Kage Baker - The Anvil of the World

“But it’s wrong,” she said. “And we’re always doing it, aren’t we? Cutting down your trees and moving in? We don’t know it’s wrong, but no wonder you hate us!”

“How could I ever hate you?” he said, kissing her between the eyes. “You are my jewel-of-fire-and-the-sun. And you are not like the others.”

“I am, though,” Burnbright said. Lord Ermenwyr cleared his throat.

“To interrupt this touching moment of mutual devotion—I haven’t told all yet.”

“It gets worse?” asked Smith.

“Yes, it does,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “As bad luck would have it, there was a prophecy made when Mother and Daddy got married, to the effect that one day the Star-Cloaked Man will return from over the sea, and that he’ll set the world to rights again. Daddy says it was propaganda put about by reactionary elements who disapproved of Mother no longer being quite such a virgin as she used to be.

“Nevertheless—that prophecy’s been dug out and dusted off. The Yendri are saying that the Star-Cloaked Man is coming back any day now. And when the White Ship comes sailing back and ties up at the Smallbrass Estates Marina, formerly Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches—well, the Star-Cloaked’ll be pretty cheesed off to see what’s happened to local property values.”

“But it’s only a legend, right?” said Smith.

“Not to all those denizens of the forest,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “And the first of your people to set an axe to the sacred grove will get his head split open. It’ll be all-out race war.”

“But the Yendri are nice. They don’t do things like that,” said Burnbright miserably.

“Some of them do,” said Balnshik. “Remember Mr. Flowering Reed?”

There was a silence at that.

“Of course,” said Lord Ermenwyr in a terrifically casual voice, “the clever thing to do would be to take a holiday in a happy seaside resort before all hell breaks loose and happy seaside resorts become a thing of the past, then skip out to a nice impenetrable mountain fortress ironclad with unbreakable protective spells.

“Even better would be persuading one’s friends to join one in safety. So one could watch the smoke rising from the former seaside resorts without getting all upset about one’s friends dying down there. You see?”

“Do you really think it’ll come to that?” said Smith.

“It cannot,” said Willowspear. He had another gulp of his drink and looked up from it with the fire of determination in his eyes. “My students listen to me. Perhaps I could form a delegation. If my people would only talk to yours—”

“What would it take to make anybody listen, though?” Smith looked uneasily at Willowspear. “And should you call attention to yourself? You’ve got a lot to lose if it goes wrong.”

“I have more to lose if no one makes the effort!” said Willowspear.

“More than you realize,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “There are other players in this game, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

The lordling looked shrewd. “The Yendri aren’t the only people with colorful mythology. Burnbright, my sweet, have you ever told your husband the story of the dreadful Key of—”

His mouth remained open, forming the last syllable of what he had been about to say, his expression did not change in the slightest; but it was as though Time had stopped in a narrow envelope about his body. The others sat blinking at him for a moment, waiting for him to pick up his train of thought or sneeze.

“Master?” said Balnshik sharply.

“Is he having a seizure or something?” Mrs. Smith demanded.

“No, because he’d be jerking his arms and legs and foaming at the mouth and spitting out live scorpions,” said Burnbright. “There was this holy man in Mount Flame who used to—”

“Should he be glowing?” Smith inquired, leaning close to look at him.

Whether he should or not, Lord Ermenwyr had certainly begun to glow from within, as though he were a lantern made of opaque glass. It was an ominous green in color, that light, edged with something like purple, though it was steadily brightening to white—

“Hide your faces!” ordered Balnshik, in a voice none of them considered disobeying even for a second, though Willowspear had already pulled Burnbright down and dropped with her.

Smith found himself staring bemusedly at a pair of skeletal hands silhouetted before his face, which was odd because his eyes were closed … understanding at last, he gulped and rolled blindly off his seat, burying his face against the garden flagstones. The horrible light was everywhere still, but it had taken on a quality that was more than visual. It had a scent, a painful perfume. It was sound, a hissing, insinuating crackling like … like fire or whispering…

Voices. Something was talking. He didn’t understand the language. Was it being spoken, or played?

Abruptly it stopped, and the light went out. Smith heard Lord Ermenwyr say “Oh, damn,” quite distinctly. Then there was a crash, as though he had toppled backward.

“What the bloody hell was that?” said Mrs. Smith, from somewhere at ground level nearby.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Willowspear sounded agonized.

“He’s—ow—oh, the baby’s kicking—” said Burnbright, somewhat muffled.

“Come now, Master, this won’t do,” said Balnshik quite calmly, though with a certain distortion in her voice that suggested she might have altered her appearance just the tiniest bit, and was speaking through, for example, three-inch fangs. “Sit up and collect your wits. You’re not hurt at all. Stop frightening everyone.”

Smith opened his eyes cautiously. He could see again. No glowing afterimages, no clouds of retinal darkness. It was as though the light had never been. He got to his feet and peered at Lord Ermenwyr, who was sitting up in Balnshik’s arms. There was still a flicker of green light on the surface of his eyes.

“My lord has simply received a Sending,” Balnshik explained.

“Oh, is that all,” grumbled Mrs. Smith, struggling to stand.

“It’s a message conveyed by sorcerous means,” said Willowspear, helping her up. “My lord, are you well?”

Lord Ermenwyr had, in fact, begun to recover his composure and grope for his smoking tube; instead he sagged backward and closed his eyes.

“Feel—weak … Must… lie … down…” He moaned.

Balnshik pursed her lips.

“Smith…,” Lord Ermenwyr continued, “Willowspear… carry me up to my… my bed…”

Smith and Willowspear exchanged glances. Balnshik was perfectly capable of throwing her master over one shoulder like a scarf and carrying him anywhere he needed to be, and everyone present knew this, which was perhaps why Lord Ermenwyr opened one eye and groaned, with just an edge to his feebleness:

“Nursie dearest… you must see to … to … poor little Burnbright… Smith and Willowspear, are you going to let me die here on the damned pavement?”

“No, my lord,” said Willowspear hurriedly, and he and Smith raised Lord Ermenwyr between them. The lordling got an arm over both of their shoulders and staggered between them. He continued to make pitiful noises all the way up the hotel stairs and down the corridor to his suite, where Cutt and Crish stood like menhirs on either side of the gaping door.

“Help me … to the bed … not you, I meant Smith and Willowspear,” snapped Lord Ermenwyr. “So … weak…”

They dutifully carried him across the threshold and were well into the dark room before the ceiling fell in on them. At least, that was what Smith remembered it sounding like afterward.

Smith opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling.

Ceiling? It looked like the underside of a bunk. It was the underside of a bunk, and it was pretty close to his face. In fact there didn’t seem to be much room anywhere, and what there was, was pitching in a manner that suggested…