
"You are a coward, Horris," the bird sneered. "A pathetic, craven
coward. I would never have thought it of you."
"I am a realist, Biggar." Horris was having none of this coward
business. "I know when I am in over my head, and this is definitely
one of those times."
It was a bitter admission, but not an unfamiliar one. Sooner or
later Horris Kew always found himself in over his head in his
machinations. Why these things never worked out as he intended, why
they always went wrong somewhere along the way, was a mystery that
continued to baffle him. But it was clear that this time, just as
all the other times before, things had gone dangerously haywire.
He had been convinced of it since the Gorse had showed itself to
Kallendbor and instigated the march on Sterling Silver. At least
that long, he corrected. Perhaps he had been convinced of it
before, given the nature of the being with which he had become
entangled. The Gorse was just what Biggar had warned it was—an
incredibly powerful monster that could turn on them in a moment.
That it would do so sooner or later was no longer in doubt. Since
the march from Rhyndweir, Horris could see his usefulness to the
creature coming to an end. For one thing, the Gorse had regained
its human form and could walk among men, night or day. That meant
it no longer relied on Horris to run its errands. Worse, it was
beginning to disregard the fact that Horris was even there. When
siege was laid to Sterling Silver, it addressed Kallendbor as an
equal and barely deigned to notice Horris. Forgotten were all the
promises of the role Horris would play in the new order. There was
no longer any mention, veiled or otherwise, of Horris becoming King
in Holiday's place. Horris was being shoved aside, no mistake about
it.
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"So you simply plan to give it all up once again?" the bird
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snapped, bringing him out of his reverie. "Just walk away from the
chance of a lifetime? What's the matter with you? I thought you had
some backbone about you!"
Horris glowered. "Just exactly what is it that you expect me to do,
Biggar? Tell that monster I don't like how I'm being treated and I
want what's fair? That should prove interesting. Given what we now
know, I should say we will be lucky to get out of this alive even
if we keep our mouths shut!"
Biggar spit, an ugly sound. "You can tell it you want to be King,
Horris! You can tell it that! The Gorse suggested it, after all!
It's a good plan. You be King for a day, we get our hands on as
much wealth as we can, then we get out of here. But we don't cut
and run with nothing!"
Horris folded his arms across his bony chest and huffed. 'Tell it I
want to be King, you think? Haven't you been paying attention to
what's going on? Haven't you been listening? This isn't about
mind's eye crystals or Sterling Silver or being King! There is
something else going on here, something infinitely more complex and
devious. The Gorse is simply using us—Kallendbor included—to get
what it wants. It spent a lot of time getting free of that box, and
it wasn't happy about being put there in the first place! Think
about it!"
Biggar's beak clacked shut. "What do you mean?"
Horris leaned forward. "For a bird possessed of enhanced
intelligence, you can be awfully dense. Revenge, Biggar! The Gorse
wants a healthy measure of it, don't you see? There are old debts
to be paid for injuries suffered, and the Gorse is doing all this
to collect on those debts. It practically told us as much. Landover
for us, it said, and the fairy mists for itself—remember? I didn't
realize what that meant then, but I do now. We have always followed
a very sound rule of business, Biggar, and it has served us well.
If there isn't any money to be made, we get out. Well, there
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isn't any money involved in the revenge business, and it's time to
fold our tent and get while the getting's good!"
"But there is money, Horris," the bird insisted. "That's just the
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point. There's all kinds of money, just across that lake, just
inside those walls. If we can hang on for a few more days, we have
a chance to take a good chunk of it with us. The Gorse can help
us—maybe without even knowing it. Let the beast have its revenge,
what do we care? What we need is what's inside those walls. That,
and a way out of Landover. Or have you forgotten we're trapped
here? The Gorse can give us both."
"What it can give us is a quick trip into that box with Holiday and
the others." Horris shook his head stubbornly. "You saw what it
did. It dispatched Holiday like a child. Down into the Tangle Box
and out of Landover in the blink of an eye. No more King. It'll do
the same with us when it's ready, and I don't think that time is
too far off."
Biggar hopped onto the end of Horris Kew's boot His claws dug in.
"Maybe we should hedge our bets a bit, Horris. Suppose you're
right. What we need is a little something to keep the Gorse from
harming us. Like the box."
Horris blinked. "The Tangle Box?"
"We slip away right now, tonight," said the bird. "We can reach the
cave on horseback and return before morning. Take the box and hide
it. Use it as a lever to make certain we get what we want." The
sharp eyes gleamed.
Horris stared at the bird for a moment, then he shook his head in
disbelief. "You've gone round the bend, Biggar. You really have.
Threaten the Gorse? What does it care if we have the box or not? We
don't even know how to use it!"
"We know the words," the bird whispered. "We know the spell. What
if we were to say it again?"
There was a long, terrible silence. Horris wished he had never
opened the box in the first place, never spoken the
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words that released the Gorse, never returned to Landover at all.
He wished he had taken up some other less-stressful profession,
like ieatherworking or weaving. He was suddenly and inescapably fed
up with magic in all its forms.
"Come on, Horris, let's go!" Biggar urged. "Don't just sit there.
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Get up!"
Biggar couldn't see it, of course. Perhaps it was due to the fact
that even with enhanced intelligence there was still only a bird's
brain inside that tiny feathered cranium trying to sort it all out.
Or maybe he simply didn't want to see.
"If we do this," Horris Kew began softly, "if we decide to
challenge the Gorse, if we actually go back to the cave and steal
the Tangle Box ..."
He couldn't finish. He couldn't bring himself to speak the words.
He slumped back against the tree, his bony frame collapsing in on
itself like a deflated balloon.
Biggar hopped back and forth between the other's boot and the tree
trunk, hissing like a snake. "You coward! You worm-body! You
ridiculous excuse for a wizard! All talk and no action wimp-head!
How I ever let myself become involved with the likes of you is more
than I can comprehend!"
Something moved behind the tree trunk, barely noticeable, a silent
bit of shadow and nothing more, but neither of them saw it.
"Biggar, Biggar, you are not thinking .. ."
"I am thinking! I am the only one who's thinking!" Biggar puffed up
to twice his size, turning himself into a ferocious black
porcupine. "Go on, then! Lie there like a rag doll, a collection of
sackcloth sewn up with sawdust brains! Go on!"
Horris Kew closed his eyes and put his hands over his face.
"I'll not spend another moment with such a coward!" raged Biggar.
"Not one, single, further, disgusting—"
A grimy hand reached up from behind the log on which
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he perched, clamped itself over his beak and neck, and dragged him
from sight.
After a moment, Morris Kew opened his eyes again and peered about.
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No Biggar. Ju$t like that, he was gone. Morris sat forward,
puzzled. A single black feather lay rocking on the log.
"Biggar?" he called tentatively.
There was no answer.
The hour approached midnight.
Abernathy sat quietly at the edge of the woods and watched the last
of the revelers nod off, leaving a sprinkling of fires and the
distant, vague shapes of Kallendbor's sentries. The darkness
deepened all about. Sterling Silver was a vague bulk against the
horizon, almost entirely empty of light. Overhead, the sky was
clear and bright with several moons and thousands of stars. It was
warm and pleasant and under other circumstances might have assured
everyone a good night's sleep.
As it was, Abernathy did not dare even think about sleep, worried
sick already over the length of time that had passed since Fillip
and Sot had left his side in search of Honis Kew. There had been no
outcry, so he didn't think they had been spied, but he was
uncomfortable with having them gone this long nevertheless. There
were too many ways for that pair to get into trouble, too many
missteps they could take before they realized their mistake. He
wished he had gone with them. He chided himself for trusting them
to go alone.
He had just about made up his mind to go look for them, to slip
down into the camp and steal a concealing cloak and search them
out, when they abruptly reappeared. They popped up out of the
shadows almost in front of him, causing him to start in spite of
himself.
"Where have you been?" he asked, irritated.
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The G'home Gnomes smiled, showing all their teeth. They looked
exceptionally pleased with themselves.
"Look what we have," said Fillip.
"Come, take a look," said Sot.
Abernathy tried to look, for he could see that they did indeed have
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something—something that appeared to be moving—but they brushed
past him without slowing.
"No, no, not here," Fillip said quickly.
"In the dark, away from the camp," Sot said.
So they trekked back into the woods, well away from the meadow and
its campers, until there was no one anywhere about but themselves.
At this point Fillip and Sot turned back to Abernathy once more,
and the former proudly held out his hands.
"Here!" he announced.
Abernathy stared. It was the bird, the myna or whatever it was, the
one that belonged to Horris Kew. It was clutched firmly in the
Gnome's grimy hands, its neck grasped none too gently, its beak
clamped shut so that it could not cry out. Its wings fluttered
weakly, but it appeared to have spent itself thoroughly.
Abernathy sighed in despair. "I told you just to look, just to find
the bird's owner and come back to me. I did not tell you to take
the bird! What good is the bird to us!"
"Much good," insisted Sot, undeterred. He prodded Fillip eagerly.
"Show him."
Fillip dropped his fingers below Biggar's beak and gave a small
shake. "Speak, bird."
The bird did not speak. It hung there limply, pitifully. It looked
half-dead. Abernathy felt a throbbing in his temples and sighed.
Fillip glowered. He bent down close to the bird's face. "Speak,
stupid bird, or I will wring your neck and eat you," he said, and
he tightened his clawed fingers meaningfully.
"AH right, all right!" the bird snapped, coming suddenly alive.
Abernathy jerked back in surprise. The bird's head
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twisted wildly. "I'm talking, okay? What do you want me to say?'
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Fillip held the bird out proudly. "See?"
Abernathy bent down for a closer look. "Well, well," he said
softly. "You talk a lot better than you pretend, don't your
"Better than you, furball," Biggar sneered. 'Tell these mole people
to let go of me right now or it will be the worse for you."
Abernathy reached out and poked the bird. "What is your name again?
Biggar? Well, Biggar, guess what?" There was unmistakable
satisfaction in his voice. "It took awhile, but I remember you now.
It was a long time ago, wasn't it? You belonged to the old King's
wizard, to Questor Thews's brother. One day, you were simply
reported missing. What happened? Were you dispatched to Ben
Holiday's old world—just like Horns Kew? No, never mind about that.
It hardly matters now. Just tell me what you know about the High
Lord's disappearance, hmm? And don't leave anything out"
Biggar closed his beak with a sharp clack. But it was too late for
stonewalling. Fillip and Sot had overheard most of his conversation
with Horns Kew and dutifully repeated it now to Abemathy. They got
their facts confused a few times and failed to interpret all the
words properly, but it was clear enough for the scribe to figure
out what had happened. The Gorse was some sort of monster. It was
using Horns Kew and Kallendbor. The mind's eye crystals were its
cat's paw against the throne. Most important, Ben Holiday's
disappearance had come about through use of a powerful spell that
would somehow have to be reversed. That meant finding the Corse's
cave and the Tangle Box hidden within it.
Abernathy turned his attention back to Biggar. The bird had said
nothing since his first outburst, withdrawing into silence for the
entirety of the time that Fillip and Sot had
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revealed his secrets. Now he glanced quickly up at Abernathy as the
scribe bent down close to look at him.
"Polly want a cracker?" Abernathy coaxed maliciously.
Biggar, despite being firmly held, snapped at his nose.
Abeniathy smiled and showed all of his teeth. "You listen to me,
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you worthless bag of feathers. You are going to lead us to this
cave—tonight. When we get there, you are going to take us inside.
You are going to show us this Tangle Box, and you are going to
teach us the words of the spell. Do you understand me?"
Biggar's bright eyes fixed on him. "I'm not doing anything. They'll
find me missing and come looking for me. The Gorse, particularly.
Wait until you see what it'll do to you!"
"Whatever it does," Abernathy replied pointedly, "you will not be
around to see it happen." There was a long, meaningful silence.
"The fact of the matter is," he continued, "if you do not show me
where that cave is right now, I am going to give you to my friends
and tell them to do whatever they like with you as long as they
assure me that I will never, ever see you again."
He kept his gaze and his voice steady. "Because I am very angry
about being tricked. I am even more angry about what you have done
to the High Lord. I want him back, safe and sound, and I expect you
to help me if you have any hope at all of living out the night. Has
that penetrated your little bud brain?"
There was another long silence. "Say something quick," Abernathy
urged.
Biggar's voice came out a croak. "The cave is west, beyond the
Heart." Then he recovered. "But it won't do you any good."
Abernathy smiled and gave the bud another look at his teem. "We'll
see about that," he promised.
J
ar s
Bi-
Last Stand
While Fillip kept tight hold of Biggar, Sot was dispatched to find
horses for the journey west, the word find being understood to be a
euphemism for the word steal by all concerned. Beggars could not
afford to be choosers, and the G'home Gnomes were thieves by nature
and habit and would readily interpret find as steed in any event.
The hard part of all this was not in reconciling moral principles
but in accepting that horses must be used. Neither Abernathy nor
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the Gnomes had any particular love for horses, and in truth horses
didn't much care for them either. It was one of those inbred
hostilities that could not be overcome by either reason or
circumstance. But the distance involved required at least a good
day by foot and only four hours by horseback. Since time was
running out for Questor Thews and Sterling Silver—dawn, after all,
would find Kallendbor and the black-cloaked stranger working hard
to discover ways to shorten the siege—necessity ruled and horses
would have to be tolerated. 284
Terry Brooks 285
If only barely.
Sot was back in record time, leading two haltered and blanketed
horses, one a bay, the other a sorrel, that he had quite obviously
removed from a picket line. He had not thought to acquire either
saddles or bridles, which complicated matters. The horses were
already shying and snorting with distaste at the small, ragged,
dirt-encrusted rodent who led them. In lieu of saddles, Abernathy
decided to leave the blankets in place, trimming them with Sot's
hunting knife so that they did not hang below the horses' flanks
and securing them as best he could with a makeshift girth strap
woven out of the pieces trimmed. It was a sad-looking job, but mere
was no help for it.
They mounted up then, Abernathy aboard the sorrel, which was the
more rambunctious of the pair, and Fillip and Sot atop the
bay.'Fillip held the halter rope and Sot the bud. The horses were
dancing and huffing by now, beginning to realize what was in store
for them and being none too happy about it. Abernathy had them walk
the horses at first, anxious to get as far away from the encampment
as possible in case they chose to bolt. This was accomplished with
a minimum of fuss. When they were several miles off and well up
into the hill country west, Abernathy kicked his mount in the
flanks gently and they were off.
At a dead run. Both horses leapt away as if on command and tore
through the trees and over the hills like creatures possessed.
Abernathy tried to rein his sorrel in, but the horse was having
none of it. Free of the constraints of bit and reins, it simply
took command. Abernathy gave up trying to do anything but hang on.
Behind him, he could hear the Gnomes howling in despair. If they
were thrown, they might lose the bud. If they lost the bird, they
were finished. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to shout
back useless advice.
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Eventually the horses wore themselves out, slowed to a trot, and
finally a walk. All three riders were still aboard
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and in possession of their faculties, although they felt as if
their bones had been rearranged. They had come a very long way in a
very short time, as it turned out, and before they knew it they
were at the Heart and passing west. Abernathy called back from time
to time for directions from Biggar, and the bird grudgingly
supplied what was required. The moons shifted languidly along the
horizon and overhead across the sky as night eased toward morning.
The countryside changed its look as the trees thickened and the
forests grew more dense. Soon they were forced to proceed at a
careful walk in a woods that offered no trail and allowed no
misstep.
It was little more lhan an hour later when they reached the cave.
They dismounted at the top of a steep rise, tied the horses to a
tree, and maneuvered their way down the slope to a tangled thicket
below. The descent went slowly, as all were stiff and sore from the
ride. The Gnomes complained loudly and incessantly, and Abernathy
gave thought to gagging them. At the base of the slope, they turned
back through a gathering of brush and found themselves up against a
huge, flat stone into which intricate symbols had been carved.
Abernathy could neither read nor understand the symbols.
"What do we do now?" he demanded of Biggar.
The bird was looking somewhat the worse for wear, having been held
tightly by the legs during the entire ride, often upside-down as
Sot struggled to keep his seat atop the bay. Feathers were sticking
out everywhere, and dust coated the once-sleek black body.
"I don't know that I should tell you another thing," he snapped in
reply. "When are you going to let me go!"
"When I see the High Lord safe and sound again!" Abernathy was in
no mood for argument
Biggar spit disdainfully. "That won't happen. Not if I help you get
into the cave, not if I show you the box, and not if you speak the
spell. It won't happen because you're
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287
not a wizard or a conjurer or anyone else capable of summoning
magic."
"This from a bird," Abernathy replied testily. "Just get us inside,
Biggar. Let me worry about the rest."
The bird sniffed. "Very well. Have it your way. Touch these symbols
in the order I direct" And he proceeded to repeat the procedure for
opening the cavern door as he had memorized it from watching Horris
Kew.
A moment later, the stone swung back, grating against its rock
seating, yawning into a black hole streaked dimly with a silver
phosphorescence. The little company stood staring uncertainly into
the uninviting gloom.
"Well?" Biggar sneered. "Are you going to stand out here all day or
are you going in? Let's get this over with."
"How far back does this cave run?" Abernathy asked.
'To its end!" the bird snapped. "Sheesh!"
Abemathy ignored him. He didn't like caves any better than he liked
tunnels, but he couldn't risk sending the G'home Gnomes in alone.
No telling what might happen. On the other hand, he wasn't anxious
to walk into a trap.
"I will go first," Fillip volunteered, providing a solution to the
problem.
"I will go second," Sot offered.
"We don't mind tunnels and caves."
"We like the dark."
That was fine with Abernathy. He was content to bring up the rear.
The better to keep an eye on everyone. Besides, if there were any
traps the Gnomes would have a far better chance of spotting them
than he would. Too bad his nose worked better than his eyes, but
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such was his lot and mere was no point in bemoaning it.
"All right," he agreed. "But be careful."
"Do not worry about us," Fillip advised cheerfully.
"Not for a minute," Sot added.
Fair enough, Abernathy allowed. Not that he was in-
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clined to do so in any case. "Just keep a tight grip on the bird,"
he ordered.
They stepped cautiously through the door, easing their way out of
night's darkness and into the cavern's. The phosphorescence gleamed
in dull streaks along the corridor walls ahead, like candlelight
seen through a rain-streaked window. They paused in the entry,
casting about. The air within was surprisingly warm. The silence
was immense.
A sudden, terrible thought struck Abernathy. What if the Gorse had
come here ahead of them for some reason and was waiting? The idea
was so frightening that for a moment he could not move. It occurred
to him suddenly that he was in way over his head. He had no
weapons, no magic, and no fighting skills with which to protect
himself. The Gnomes were worthless in a fight; all they would do
was burrow to safety. This whole enterprise was. fraught with
danger and riddled with the possibility of failure. What had he
been thinking in undertaking it hi the first place?
Then the momentary fear passed, and he was able to calm himself. He
had done what he must do, what was necessary and right, and that
was enough to justify any risk. High Lord Ben Holiday depended on
him. He did not know how exactly, but he knew that in some way it
was true. He reminded himself anew how he had aided and abetted the
Gorse and Horris Kew in their efforts to subvert the people of
Landover and undermine the throne. He reminded himself of the debt
that he must pay for his foolishness.
"Well, then, let's proceed," he announced bravely.
The Gnomes, who had been watching him work his way through his
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hesitancy, eased through the doorway. Abemathy took a deep breath
and followed.
Instantly, the door grated shut behind them.
Abernathy jumped, the Gnomes yelped, and for' an instant there was
complete pandemonium. Abernathy threw himself instinctively against
the door to force it open again. Both Gnomes raced to help and ran
into each other for their
Terry Brooks 289
trouble. As they collided, Biggar pecked as hard as he could on the
hand grasping him, and Sot let go.
Biggar broke free instantly, flew up into the air, and in the blink
of an eye streaked away into the cave.
Within the Labyrinth, Ben Holiday worked his way slowly through the
mist, the talisman of the medallion held carefully before him.
Strabo and Nightshade trailed, silent wraiths following his lead.
They had all been transformed inwardly since the revelation of
their identity, but outwardly each was crippled in appearance and
capability and bore the weight of their imprisonment like chains.
There was the sense now that they walked their last mile, that if
they failed to get free this time they would be trapped forever.
There was within them a growing desperation.
None was more acutely aware of it than Ben, who carried in his
hands their only hope. The medallion did not speak to him; it did
not give off light or provide direction. He walked like a bund man,
seeing nothing of the trail he needed, knowing only that the
medallion had taken him through the fairy mists before and must
somehow do so again if they were to survive. For survival was the
issue here, though the word went unspoken. If they remained within
the mists, they would eventually go mad. Madness was a certainty
they could see as clearly as their desperation, a pall as
inexorable as the Haze arising when they were threatened. But
unlike the Haze, it came not to protect but to destroy them. It did
so gradually, an eroding of confidence, hope, and will. It worked
against them as surely as a sickness against health, wearing diem
down so that in the end death was all that remained.
But it would not have them yet, Ben whispered in his mind. Finding
Willow again, even in his dream, even for that briefest of moments,
finding her and knowing that she depended on him, that she waited
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for him somewhere beyond the entangling mists of the Labyrinth, she
and their
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unborn child, was enough to strengthen his determination to live.
He would find a way out The medallion would give them their escape.
It must.
"I see no change in anytiiing." Nightshade's cold voice drifted up
from behind.
In truth, she was right. They seemed to be making no progress,
though they had been walking for hours. Shouldn't they have been
clear by now if the medallion was working? How long must it take?
Ben peered ahead through the gloom, trying to see some difference
in the texture and viscidity of the mist He did not slow, thinking
that if he did they might stop, and if they stopped they were lost.
Movement gave hope, movement of any sort.
"There is a lessening of the dampness," Strabo said suddenly.
Ben glanced down. He was right. The ground on which they walked was
firmer than it had been at any time since they had come into the
mists. Perhaps this was a sign. He took it as one and picked up the
pace. Ahead, the trees seemed less dense. Was this possible? Hope
blossomed within him. He grew flushed with its brightness. The
trees were giving way, opening into a clearing, the clearing
opening in turn into a passageway, a hollowed-out tunnel through
massive old growth that ran on into a distant dark ...
"Yes," he whispered aloud.
For it was a recognizable trail they approached now, one familiar
to all who had passed through the fairy mists into Landover. They
hastened toward it eagerly, even Nightshade brightening perceptibly
at the welcome sight They entered the tunneled gloom in a knot,
hurrying down the forest trail. It was the link they had sought,
the way back from where they had come. There were no fairies here,
no sounds, no movement, no hint of life of any sort save the trees
and the brush and the fog that shrouded them. They were still
within the fairy mists of the Labyrinth. Yet some-
Brooks
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291
where close, somewhere just ahead, the door leading out awaited.
But suddenly the gloom closed tightly about before them, turning as
dark as ink, becoming a wall that rose and stretched away without
end. They slowed as they came up to it, baffled that it should be
there. They stopped as they found it would not allow them to go
farther, touching its surface and finding it as hard and immovable
as stone. They walked its perimeter in either direction for a
distance and then retraced their steps. The wall offered no doorway
leading through. It allowed no passage out.
"What is this madness?" Nightshade hissed in fury.
Ben shook his head. The medallion would neither part the mists nor
show them a way around. This wall, whatever it was, was impervious
to the magic. How could that be? If the fairy mists imprisoned
them, then the medallion should be able to take them through. The
medallion gave passage through all of the mists.
Then suddenly he recognized what it was that he was seeing. This
black wall was not formed of the fairy mists. It was the
confinement of the Tangle Box itself, a different form of magic
than the mists, a final barrier against escape. And the lock for
this door, he feared, did not lie within their prison. It lay
instead without.
He stepped back in frustration and despair. He had been able to
pass from the mists of the Tangle Box in his dream, but he could
not do so while awake.
"What are we supposed to do now?" Strabo asked quietly, hunched
down at his elbow, anger seeping into his voice.
Ben Holiday did not have an answer.
It took Biggar only moments to reach the back of the cavern, the
chamber where the Gorse had concealed the Tangle Box. Biggar
swooped down to where the box sat on a rock shelf far back in the
shadows, landing on an outcropping
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just above. Now what? He had given no thought to anything but
escape up until this point, and now that he had achieved his goal
he wasn't sure what to do next. There was only one way out of the
cave and that was back the way he had come. There were runes carved
in the rock above the door, different than those that opened the
door from without, but he knew the required sequence. All that was
needed was to lure the dog and me ferrets away long enough to let
him trigger the release.
He could hear them coming already, the scratching of their claws on
the rock, the whine of their voices.
"Here, birdie, birdie," one of them called.
Biggar sneered. Birdie, birdie, indeed.
He waited patiently in the near dark until they came into view.
They materialized out of the gloom like hairy pigs, sniffing and
snuffling their way about the cavern floor. How pathetic! It was
the ferrets or whatever they were, creeping about, earthbound
imbeciles who had about as much chance of catching him as they did
of mastering physics.
"Come here, birdie," one of them repeated patiently.
"Here, stupid bird," the other snapped.
Must be the one he pecked, Biggar thought. He would have smiled if
his beak had allowed it. He hoped he had hurt the wretched little
monster plenty. He hoped the beast developed gangrene and dropped
dead. Precious little concern he'd shown for Biggar, after all.
Carrying him slung down on that horse! Beating Biggar's head
against his leg as he tried to keep his seat! Well, they'd soon see
what messing around with him would get them!
He lifted off his perch and flew back across the chamber. They saw
him instantly, eyes sharper than he would have thought, and leapt
to catch him as he whizzed past. Hopeless, of course. He was twenty
feet off the floor and twice as quick as they were. He was past
them and speeding
Terry Brooks 293
for the entrance while they were still clutching at air. Maybe the
dog had come hunting, too. Maybe.
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But he hadn't. The dog was stationed directly in front of the stone
barrier, waiting. Biggar banked hurriedly, narrowly avoiding the
dog's outstretched hands and bared teeth. The dog was smarter than
the ferrets. He wasn't about to let Biggar escape so easily.
"Come back here, you little ..."
The dog's shouted epithets died away into echoes that bounced off
the rock as Biggar flew back toward the main chamber. So it was a
standoff. They were all trapped in the cave. Biggar's mind raced.
The trick now was to lure the dog away from the stone slab, to
bring him back into the cavern just long enough for Biggar to slip
past and trigger the lock. Once he was outside the cave, they would
never catch him. Then the Gorse could deal with them. He wondered
suddenly if there was any chance that the Gorse would come back to
the cave that night. Perhaps Horns would go to it with the tale of
Biggar's disappearance. Perhaps. But that was giving Horris more
credit for brains than he deserved. These days, Horris was too
stupid to figure out how to tie his shoes. Since the Gorse had been
released, Horris was scared and confused and generally useless.
Biggar was thinking that maybe it was time for a new partner. What
did he need Horris for anyway? He was the real brains of the pair.
Always had been.
He lifted toward the ceiling as he approached the back chamber, but
even so he just narrowly avoided Sot as the Gnome leaped down from
a rocky promontory he had gained high up on the wall to one side.
The Gnome plummeted past him, hands grasping, and dropped to the
cavern floor. Biggar listened to him hit, a dull thud, then heard
him groan and start to mutter. Good.
"Nice try, rodent-face," he called out gleefully, and then he
ducked as the other ferret threw something past his head. A metal
pan or plate, some piece of cookware that Horris
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had carried in. He squawked angrily and rose up as far as he could
go. Time for evasive action.
All sorts of things started flying at him now as the Gnomes
attacked in earnest, trying to bring him down. They threw
everything they could lift, yelling at him all the while, calling
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him "stupid bird" and worse, growing angrier by the moment. That
suited Biggar just fine. Anger caused mistakes, and he was counting
on one from them. They had not seen the Tangle Box yet, and he made
a point of staying away from it. Wheeling, diving, soaring out of
reach, he teased and taunted them unmercifully, calling them names
back, daring them to catch him. Total idiots that they were, they
just kept yelling and leaping about and trying to hit him with
stuff. Fat chance.
On the other hand, he was growing a tad weary with 'all this
dodging about, and he still didn't have a plan for getting the dog
away from the door. He needed a distraction that would bring the
dog running, something the dog couldn't ignore. He wondered
suddenly what would happen if he spoke the words to the spell that
had imprisoned Holiday and the others. Nothing good, he decided and
discarded the idea quickly. That box was too dangerous. Besides,
suppose it released its prisoners? Better to leave it where it was
for now. He scanned the cavern again for another avenue of escape,
hoping that maybe he had missed an air shaft or fissure. But there
was nothing to be seen.
Below, the G'home Gnomes began pulling blankets off Horris Kew's
makeshift bed and tying them together to form a net. Come now,
Biggar smirked. He flew at them while they worked, distracting
them, taunting them further. He could see the gleam of then- yellow
eyes as they ducked and hissed up at him. They were really angry,
the both of them. Served them right. They completed their net, the
whole of it riddled with escape holes—Idiots!—and began trying to
maneuver him into a corner where he could be trapped.
Terry Brooks 295
"Fatheads! Toads! Stupid groundhogs!" he called down to them,
easily evading their pathetic efforts.
He swooped down and picked up some of the lighter implements that
had been thrown at him, carried them aloft, and dropped them on the
Gnomes' heads. The Gnomes screeched and howled. Maybe that would
bring the dog, Biggar thought hopefully. But the dog still didn't
come. Not enough noise, maybe. Biggar tried again with something
slightly heavier, a wooden ladle. He dropped it squarely on
Fillip's head, and the Gnome lost his balance on the perch he had
gained some ten feet up and fell headfirst to the floor. It must
have hurt terribly, but the Gnome was back on his feet at once.
Heads of iron, Biggar thought. No brains to encumber their thick
skulls.
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The game continued for a time, the Gnomes swinging their net at
Biggar, Biggar avoiding the snare and calling out names. No one
could gain an advantage. Biggar called the dog names as well, but
there was no response. He darted back down the tunnel to where the
dog kept watch, trying to draw it after him with insults and
nosedives, but the dog stayed put
It was Biggar who lost patience first. He could not bear mat these
halfwits had kept him trapped for so long, could not stand the idea
of being stymied by idiots. He decided to try something to break
the stalemate. He streaked back into the far chamber, past the
leaping, grasping Gnomes, and across the room to the Tangle Box.
Enough of caution. The one thing that would bring the dog was the
box—especially if he thought something dreadful was going to happen
to it. Biggar would accommodate him, then.
He teased the ferret creatures back toward the entry, giving them
just enough hope that they might catch hold of him to keep them
coming, then swooped back across the chamber to the Tangle Box. He
landed squarely on top of the container, dug his claws into the
crevices where the symbols of power had been carved, secured his
grip, and
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lifted off. It was not easy doing so. The box was heavy and
cumbersome. He watched the Gnomes race toward him, yelling more
wildly as they realized what he was doing. They were incoherent,
however, not yet yelling 'Tangle Box" or some such, so the dog
still didn't come. Clacking his beak wilh the effort, Biggar rose
into the gloom, the box secured in his claws. His wings flapped
madly to keep him aloft. His pinions strained. Below, the ferrets
were leaping wildly for him.
He struggled and flapped his way into the highest reaches of the
chamber, the Tangle Box bobbing in his grasp. His plan was to carry
it about for a few more moments and then drop it One act or the
other was bound to bring the dog.
"Stupid bird, come down!** one Gnome howled.
"Why don't you come up?" he snarled back.
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"You'll be sorry for mis!" the other shouted.
"Care to see what will happen if I let go of this?" he teased,
letting the box jiggle wildly. "I don't think I can hold on much
longer."
They shrieked like banshees at mat, racing about below him like
scampering mice routed out of their nest He was really enjoying
this. He angled from one side of the chamber to the other, drawing
mem after, a pair of ridiculous, hopeless pawns.
But still the dog didn't come.
He lost patience for the last time. Fine, if this was how they
wanted to play it, fine! He was all worn out anyway. He banked away
from them to the highest point in the chamber and released the
Tangle Box.
Unfortunately, one of his claws caught quite firmly in a seam as he
did so.
Down went the Tangle Box, plummeting to the cavern floor, and down
went a hapless Biggar with it The bird struggled wildly to break
free, scratching and scraping at
Terry Brooks 297
the weight about its foot, but it was held fast. Up rushed the
stone floor. Biggar shrieked and closed his eyes.
The expected did not come to pass, however. There was no
skull-smashing stop on the stone, no splatter of box and bird. At
the last possible moment Sot threw himself across the floor and
caught both in the cradle of his gnarly, hairy arms.
Biggar had just enough time to open his eyes before a grimy hand
closed tightly about his unfortunate neck.
"Got you now, stupid bird," the Gnome whispered.
Abemathy stood at the cavern entrance and listened as the tumult in
the inner chambers died into sudden and unexpected silence. He
waited for it to resume, but it did not. The silence lengthened and
deepened. Clearly something had happened, but what? He could not
leave his post to find out. He knew that Biggar would slip past him
and escape if he did. The bird had been trying to lure him away for
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the past hour, waiting for his chance. Abernathy had sent Fillip
and Sot in after the troublesome creature, thinking as he did that
they were best suited for the task in any event. He did not know
how they would ever manage to catch the bird, but there was little
choice other than to allow them to try. The extent of their efforts
had been evident from the sounds of then- struggle, a continuous,
relentless cacophony that suggested all manner of unpleasant
happenings.
And now everything was still.
"Fillip?" he called tentatively. "Sot?"
No answer. He waited anxiously. What should he do?
Then finally a pair of dim, but familiar shapes appeared out of the
phosphorescence-streaked gloom, bearing between them an intricately
carved wooden box. Abernathy's heart leapt with expectation.
"You found it!" he exclaimed, restraining the urge to dance a bit.
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The Gnomes trundled toward him, looking somewhat me worse for wear.
"Stupid bird tried to drop it," Fillip said grimly.
'Tried to smash it," Sot embellished.
"Hurt the High Lord," Fillip said.
"Maybe kill the High Lord," Sot said.
They stroked the wooden surface of the Tangle Box lovingly and then
passed it carefully over to the dog.
"Stupid bird won't do that again," Fillip said.
"Not ever," Sot said
And spit out a well-chewed black feather.
Dead JVeckonim
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The sunrise over Sterling Silver was a blood-red stain on the
eastern horizon that promised bad weather for the day ahead.
Questor Thews was back on the ramparts of the castle, looking down
over the waking encampment of Kai-lendbor's professional army and
the ragtag collection of villagers and farmers that had preceded it
in the quest for me phantom collection of mind's eye crystals.
Night's darkness was receding reluctantly west, edged back by the
crimson dawn, and the light washed over the huddled forms of the
besiegers like blood.
Hardly an auspicious omen, the wizard thought.
He had been up most of the night scouring the countryside with the
Landsview in search of Ben Holiday. He had traveled the length and
breadth of Landover, north to south, east to west, and found no
trace of the High Lord. He was tired and discouraged from his
efforts and frankly at his wit's end. What was he supposed to do
now? The castle was under siege, two-thirds of the population were
in open
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revolt, and he had been left alone to deal with all of it. Not even
Abernathy was to be found, a new and unwelcome source of
irritation. Willow hadn't returned yet either. If people kept
disappearing, the monarchy would soon run out of responsible
leaders and collapse like a deflated balloon.
Bunion moved out of the shadows and stood beside him, looking down
at the congregation stirring on the meadow. For once, the kobold
didn't offer his toothy smile. Questor sighed, reached down, and
patted the gnarled little fellow reassuringly on the shoulder.
Bunion was exhausted and discouraged, too. It seemed as if they all
had run out of options and must now simply wait to see what would
happen.
They didn't have to wait long. As the sun began to rise and the
camp to stir, the black-cloaked stranger appeared out of the forest
gloom and made his way toward the far end of the meadow where heavy
thickets fronted the face of a bluff. No one was camped in this
space, the ground rough and uneven, the brush studded with thorns
and itchweed, the light veiled, and the shadows thick. Questor
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watched the stranger move away from the besiegers. No one went widi
him. No one even seemed to notice he was there. He did not move
furtively, but with a purpose that defied intervention from any
quarter. Questor glanced back across the broad stretch of the
meadow. There was no sign of Morris Kew or his bird or even of
Kallendbor.
Keeping clear somehow of the brambles, the black-cloaked stranger
eased through the lingering shadows. What was he up to? Questor
Thews didn't know, but he was convinced he would be better off if
he did. He kept thinking that he ought to be doing something, but
he really had no idea what.
Bunion chittered quickly, urgently.
"No, wait here," Questor advised. "No swimming the moat until we
know what he's up to. No heroics. We've
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lost enough people as it is." And he wondered again where Abernathy
had gone.
Kallendbor had come into view now, trailed by his officers and
retainers. Most were armored and ready for battle. War horses were
being saddled. Weapons were being brought down from the heights in
wagons and foot soldiers were lining up to receive them. Questor's
mouth tightened. Apparently Kallendbor was growing tired of the
siege already.
Scarlet light swept over Sterling Silver and its encircling lake
and spread across the meadow. It reached the bluff face where the
black-cloaked stranger had stepped out of the shadows. It began to
climb toward the woods beyond.
Questor squinted against its glare. The stranger had moved well out
into the open and was facing the bluff.
"What is he up to?" the wizard muttered suspiciously.
In the next instant the stranger's arms lifted beneath his
concealing cloak, his body went rigid, and lines of fire arced
downward into the earth. The wizard started. The stranger was using
magic! He exchanged a worried glance with Bunion. There were shouts
now from the central part of the meadow, where others had seen the
flames. Kallendbor was atop his charger, shouting order at his
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officers. Men were milling about, not certain what it was they were
supposed to do. Lines of soldiers afoot and on horseback were
drawing up into formation. Farmers and villagers and their families
were caught between fleeing and sticking around to see what would
happen.
Had they possessed sufficient foresight, they would have chosen
flight. There was a deep, ominous rumble from within the earth, and
the sound of stone grating, as if an enormous door had swung open.
Uh, oh, Questor Thews thought belatedly.
The bluff face seemed to rip itself apart, torn like shredded
paper, obliterated behind the sundering of the air in front of it.
Scarlet dawn light poured into the black hole
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that was left, filling it with shifting color and smoky shadows.
Thunder boomed, shaking the earth and those who stared openmouthed
from both the meadow and Sterling Silver's ramparts. The hiss of
monsters mixed with a clash of armor and weapons. Everything rose
to a shriek that sounded of things dying in terrible agony.
Questor went dry-mourned. Demons! The black-cloaked stranger had
summoned demons!
A fierce wind whipped across the meadow, flattening tents and
standards and causing horses to rear in terror and men afoot to
drop to their knees. Kallendbor had his broadsword out, holding it
forth like a matchstick against a hurricane.
Demons emerged from the rent, their armor bristling with spikes and
jagged edges, all blackened and charred as if burned in the hottest
fire. Their bodies smoked as they leapt from the gap onto the
meadow floor, steam leaking from their visors and the chinks where
their armor was fastened by stays. They were lean and misshapen
beings, all bent and twisted like trees on a windswept ridge
stripped bare and turned as hard as iron. They rode beasts that had
no name and lent themselves to no description, things out of
nightmare and horrific fantasy, creatures out of shadowy
netherworids.
Out from the darkest recesses of Abaddon they came, spreading right
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and left about the solitary figure of the black-cloaked stranger,
sweeping from lake to bluff rise and filling up every inch of
ground in between until they covered the far end of the meadow. The
dawn's blood hue settled over them so that they had the look of
coals on which a bellows had been turned, the heat etched into the
fissures and cracks of their black forms like fire burned into
metal.
Questor Thews felt his heart move into his throat.
When the black-cloaked stranger turned to face him from across the
lake, he knew that real trouble had arrived on his doorstep.
Terry Brooks
3°3
"You ate the bird? You ate him?"
Abernathy stared in disbelief at Fillip and Sot, who stood
crestfallen before him, the satisfied smiles slowly melting from
their faces.
"He deserved it," Fillip mumbled defensively.
"Stupid bird," Sot muttered.
"But you didn't have to eat him!" Abernathy shouted, furious now.
"Do you know what you've done? The bird was the only one who knew
how to get us out of here! He was the only one who knew how to open
the box! What are we supposed to do without him? We are trapped in
this cave and the High Lord is trapped in the box and we cannot do
anything about either!"
The G'home Gnomes looked at each other, wringing their hands
pathetically.
"We forgot," Fillip whined.
"Yes, we forgot," Sot echoed.
"We didn't know," Fillip said.
"We didn't think," Sot said.
"Anyway, it was his idea," Fillip said, pointing to Sot
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"Yes, it was my ..." Sot stopped short. "It was not! It was yours!"
"Yours!"
"Yours!"
They began shouting at and then pushing each other, and finally
they rushed together kicking and biting and fell to the cave floor
in a tangle. Abemathy rolled his eyes, moved over to one side, and
sat down with the Tangle Box on his lap. Let them fight, he
thought. Let them pull out their hair and choke on it, for all he
cared. He sat back against the cave wall, pondering fate's cruel
hand. To have come this close and be denied was almost too much to
bear. He watched the G'home Gnomes battle across the cave floor and
into the shadows. He still couldn't believe they had eaten the
bird. Well, maybe he could. Actually, it made
304 THE TANGLE BOX
perfect sense, given who he was dealing with. For them, eating the
bird was a natural response. He was mostly angry at himself, he
guessed, for letting it happen. Not that he could have anticipated
it, he supposed. But, still ...
He ruminated on to no discernible purpose for a time, unable to
help himself. The minutes slipped by. From back in the dark, the
sounds of fighting stopped. Abemathy listened. Maybe they had eaten
each other. Poetic justice, if, they had.
But after a moment, they emerged, cut and scraped and disheveled,
their heads downcast, their mouths set in a tight line. They sat
down across from him wordlessly, staring at nothing. Abernathy
stared back.
"Sorry," Fillip muttered after a moment.
"Sorry," Sot muttered.
Abernamy nodded. He couldn't bring himself to tell them that it was
all right, because of course it wasn't, or that he forgave them,
because of course he didn't. So he didn't say anything.
After a moment, Fillip said brightly to Sot, "Maybe there are still
crystals hidden back in the cave!"
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Sot looked up eagerly. "Yes, maybe there are! Let's look!"
And off they went, scurrying away into the darkness. Abernathy
sighed and let them go. Maybe it would keep them out of further
mischief. More time passed—Abemathy didn't know how much. He
thought about using trial .and error to figure out the rune
sequence that would open the door, but there were dozens of
markings about the door and he had no hope of finding the right
combination. Still, what else could he do? He set down the Tangle
Box and started to rise.
Just as he did, the locks on the cave door triggered, and it began
to open. Abernathy froze, then flattened himself against the wall
to one side. The door swung slowly in-
Terry Brooks ^05
ward, grating and squealing as it went, letting in a faint twinge
of reddish-gray light from the approaching dawn.
Abemathy caught his breath. What if it was the black-cloaked
stranger? He closed his eyes involuntarily.
"Biggar?" a familiar voice called tentatively.
Horris Kew's plow-nosed face shoved into view as he waited for his
eyes to adjust to the gloom. Abernathy stayed perfectly still,
unable to believe his good fortune.
"Biggar?" the other called once more, and came inside the cave.
The stone door began to close behind him. Abemathy moved between
the door and the conjurer, and said, "Hello, Horris."
When Horris turned, Abemathy leapt on him and bore him to the
floor. Horns shrieked and tried to break free, struggling mightily.
He was all bony arms and legs, and Abernamy couldn't hold him.
Horris squirmed out from under his attacker, dragged himself to his
feet, and reached for the door. Desperate to hold him, Abemathy
fastened his teeth in the other's worn supplicant's robes and
braced himself on all fours. Horris tried to pull free, but
couldn't quite manage it. Abemathy growled. The two struggled back
and forth in front of the door, neither able to gain an advantage.
Then Horris Kew caught sight of the Tangle Box, shrieked anew, tore
himself free with a mighty rip, and snatched up the box. He was
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making for the door and safety, kicking out at Abernathy furiously,
when Fillip and Sot charged out of the darkness and catapulted into
him, knocking him from his feet and flat on his back where he lay
gasping for breath.
Abernathy took back the Tangle Box, started to give it to Fillip,
and thought better of the idea. Using his free hand, he hauled
Horris Kew back to his feet and shook him so hard he could hear the
other's teeth rattle.
"You listen to me, you troublesome fraud!" he hissed an-
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grily. "You do exactly as I say or you will regret the day you were
born!"
"Let me go!" Horns Kew pleaded. "None of this is my fault! I didn't
know!"
"You never know!" Abernathy snapped. "That's your problem! What are
you doing here, anyway?"
"I came looking for Biggar," Horns managed, swallowing his fear in
great gulps of breath. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"
Abernathy waited for the other's breathing to slow a beat, then
brought them nose-to-nose. "The Gnomes ate him, Horris," he said
softly. Horns Kew's eyes went wide. "And if you do not do what I
tell you, I am going to let them eat you as well. Do you understand
me?"
Horris nodded at once, unable to speak.
Abernathy moved back a fraction of an inch. "You can start by
opening the cave door and getting us out of here. And do not
attempt any tricks. Do not try running. I shall have a good grip on
you the entire time."
He propelled Horris back to the entrance, Fillip and Sot following
close behind, and waited while the terrified conjurer worked the
rune sequence and triggered a release of the locks. The door opened
ponderously, and conjurer, scribe, and Gnomes stumbled back out
into the light.
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Abemathy swung Horns Kew back around to face him. "Despite what you
think, this is indeed all your fault, Horris, everything that has
happened, so I do not want to hear you say anything else. You have
one chance to set things right; and I suggest you take it. I want
the High Lord set free. I want High Lord Ben Holiday back hi
Landover. You put him in the box; now you get him out!"
Horris Kew swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, his cheeks and
mouth making a sucking noise. He looked like a scarecrow left out
in the field long after its usefulness has reached an end. He
looked like he might collapse into a pile of straw. "I don't know
if I can do that," he whispered.
Terry Brooks 307
Abemathy gave him the meanest look he could muster. "You had better
hope you can," he replied softly.
"But what will they do to me once they're free? Holiday might
understand, but what about the dragon and the witch?"
"You will have bigger worries if you do not set them free."
Abernathy was in no mood to bargain. "Speak the words of the spell,
Horris. Right now."
Horris Kew licked his lips, glanced down at the G'home Gnomes, and
took a deep breath. "I'll try."
Abernathy, without releasing him, handed over the Tangle Box and
moved around behind him. One hand clamped about the conjurer's
skinny neck. "Remember, no tricks."
Dawn was a red glare through the shadowy mass of the forest about
them as it chased the darkness slowly west Abemathy did not like
the look of it. Bad weather was moving in. He was already thinking
about the trip back to Sterling Silver, about the siege, about
Kallendbor and the black-cloaked stranger. He gave Horris Kew's
neck a sharp squeeze. Horris began to speak.
"Rashun, oblight, surena! Larin, kestel, maneta! Ruhn!"
And the top of the Tangle Box disappeared instantly in a misty
swirl of wicked green light.
Ben Holiday saw the crack appear in the blackness of the wall
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before him and turned toward it instantly. It glimmered as he raced
for it, Nightshade and Strabo a step behind, then broadened as if
the entire wall had been split apart. Fairy mist spun wildly, drawn
to the brightness as if become a living thing. Ben flung himself
into the breach, heedless of the consequences, knowing only that an
opening of any kind offered a chance to get free. The light seemed
to suck him up, to draw him into a vortex that twisted him about
like a feather in a great wind. He was conscious of the witch and
the dragon being drawn along with him, all three of them caught up
in a whirlwind of mo-
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tion. The gloom and the mist disappeared below him. The Labyrinth
faded away. Above, the light took on a greenish glow, and there
were shadows that swayed and rippled— tree branches and leaves, he
realized—and sky, still dark with night's departure, and the smell
of earth and moss and old growth, and the coppery taste of
something like sulfur, and the sound of voices crying out ...
And then he was spit out into the forest gloom of Land-over, come
back once more into the world from which he had been taken. He
found himself standing less than a dozen feet from Abernathy,
Horris Kew, and Fillip and Sot, all of whom stared at him wide-eyed
and openmouthed.
Then Nightshade appeared as well, become herself once more, the
power of her magic radiating off her body in small sparks and
glimmerings. She flung her arms skyward, a spontaneous gesture, the
white streak in her black hair gleaming like frost on coal, the
cool edges of her sculpted face lifted toward the red glow of the
dawn.
"Free!" she cried with joy.
Strabo exploded out of the Tangle Box behind her, returned to his
dragon form, scaly black body uncoiling, wings unfolding, rising
skyward with a huge burst of fire that rolled from his maw,
hammered into the cave door, and men burned upward through the
trees. Steaming and glistening, all spikes and edges, the dragon
gave a huge, booming cough and rocketed away into the departing
night.
"High Lord!" Abernathy exclaimed in greeting, the relief evident in
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his voice. He snatched back the Tangle Box from Horris Kew and
hurried over. "Are you all right?"
Ben nodded, looking around, making certain that in fact he was.
Fillip and Sot were making small squeaking sounds in his direction
while cowering away from the black form of Nightshade. Horris Kew
appeared to be looking for a place to hide.
Ben took a deep breath. "Abernathy, what is going on?"
Terry Brooks ,Qg
The scribe drew himself up. "Well, actually, quite a lot, as it
happens ..."
A burst of acclaim from the G'home Gnomes cut him short.
"Great High Lord!"
"Mighty High Lord!"
Fillip and Sot were hugging each other and jumping up and down in
glee, apparently convinced mat it really was him after all. Ben
gave them a tentative smile. What were they doing here?
Abernathy tried to continue, but Nightshade had spotted Horris Kew
and was starting forward in a rush of black robes. "You!" she
hissed in undisguised fury.
Ben stepped quickly between them. "Wait, Nightshade. I want to hear
from Abernathy first."
"Get out of my way, play-King," the witch ordered venomously. "We
are no longer in the Labyrinth and no longer subject to its rules.
I have my magic back, and I can do as I please!"
But Ben held his ground, reached into his tunic, and brought forth
the medallion. "We are both who we were. Do not test your strength
against mine. I will hear from my scribe on what has been happening
in our absence before I make a decision about Horris Kew."
Nightshade stood frozen in place, livid with fury. "Start talking,
Abernathy," Ben advised quietly.
Abernathy did. He told the High Lord all about the Tangle Box and
Horris Kew, the mind's eye crystals, the black-cloaked stranger,
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Kallendbor, and the siege of Sterling Silver. Ben listened without
comment, his eyes fixed on Nightshade. When Abernathy was finished,
Ben stepped back to stand beside Honis Kew. "Well?"
"My Lord, I have nothing to say in my defense." The conjurer seemed
totally defeated. His tall, skinny frame was hunched over in
submission. "The stranger is a fairy being come out of the Tangle
Box—my fault, as well—a thing of
;ro THE TANGLE BOX
jreat magic and evil called the Gorse. It plans revenge of ;ome
sort against the people of the fairy mists after it con-luers
Landover. I am sorry I did anything to help it, believe ne," He
paused, swallowing. '1 would say in my behalf hat I did help set
you free."
"After you trapped us, of course," Ben pointed out He looked at
Nightshade. "I'll have to keep him with me for i time. I may have
need of him in dealing with this fairy creature."
Nightshade shook her black-maned head. "Give him to me."
"He is not the real enemy, Nightshade. He never was. He was used as
thoroughly as we were, if not as badly. Put aside your anger. Come
with us to Sterling Silver and confront the Gorse. Your magic would
be a great help. We worked together in the mists; we can do so
again."
"I have no interest in your problems!" Nightshade snapped. "Solve
them on your own!"
She stared at Ben challengingly. Ben took a deep breath. "I know
that what happened in the mists, what passed between us ..."
"Stop!" she shrieked with such fury that Fillip and Sot scattered
into the trees and disappeared. She was white with rage. "Don't say
a word! Don't say anything! I hate you, play-King! I hate you with
every bone in my body! I live only to see you destroyed! What you
did to me, what you pretended ... !"
"There was no pretense .,."
"No! You cannot speak to me!" Her cold, hard, beautiful face was a
twisted mask. "Take the conjurer! I want nothing to do with either
of you! But..." Here she fixed Horns Kew with her gaze as a pin
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might a butterfly. "If I should ever see you again, if I should
ever catch you alone ..."
Her gaze shifted back to Ben. She gave him a withering glare. "I
will hate you forever!" she whispered, the words
r
Terry Brooks 311
a curse that hung in the following silence like razors waiting to
cut.
Then she lifted her arms hi a sweeping motion, brought smoke and
mist about her in a rash, and disappeared into the dawn.
Ben stared after her, mixed emotions running through him as he
considered the impact of her anger. It seemed strange that it
should be like this after what they had shared—and at the same time
inevitable. He wondered briefly if there was any way it might have
been avoided and decided there was not
"High Lord!" Abernathy cried urgently, and grabbed at his sleeve.
Ben turned.
A huge shadow fell over them, and Strabo descended once more out of
the sky, snapping off branches and stirring up dust and debris as
he settled his great bulk down upon the forest floor.
"Holiday," he rasped in friendly fashion. "We are not finished yet,
you and I, Is this the one responsible for what was done to us?"
Ben shook his head. "No, Strabo. The one we want is back at
Sterling Silver, engaged in further mischief."
The dragon's great horned head swung about, and the yellow eyes
gleamed in the half light. "We started this journey together,
though we did not choose to do so. Shall we end it together as
well?"
Ben smiled in pleasant surprise. "I think we should," he agreed.
When they had gone from the clearing, Holiday, Abernathy, Horns
Kew, and Strabo, the men flying off atop the dragon, and when
enough time had passed mat it was clear that Nightshade was gone as
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well, Fillip and Sot emerged from hiding. They crept out of the
trees and stood peering about guardedly, ready to bolt at the
slightest sound. But mere
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was only silence and the faint, lingering smell of dragon fire
where it had burned the trees.
"They are gone," Fillip said.
"Gone," Sot echoed.
They turned toward the cave, measuring the distance that separated
them from its opening. The door stood ajar now, knocked off its
hinges by Strabo's blast of fire, the locks smashed. Steam rose
from its blackened surface in delicate tendrils.
"We could go inside now," Fillip said.
"Yes, we could look for crystals," Sot said.
"There might still be some," Fillip said.
"Even though we didn't find them before," Sot said.
"Hidden in a clever spot."
"Where we didn't think to look."
There was a long pause as they considered the prospect. The dawn's
coloring had penetrated the forest gloom and was turning everything
crimson. Birds had stopped singing. Insects had stopped chirping
and buzzing. Nothing moved The silence was oppressive.
"I think we should go home," Fillip said quietly.
"I think we should," Sot agreed.
So they did.
-c
Red*
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Lpt
emotion
As he looked down from his perch atop Strabo, flying high above
Landover, Ben Holiday found himself pondering on how quickly things
could change. An hour earlier he had been imprisoned in the Tangle
Box, as far removed from this world as the dead from the living. A
day earlier, he had not even known who he was. He had believed
himself to be the Knight, a King's Champion, a personification of
the Paladin that was in fact his alter ego. Nightshade and Strabo
had not existed; his companions had been the Lady and the Gargoyle,
and they had been as lost to themselves as he was. Together they
had formed an odd company, bereft of any real knowledge of their
past, forced to begin life anew in a world about which they knew
almost nothing. Thrown together by a common mishap, compelled to
share a life filled with unknowns and false hope, they had reached
an understanding during their travels float bordered on friendship.
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314 THE TANGLE BOX
More than friendship, he amended carefully, where Nightshade was
concerned.
Now all of it was gone, stripped away with the recapture of their
identities and return to Landover. It was as if they had been made
over twice, once going into the Tangle Box, once coming out,
stripped each time of life's knowledge and forced to learn anew,
strangers first in an unknown world, familiars second in a world
all too well known. It was the second that would allow no part of
the first, the second that demanded that everything from the first
be given up because it had all been acquired and nurtured under
false pretenses. It made Ben sad. He had shared a closeness with
Nightshade that would never be there again. There had been a mutual
dependence that was ended forever. Things would be different with
Strabo as well. He carried them now to Sterling Silver to settle
accounts with the Gorse, but once that was finished he would be
gone. Ben harbored no illusions. There would be no further talks as
there had been between the Knight and the Gargoyle, no sharing of
fears and hopes, no common effort to understand the workings of
life. They would go their own ways as they had done before being
lured into the Tangle Box, and the time they had spent together in
the mists would fade as surely as a dream on waking.
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Ben resisted the urge to look back at Horris Kew, who sat
immediately behind him and ahead of Abernathy. The instrument of
their misfortune, he thought darkly—yet too foolish and misguided
to be held responsible. The Gorse was the real enemy. How was he
going to deal with this creature? It had a formidable command of
magic and would not hesitate to use it, especially once it
discovered that Ben, Nightshade, and Strabo were set free again.
Why had it imprisoned them in the first place? What sort of threat
did they represent that compelled it to place them in the box? Or
was it simply a matter of expediency and nothing more?
Whatever the answers to his questions, there was one
Terry Brooks 315
chilling certainty. In order to deal with the Gorse, he would once
again be forced to become the Paladin, the King's knight-errant,
the creature he feared he was becoming in fact. His fear had made
him see himself as the Knight within the Tangle Box, and he had
barely survived what mat had initiated—the destruction of the
townsfolk, the River Gypsies, and very nearly the Gristlies. His
fear of bis dark half had worked to destroy him within the fairy
mists, but he had escaped. Yet now he must become his dark half if
he was to survive. And once again he must worry how much of the
Paladin's identity he assumed and how much of Ben Holiday's he gave
up with each transformation.
Ben watched the Heart pass away beneath him, white velvet rests
outlined in pristine bars against verdant green grasses, the flags
of Landover's Kings a swirl of bright color in the wind. A part of
him was anxious for the change, eager for the transformation. It
had always been so. It was this that frightened him most.
Horns Kew was thinking as well, and his thoughts were not pleasant
ones either. A confrontation between the Gorse and Holiday was only
moments away, and no matter who won he was in big trouble. Both
would hold him responsible for anything the other had done or had
tried to do or even had planned to do. Both would want to exact
punishment of some sort. In the case of the Gorse, Horris did not
want to consider too carefully what that punishment might be.
Certainly it would not be pleasant. Holiday might be the better
choice. He wished Biggar were there to consult. He found, oddly
enough, that he missed the bird. They had shared a common attitude
toward life's opportunities and misfortunes, and it was too bad the
latter had caught up with Biggar a little earlier than either of
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mem had expected. Horris felt keenly the loss. If nothing else,
perhaps he could have blamed some of what had happened on the bird.
He sighed. Thinking like mat led nowhere, of course. He shifted
gears and tried to decide what he could do to sal-
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THE TANGLE BOX
vage matters. He would have to do something quick. Already Sterling
Silver's bright ramparts were coming into view. Take sides with
Holiday then, he decided. His chances were better with Landover's
King, a fellow human being, than they were with the Gorse. So what
could he do to help himself? What could he do that would put him in
a better light when it came time to determine his fate?
Ahead, the dawn was a crimson stain all across the horizon, a
strange and terrifying sight. The red was so pronounced that it
seemed to have seeped into the earth itself, to color grasses,
trees, brush, rivers, lakes, roadways, fields, towns, farms, and
the whole of every living thing for as far as the eye could see.
Clouds were forming all about them. They hadn't been there the
previous day; there had been no trace of mem last night They
appeared as if by magic, masking the morning skies west to east,
threatening to swallow the rising sun, the harbinger of a storm
that was quickly approaching.
Strabo started down, a gradual descent out of the retreating night
The approaching sun momentarily blinded the dragon's passengers,
and they squinted against its glare. The castle's polished
battlements and towers gleamed redly, reflecting the strange light
The portcullis was down and the gates closed. The bridge running
from the island to the mainland was shattered. Shadows clustered
darkly across the meadow that fronted the castle gates, and the
sluggish movement of armies massing was visible. Ben Holiday
started. Battle lines were being drawn up between opposing forces.
There were Greensward soldiers at one end of the meadow and
Abaddon's demons at the other.
"High Lord!" Abernathy exclaimed in horror.
Ben glanced over his shoulder and nodded back. Demons from
Abaddon—the Gorse must have brought mem out to aid him in his plan.
What had he promised them? What lure had he used? They would not
have come if they thought the Paladin would be there to stop them;
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they had
Terry Brooks 317
always been terrified of the Paladin. So the Gorse must have
promised them that with the King gone from Land-oyer, there would
be no threat from his Champion. With Nightshade and Strabo
dispatched as well, mere was little to fear from anyone.
Ben's mouth tightened. Now he must face both the Gorse and
Abaddon's demons. Even with Strabo to aid him, he did not much care
for the odds.
"Strabo!" he called down to the dragon. A wicked yellow eye locked
on him. "Take us down! Land right between them!"
The dragon hissed sharply, flattened out his approach, swept the
battlefield once in a high, broad arc so that all could see him,
and then settled slowly into the center of the meadow.
Ben, Horris Kew, and Abernathy scrambled down. It was like
descending into a bizarre painting, a horrifically rendered version
of Hell on Earth. The reddish dawn gave the whole of the grasslands
a surreal look. Even the Bonnie Blues were turned to blood. Men,
women, and children clustered at the edges of the trees and across
the ridgeline north like me ghosts of the dead.
Ben turned toward the demons and exhaled slowly as he took in the
size of their army. Too many. Far too many.
"My Lord, I think that maybe I have—" Horris Kew began, and was cut
short as Abemathy's hand clamped tightly about the back of his
neck.
Ben turned to his scribe, who still clutched the Tangle Box tightly
beneath his free arm. 'Take the box and Horris and move to the
lake," Ben ordered his scribe. "Call for Questor to bring the lake
skimmer and have him ferry you both across. Hurry!"
Abernathy hastened away, dragging a protesting Horris Kew after.
Ben glanced at the demons anew. The Gorse had moved into the
forefront of their ranks, black-cloaked and featureless even in the
strange light. Ben moved out from
3*8
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THE TANGLE BOX
the shadow of the dragon to face the demons. He reached into his
tunic and held forth the medallion of Landover's Kings. At his
side, Strabo widened his maw and coughed sharply, an explosive
sound. There was movement all up and down the clustered black
ranks, an uneasiness, a hesitancy. It was one thing to face a Lord
of the Greensward and his army. It was something else again to
confront Holiday and Strabo as well.
"Kallendbor!" Ben called over his shoulder into the ranks of the
Greensward army.
Almost immediately there was the sound of a rider approaching from
behind. Ben turned. Kallendbor,, armored head to foot with only his
face showing beneath his lifted visor, wheeled to a stop atop his
charger.
"High Lord," he greeted, his red-bearded face pale, his eyes
darting nervously to the dragon.
Ben stalked to meet him. *1 know of your part in all this,
Kallendbor," he said curtly. "You will have to answer for it when
this business is done."
Kallendbor nodded. There was no apology in his piercing blue eyes.
'Til answer if I must and if we are both alive at the end of this
day."
"Fair enough. For now, let's concentrate on finding a way to
dispatch the demons back to where they belong and the black-cloaked
trickster with mem. Do your men stand ready to fight?"
"We are at your service, High Lord." There was no hesitation.
"Ride back then and wait for my signal," Ben ordered.
Kallendbor saluted and galloped away. Unrepentant to the last, Ben
thought Some men refused to change.
He turned back toward the Gorse and the demons. A huge black rider
had moved out in front of the others. The Mark. The others would
follow its lead into battle. The demon leader stopped and stared
across at Ben and Strabo.
Terry Brooks 319
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The dragon's crusted head swung about. "Call up the Paladin,
Holiday. The demons grow edgy."
Ben nodded. He was resigned to what must happen now, but despaired
of it as well. Once again, he must summon the Paladin to do battle
for him. Once again, there would be killing and destruction, and
much of it would come at his hands. Another terrible battle, and he
was powerless to stop it, helpless to do anything other than
participate and hope mat somehow he could find a way to shorten it.
Faint hope, bom of desperation and lack of choice. He felt Strabo's
eyes watching him. The Gorse was responsible for this and should be
brought to account, but how could that be done? How powerful was
this fairy creature? Very, he guessed, if the fairy people had gone
to such extremes to lock it away in the Tangle Box and keep it
there.
"Holiday!" the dragon rasped impatiently.
Lock the Gorse back into the Tangle Box—that was what he should do.
Lock it away for good. But how? What magic would it take?
There was no time to wonder about it further, no time to decide
what help could be found. The demons had begun to advance, coining
across the meadow in a dark mass, slowly, deliberately, inexorably.
"Holiday!" Strabo hissed furiously.
Paladin's sword and dragon's fire—would they be enough to save
Landover?
Ben Holiday reached for the medallion that would give him his
answer.
Horris Kew was practically beside himself with frustration. He
stood glumly next to Abemathy at the water's edge, watching the
approach of Questor Thews in the lake skimmer, thinking that his
last chance to save himself was about to be taken away.
He had tried to tell Holiday, but Landover's King did not have time
for him. He had tried to tell Abernathy, but the
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\2O
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eribe had heard all he wanted to hear. He considered tell-ng
Questor Thews when the wizard arrived to convey them )ack across to
the comparative safety of the castle fortress, nit he was
reasonably certain that he would find no help Tom that quarter
either. No one wanted to listen to Horns md that was the hard truth
of the matter. Except that for once Horris had something important
to
jay. He shuffled his size-sixteens, hugged himself like a rag
toll and tried to remain calm. But it was hard to stay calm knowing
what was going to become of him if the Gorse and the demons
prevailed over Holiday. If Holiday won, his circumstances would
still be precarious, but acceptable. If Holiday won, he had a
reasonable chance of staying alive. But if the Gorse came out of
this the victor, Horns Kew was stew meat It didn't pay to dwell on
exactly what recipe would be used, but the result would be the
same. The Gorse had seen him standing with Holiday and the dragon;
it had seen him quite plainly. The inference was obvious. Horris
had joined the enemy. There could be no forgiveness No excuses
would be allowed. The Gorse would grind him up and spit him out,
and that would be that.
Horris recalled how the creature had made him feel when they first
started out together in mis hateful venture. He remembered the
silky, dangerous voice and the lingering smell of death. He could
still feel its power threatening to strangle him with invisible
fingers. He did not relish experiencing any of it again. The tic
was gone from his eye for the first time since he had set the Gorse
free. Here was his chance to keep it from coming back.
Thunder rolled out of the west, building on itself where the clouds
massed. The heavy bank was spreading rapidly toward the sun,
swallowing up its light as it came, turning everything black. Wind
whipped across the meadow and over the confronting armies. Horses
shied, and armor and weapons clanged. The air began to smell of
rain.
Terry Brooks 321
Horris had been thinking about the Tangle Box. How had the Gorse
been put into it in the first place? Surely the renegade fairy had
not gone willingly—no more so than Holiday, the witch, and the
dragon. Twice now, Horris had been called upon to speak words of
power that released captives of the box.
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Could the spell be reversed?
He thought about the way that Holiday and the others had been
dispatched. The Gorse had constructed an elaborate net of magic
upon the spot to which his three victims had been lured. Then
Horris had appeared with the Tangle Box, spoken the words of power,
triggered the net, and the trap had been sprung.
Simple enough. It would seem at first glance then that a similar
approach would be necessary to snare the Gorse. Except that
something was nagging at Horris Kew. Wasn't the Tangle Box
constructed for that particular purpose? If so, then the entrapment
of Holiday and the other two was an unnatural use of the box, an
aberration of that for which it was intended. Besides, if the Gorse
knew this was how the magic worked, how had it allowed itself to be
trapped in the first place? And if it didn't know then, how had it
learned since?
And what about this? The Gorse had known the words that would free
it, but couldn't speak them. It had been necessary to manipulate
Biggar through the Skat Mandu charade to have Horris speak the
words instead. Didn't this suggest something? Didn't this mean that
the Gorse found the words anathema for some reason and so required
that another use them?
Didn't it mean, Horris wondered, that the same spell— the spell
that the Gorse was so careful to avoid using himself—might work
both ways?
The more he considered the possibility, the more sense it made. The
fairies, having built the Tangle Box, would have employed a
special, customized magic to trap the Gorse
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THE TANGLE BOX
within, a magic that it could never use to effect its own escape.
And it would not be a magic that would trap away others—like
Holiday, Nightshade, and Strabo—so that, to subvert the purpose of
the box, something different would be required to ensnare them. And
perhaps, in the bargain, to protect the Gorse from being
recaptured. Hence the carefully conceived net of magic the Gorse
had employed.
Sure, it was a stretch. But Horris Kew was desperate and his
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conjurer's opportunistic mind was grasping at straws because that
was all that was left him.
They should listen to him, he believed. Holiday, Aber-nathy,
Questor Thews, all of them. They should try his suggestion out.
What harm could it do at this point? But he might as well be asking
to be made King. No one was going to try any idea he suggested.
Thunder rolled once more, a long, booming peal that shook the
ground on which he stood. In the meadow's center, Kallendbor had
ridden back to his army and Holiday was turning toward the Gorse
and the demons. The Mark had moved to the forefront of his horde
and was beginning a slow advance. The dragon had lifted itself into
a crouch and was venting steam through its nostrils as the fire
built in its belly. Horris glanced over his shoulder. Questor Thews
was almost ashore. Abemathy had turned to meet the wizard, his back
momentarily to Horris.
Biggar had always accused him of indecision. He hated to think that
the bird had been right.
Horris Kew swallowed, bis throat dry. Now or never, wasn't it? He
glanced again at Holiday. Landover's King had removed the medallion
of his office from within his dark tunic and was holding it up to
the light.
Do it!
Horris yanked the Tangle Box out from under Aber-nathy's arm, then
lowered his shoulder and knocked the astonished scribe backward
into the lake. Then he ran as fast as his long legs could carry him
toward the Gorse. He was
Terry Brooks 32^
thinking he had gone mad, he was a fool, he had just made the worst
mistake of his life. Shouts rose up as he was sighted. Angry cries
assailed him from every side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
the dragon's black-horned head swing quickly about, and he
envisioned himself encased in fire. A moment more, he thought. One
moment more.
The Gorse had not moved. It was watching him come, thinking he was
bringing the Tangle Box back again, an unwitting pawn to the end.
The demons shifted like shadows in the enfolding black of the
storm. Weapons glinted darkly. Horris Kew tried not to think about
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them. His gangly body was shaking, and his scarecrow limbs were
flying out all over the place. He was sweating and gasping from the
strain of his flight He had never been so terrified.
He heard Questor Thews shout bis name. A bolt of ragged fire zipped
past his ear. He dropped to one knee in a panic and set the Tangle
Box on the ground before him. He looked across the meadow at the
Gorse, and he could see in its terrible eyes that it recognized the
truth at last The monster's black cloak billowed as it charged
toward him in rage.
Quickly, Horris began to chant.
"Rashun, oblight, surena! Larin, kestel ..."
Ben Holiday stood frozen in place, the medallion still clutched in
his hand, momentarily forgotten. He had not seen Horris Kew until
just a moment ago. Questor Thews was pulling Abernathy from the
lake, both of them shouting angrily and gesturing. Strabo was
uncoiling his huge, dark length, spreading his wings, and preparing
to lift off. Fire leaked from between his jagged teeth.
All of them too late to intercede, Ben thought in frustration and
despair.
Mist blossomed in a dark cloud from the Tangle Box, the lid
disappeared, and the tunnel back down into the Laby-
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THE TANGLE BOX
rinth opened anew. Wicked green light shot form to mingle with the
red glare of the sun and the dark of the approaching storm. Thunder
boomed, and a scattering of raindrops began to fall. The meadow had
gone suddenly still, the clamor of the opposing armies disappearing
into a hush of expectancy.
Out from the Tangle Box appeared a swarm of shadows, misty forms
that twisted and writhed in the strange mix of light, dark specters
set free. They rose in a cluster and men shot across the meadow
toward the demons. The Gorse cried out, a terrible wail of despair.
Webs of protective magic spun from its hands, encircling its black
form to ward off its attackers. The shadows went right through the
webs, seized the Gorse, and dragged it into the open. The Gorse
thrashed and tore futilely. It spit like a cat. It fought with
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every ounce of strength and every weapon of magic it possessed. But
the shadows were relentless. They hauled the renegade fairy back
across the meadow to the box. They wrapped it about with their
cloaking forms and pulled it down.
Down into the prison it thought it had escaped forever.
Down into the frightening darkness of the fairy mists.
They disappeared inside, the shadows and the Gorse, and the lid to
the Tangle Box closed for good.
The wind broke loose across the meadow in a howl. Airborne, Strabo
passed over the box and Horns Kew like death's shadow, but men flew
on to descend instead upon the demons of Abaddon, breathing its
fire into their midst. Dozens disintegrated. The rest, bereft of
the promised protection of the Gorse and its magic, had no interest
in a fight. Led by their Mark, they turned back toward the bluff
out of which they had come, back into the rent in the air that had
given them passage into Landover, and descended down again into
their netherworld home. In seconds, the last of mem had gone, and
the space they had briefly occupied in the world of light stood
empty.
Terry Brooks 325
Strabo swung back toward the army of the Greensward, hissing in
triumph and challenge.
Standing at the center of the meadow still, the rain falling into
his face hi sheets, the wind ripping at his frozen body, Ben
Holiday exhaled slowly and slipped the medallion of the Kings of
Landover back inside his tunic.
Cxreen Eves
-L^ T ^^ J
Willow came awake in the faint, gray dawn light, the dampness of
the Deep Fell seeping through her naked body. She was lying on the
ground, curled into a ball, the baby resting in the crook of her
arm. At first she wasn't aware of it. She blinked against the sleep
that still clouded her mind, trying to remember where she was. Then
she felt the baby move and looked down at it
Her child.
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She studied it for a long time, and tears came to her eyes.
She remembered everything then—coming out of the fairy mists into
the Deep Fell, transforming into her other self, forming the pod,
drifting into sleep. She cradled the child to her, giving it what
warmth she could, lending it the small shelter of her body.
Then she rose, slipped back into her clothes, and wrapped the baby
in her cloak. It was sleeping still, not yet hungry enough to wake,
not disturbed by its surroundings 326
Terry Brooks 327
as Willow was. The Deep Fell had not been her choice for where the
baby should be born, and she did not intend to remain there any
longer than necessary. Mist rolled through the branches of the
jungle trees and snaked down along the trunks. Silence blanketed
everything. Nothing moved. It was a dead world, and only the witch
who had made it so belonged here.
Willow began to walk, moving toward the light—east, where the sun
rose over Landover. She must get clear quickly, before she was
discovered. She was weak still from giving birth, but mostly she
was fearful. She was not so frightened for herself as she was for
her child, the measure of her life with Ben, the culmination of
their bonding. She peeked down at it again through the folds of the
cloak, making certain she had seen it right on waking, that nothing
had changed. The tears came anew. There was a tightness in her
throat She wanted to find and be with Ben, to make certain he was
ah1 right, and to let him see their child.
She walked for what seemed a long time, but probably was not. Her
body ached in strange ways—a dull, empty pain in her loins, a
constriction in her chest a soreness that laced the muscles of her
arms and legs. She did not know how much to attribute to the birth
and how much to sleeping naked hi the chill of the Fell. Movement
helped ease the pain in her arms and chest, loosening muscles that
were cramped and tight. The pain within her loins persisted. She
ignored it. She could not be too far from the wall of the hollow,
she told herself. If she just kept moving, she would get free.
She came out of a stretch of old growth laced with mist and gloom,
entered a clearing, and stopped. Nightshade stood before her,
wrapped in her black cloak, drawn up as straight and immutable as a
stone statue, her red eyes gleaming.
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"What are you doing here, sylph?" she demanded softly.
Willow's heart sank. Having been forced to give birth to
328 THE TANGLE BOX
her child in this forbidding place, she had wanted only to escape
without encountering the witch, and it seemed she was to be denied
even this.
She managed to keep the fear from her voice as she answered. "I
entered through the fairy mists and by mistake. I want no trouble.
I want only to depart."
Nightshade seemed surprised. "Through the fairy mists? Have you
been imprisoned, too? But no. You were elsewhere in his dream,
weren't you?" She stopped talking, collecting herself. "Why would
you come out here? Why would you come out at all, for that matter?
The fairies release no one from the mists."
Willow gave a moment's thought to lying, but decided against it The
witch would know, her magic strong enough here in her lair to
detect another's deception.
"The fairies were forced to release me when the High Lord came to
me in his dreams and set me free of their magic. They released me
from the mists. They did not tell me where I would come out Perhaps
they sent me here as punishment"
Nightshade's gaze lowered to the bundle she cradled in her arms.
"What is tfcat you carry?"
Willow's arms tightened about the baby. "My child by the High Lord,
newly born."
Nightshade took a quick, harsh brealh. "The play-King's child?
Here?** She laughed. "Fortune does indeed play strange games with
us. Why do you carry the child about so? Did you carry it into the
mists as well?" She stopped abruptly. "Wait I have heard nothing of
this child. I have not been gone mat long from Landover. I should
know of this. Newly bom, you say? Born where, then?"
"Here," Willow answered softly.
Nightshade's face twisted into something grotesque. "Bom here, in
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my home? Holiday's child? While I was locked in the fairy mists
with him, trapped in that cursed box? Trapped with him, girl—did
you know? Together for
Terry Brooks 329
weeks, drained of memory, made over into creatures we did not even
recognize. He came to you in a dream? Yes, he told me so. It was
the dream that released him from his ignorance, that led him to
divulge the truth about both of us."
Her voice was a hiss. "Have you seen him since his return?" She
smiled at Willow's reaction. "Ah, you didn't know he was back,
then, did you? Back from his other life, a life with me, little
sylph, in which I was his charge and he my protector. Do you know
what happened between us while you were carrying his child?"
She paused, her eyes gleaming with expectation. "He bed me as if I
were his—"
"No!" Willow's voice was as hard as iron, the single word a
forbidding that cut short the witch as surely as a cord about the
throat.
"He was mine!" the witch of the Deep Fell screamed. "He belonged to
me! I should have had him forever if not for his dream of you! I
lost everything, everything but who I am, the power of my magic,
the strength of my will! Those I have regained! Holiday owes me! He
has stripped me of my pride and my dignity, and he has incurred a
debt to me that he must pay!"
She was white with rage. "The child," she whispered, 'Vill satisfy
that debt nicely."
Willow went cold. She was shaking, her throat dry, her heart
stopped. "You cannot have my child," she said.
A smile played across Nightshade's lips. "Cannot? What a silly word
for you to use, little sylph. Besides, the child was born in my
domain, here in the Deep Fell, so it belongs to me by right of law.
My law."
"No law condones the taking of a child from its mother. You have no
right to make such a claim."
"I have every right. I am mistress of the Deep Fell and ruler over
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all found here. The child was born on my soil. You are a trespasser
and a foolish girl. Do not think you can deny me."
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THE TANGLE BOX
Willow held her ground. "If you try to take my child, you will have
to kill me. Are you prepared to do that?"
Nightshade shook her head slowly. "I need not kill you. There are
easier ways when you have the use of magic. And worse fates for you
than death if you defy me."
"The High Lord will come after you if you steal his child!" Willow
snapped. "He will hunt you to the ends of the earth!"
"Silly little sylph," the witch purred softly. "The High Lord will
never know you were even here."
Willow froze. Nightshade was right. There was ho one who knew she
was in the Deep Fell, no one who knew she had returned from the
fairy mists. If she was to disappear, who could trace her
footsteps? If her child was to vanish, who could say it had ever
existed? The fairies, perhaps, but would they do so?
What was she to do?
"Someone will discover and reveal the truth, Nightshade," she
insisted desperately. "You cannot keep such a thing a secret
forever! Not even you can do that!"
The witch gave a slow, disdainful shrug. "Perhaps not. But I can
keep it a secret long enough. Holiday's life is finite. In the end,
I will be here when he is gone."
Willow nodded slowly, understanding flooding through her. "Which is
why you want his child, isn't it? So that he will leave nothing of
himself behind when he is dead. You would make the child yours and
wipe away all trace of him in doing so. You hate him that much,
don't you?"
Nightshade's thin mouth tightened. "More. Much, much more."
"But the child is innocent," Willow cried. "Why should the baby be
made a pawn in this struggle? Why should it suffer for your rage?"
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"The child will fare well. I will see to it."
"It isn't yours!"
"I grow tired of arguing, sylph. Give the child to me and
Terry Brooks 331
perhaps I will let you go. Make another child, if you wish. You
have the means."
Willow shook her head slowly. "I will never give up my baby,
Nightshade. Not to you, not to anyone. Stand aside for me. Let me
pass."
Nightshade smiled darkly. '*! think not," she said.
She was starting forward, arms lifting within her black robes,
intent on taking the child by force, when a familiar voice spoke.
"Do as she asks, Nightshade. Let her pass."
The witch stopped, as still as death. Willow looked around quickly,
seeing nothing but the trees and misty gloom.
Then Edgewood Dirk stepped into view from one side, easing
sinuously through the heavy brush, silver coat immaculate, black
tail twitching slightly. He jumped up on the remains of a fallen
tree and blinked sleepily.
"Let her pass," he repeated softly.
Nightshade stiffened. "Edgewood Dirk. Who gave you permission to
come into die Deep Fell? Who gave you the right?"
"Cats need no permission or grant of right," Dirk replied. "Really,
you should know better. Cats go where they wish—always have."
Nightshade was livid. "Get out of here!"
Dirk yawned and stretched. "Shortly. But first you must let the
Queen pass."
"I will not give up ...!**
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"Save your breath, Witch of the Deep Fell." A hint of weary disdain
crept into the cat's voice. "The Queen and her baby will pass into
Landover. The fairies have decided, and mere is nothing more to say
about it If you are unhappy with their decision, why don't you take
it up with mem?"
Nightshade shot a withering look at Willow, then turned to face the
cat. "The fairies cannot tell me what to do!"
332
THE TANGLE BOX
"Of course they can," Edgewood Dirk said reasonably. '1 have just
done so for them. Stop fussing about this. The matter is settled.
Now step aside."
"The child is mine!"
Dirk gave one paw a short, swift lick and straightened.
"Nightshade," he addressed her softly. "Would you challenge me?"
There was a long pause as witch and prism cat faced each other in
the half light of the Deep Fell. "Because if you would," Dirk
continued, "you must surely know mat even if I fail, another will
be sent to take my place, and another, and so form. Fairies are
very stubborn creatures. You, of all people, should know."
Nightshade did not move. When she spoke, there was astonishment in
her voice. "Why are they doing this? Why do they care so about his
child?"
Edgewood Dirk blinked "That," he purred softly, "is a good
question.1* He rose, stretched, and sat back down again. "I grow
anxious for my morning nap. I have given this matter enough of my
time. Let the Queen and the child pass. Now."
Nightshade shook her head slowly, a denial of something she could
not articulate. For an instant Willow was certain that she intended
to lash out at Dirk, that she would fight the prism cat with every
ounce of strength and every bit of magic she possessed.
But instead she turned to Willow and said softly, "I will never
forgive this. Never. Tell the play-King."
Then she disappeared into the gloom, a wraith simply fading away
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into the shadows. The baby woke, stirring in its mother's arms,
blinking sleepily. Willow glanced down into the cloak's deep folds.
She cooed softly to her child. When she looked up again, Edgewood
Dirk was gone as well. Had he been with her all the way? The
fairies had sent him once again, it appeared, although with the
prism cat you could never be entirely certain. He had saved her
Terry Brooks 33$
life in any case. Or more to the point, saved her child. Why?
Nightshade's question, still unanswered. What was it about this
child that mattered so to everyone?
Cradling the baby in her arms, she began to walk on once again.
It was nearing midmorning by the time Ben Holiday reached the
country just south of the Deep Fell. He would never have gotten
there mat fast if Strabo had not offered to trade him a ride for
possession of the Tangle Box. The dragon had wanted the box from
the first, but Ben had refused to give it up, not convinced that it
should be in anyone's possession but his own.
"Let me have it, Holiday," the dragon had argued. "I will keep it
in a place no one can reach, in a fire pit deep within the
Wastelands where no one goes."
"But why would you want it at all?" Ben asked. "What would you do
with it?"
The dragon had flown back from his assault on the demons. They were
alone in the center of the meadow. Horris Kew slumped on the ground
some yards away. Questor Thews and Abemathy had not yet reached
them.
The dragon's voice was wistful. "I would take it out and took at it
from time to time. A dragon covets treasures and hoards precious
things. It is all we have left from our old life—all I have left,
now that I am alone." Strabo's homed head dipped close. '1 would
keep it hidden where it could never be found. I would keep it just
for me."
Ben had interrupted the conversation long enough to intervene
between a sodden, angry Abemathy, who had just come rushing up, and
a terrified Horns Kew, and assisted by Questor Thews had restored
some small measure of peace between them. The conjurer had saved
their lives, after all, he reminded his much-distressed scribe. He
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went on then to dismiss Kallendbor and his army, exacting an oath
from the Lord of Rhyndweir to appear before him in one
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week's time for an accounting of his actions. He ordered his Guard
to disperse those people who had come looking for mind's eye
crystals and found a great deal more than they had bargained for,
back to wherever it was they had come from.
Then he remembered Willow. He went immediately to the Landsview and
found her just as she was climbing free of the Deep Fell.
Nightshade's domain, he thought in horror, and no place for the
sylph. He was thinking of Nightshade's parting words to him. He was
thinking what the witch might do to Willow if she were given half a
chance.
It was a two-day ride to the Deep Fell—far too long under the
circumstances. So he struck a bargain with Strabo. A ride to the
Deep Fell and back in exchange for the Tangle Box, if the dragon
promised that no one else would ever set eyes on it and no one,
including the dragon, would ever attempt to open it. Strabo agreed.
He extended his firm and unbreakable promise. He gave his dragon's
oath. It was enough, Questor Thews whispered in a short aside. A
dragon's word was his bond.
So off Ben went aboard Strabo, winging through the storm winds and
rain, finally passing out of black clouds and into blue skies. The
sun shone anew on the land, spilling golden light across the
grasslands and bills running north, cutting a swath of brightness
through the fading dark.
"She is there, Holiday," the dragon called back when they grew
close, its sharp eyes finding the sylph much quicker than Ben's.
They swooped down onto the crest of a hill, a scattering of woods
running right and left. Willow appeared from across a meadow of
wildflowers and Bonnie Blues, and Ben ran to meet her, heedless of
everything else. She called to him, her face radiant, tears coming
into her eyes once more.
He raced up to her and abruptly stopped, the bundle in her arms a
fragile barrier between them. What was she
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ferry Brooks 335
carrying? "Are you all right?" he asked, anxious to be reassured
that she was well, eager just to hear her voice.
"Yes, Ben," she answered. "And you?"
He nodded, smiling. "I love you, Willow," he said.
He could see her throat constrict "Come see our child," she
whispered.
He came forward a step, closing the small distance between them,
expectation and disbelief racing through him. ft was too quick, he
thought. It was not yet time. She had not even looked pregnant How
could she have given birth so fast?
The questions vanished in the afterglow of her smile. "The baby?"
he said, and she nodded.
She parted the folds of her cloak so he could see. He bent down and
peered inside.
A pair of dazzling green eyes stared boldly back.
Bestseller
The interviewer sipped a pineapple-strawberry smoothie in the
living room of Harold Kraft's palatial Diamond Head home and looked
out across the vast expanse of lanai and swimming pool to the only
slightly vaster expanse of die Pacific Ocean. It was late
afternoon, and the sun was easing westward toward the flat line of
the horizon, the gradual change in the light promising yet another
incredibly beautiful Hawaiian sunset. The granite floors of the
living room and lanai glittered as if inlaid with flecks of gold,
the stone ending at the pool, one of those knife-edge affairs that
dropped into a spillover as if falling all the way to the ocean. A
Jacuzzi bubbled invitingly at one end of the lanai. A bar and
cooking area dominated the other end, complete with hollow coconut
shells used for tropical drinks at the frequent parties the author
gave.
The home was conservatively valued at fifteen million, although the
price of real estate is always subject to what the market will bear
and its measure is not an objective ex-
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Terry Brooks 337
ercise. Homes around it had sold for ten million and up and lacked
both the extensive grounds and the unrestricted view mat took in
most of Honolulu. Bare land went for five million in this
neighborhood. The numbers were unimaginable for most people. The
interviewer lived in Seattle in a home he had bought fifteen years
ago for somewhat less than what Harold Kraft earned in a month.
Kraft wandered hi from his study where he had gone to answer a
private phone call, leaving the interviewer to sip his perfectly
mixed drink and admire the view. He strolled over to the bar with a
brief apology for taking so long, fixed himself an iced tea,
crossed the room to the couch where the interviewer was patiently
waiting, and sat down again. He was tall and slender with graying
hair and a Vandyke beard, and he moved like a long, slow, elegant
cat He wore silk slacks and shut and hand-tooled leather sandals.
His tanned face was aquiline, and his sandy eyes were penetrating.
There were rumors of reconstructive surgery and a rigorous training
regimen, but that was fairly commonplace with the rich and famous.
"Good news," he announced with a smile. "Since you're here, I can
share it with you. Paramount just bought rights to Wizard. Two
million dollars outright. They want Scan Connery for the title
rote, Tom Cruise for the part of the Prince. What do you think?"
The interviewer smiled appreciatively. "I think you're two million
dollars richer. Congratulations."
Kraft gave him a short bow. "Wait until the merchandising kicks in.
That's where the real money is."
"Do you write your books with an eye toward movie sales?" the
interviewer pressed. He wasn't getting nearly enough out of Kraft
to satisfy either himself or his magazine. Kraft had published
three books in two years and dominated the bestseller lists for
most of that time, selling more than five million copies in
hardcover. But that was practically all anyone knew about him. For
all his notoriety and success,
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he was still very much a mystery. He claimed to be in exile, but he
wouldn't say from where. He claimed to be a political refugee.
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"I write to be read," the author replied pointedly. "What happens
after that is up to the consumer. Sure, I want to make money. But
mostly I want to be happy."
The interviewer frowned "That sounds a bit ..."
"Disingenuous? I suppose it does. But I've done a lot of things and
been a lot of places, and I don't have much to show for any of it
What I have is myself, and my writing is an extension of myself. It
is very hard to separate the two, you know. A writer doesn't just
punch a clock and go home at the end of the day. He carries his
work around with him, always thinking about it, always polishing it
up like the family silver. If you're not satisfied with it, you
nave to live with your dissatisfaction. That's why I want to be
happy about what I do. More important to be happy than to be rich."
"Doesn't hurt to be both," the interviewer pointed out. "You've had
an amazing string of successes. Do you ever think about what it was
like before you were published?"
Kraft smiled. "All the time. But I sense an attempt at an end run.
I have to remind you mat try though you might, you won't get me to
talk about my earlier life. Ground rules for this interview,
right?"
"So you've said, but my readers are quite curious about you. You
must know that"
'I do. I appreciate the interest."
"But you still won't discuss anything about yourself before you
were published?"
"I made a promise not to."
"A promise to whom?"
"A promise to some people. That's all I intend to say."
"Then let's discuss your characters and try coming into your life
through the back door, so to speak." The interviewer harbored hopes
of publishing a book himself one
Terry Brooks 339
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day. He fancied himself very clever with words. "Are they based on
real people from your old life? For instance, the misguided King of
your magic land, his inept court wizard, and the snappish dog who
serves as his scribe?"
Kraft nodded slowly. "Yes, they exist."
"How about your protagonist the renegade wizard who saves me day in
each book? Is mere some of you in him?"
Kraft cleared his throat modestly. "A bit."
The interviewer paused, sensing he was finally getting somewhere.
"Have you ever dabbled in magic? You know, played at conjuring
spells and the like? Has that been a part of your life?"
Harold Kraft was lost in thought for a moment. When he came back
from wherever he had been, his face turned serious. "I'll tell you
what" he said. "I'm going to make an exception to my rule of never
talking about my past and tell you something. There was a time when
I did play about with magic. Small stuff, really—nothing serious.
Except that once I did stumble quite inadvertently on something
that turned out to be very dangerous indeed. My own life as well as
those of others was threatened. I survived that scare, but I made a
promise to certain people that I would never use ... that is,
dabble, in magic again. I never have."
"So the magic in your books, the conjuring and the invocations of
spells and the like, has some basis in real life?"
"Some, yes."
"And the tales you weave, those spellbinding stories of monsters
and elves, of mythical creatures and wizards like your
protagonist—do these have a basis in real life as well?"
Kraft slowly raised and then lowered one eyebrow. "A writer writes
what he knows. Life experience enters in. It usually takes a
different form than me reality, but it is always there."
The interviewer nodded solemnly. Had he learned anything from this
exchange? He wasn't sure. It was all rather
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vague. Like Harold Kraft. He covered his confusion by checking the
tiny tape recorder sitting on the coffee table. Still spinning.
"Would it be fair to say that the adventures you write about in
some way mirror your own life?" he tried again.
"It would be both fair and accurate, yes."
"How?"
Kraft smiled. "You must use your imagination."
The interviewer smiled back, trying not to grit his teeth. "Do you
have other stories left to tell, Mr. Kraft?"
"Harold, please," the author insisted with a quick wave of his
hand. "Three hours together in the journalistic trenches entitles
us to conclude our conversation on a first-name basis. And to
answer your question, yes. I have other stories to tell and some
time left to tell them, I hope. I'm working on one now. Raptor's
Spell is the title. Would you like to see the cover?"
"Very much."
They rose and walked from the living room down a short hall to the
study, which served primarily as Kraft's office. Word processors
and printers sat at various desks, and books and paper were piled
all over die place. Framed book covers hung on the walls. A
koa-wood desk dominated the center of the room. From the stacks of
writing on the top of this desk, Kraft produced a colored photo and
handed it over to the interviewer.
The photo showed a bird that was all black save for a crown of
white feathers. The bird was in the act of swooping down on a
malevolent being that resembled a mass of thistles. Lightning
streaked from the bird's extended claws. Dark things fled into a
woods at the bird's approach.
The interviewer studied the photo for a moment. "Very dramatic. Is
the bird representative of someone from your earlier life?"
Horns Kew, who now called himself Harold Kraft, nod-
Terry Brooks 341
ded solemnly. "Alas, poor Biggar, I knew him well," he intoned with
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a dramatic flourish. And gave the photo a nostalgic kiss.
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