“I took this from you when we passed through the Need-fire,” he said. “It is yours.”
I accepted the blade.
Again I moved toward the curtained archway.
Behind me Matholch spoke.
“We are not enemies yet, Ganelon,” he said gently. “And if you are wise, you will not forget my warning. Do not go to Caer Llyr.”
I went out. Holding the sword, I hurried down the winding stairway. My feet found their path without conscious guidance. The—intruder—in my brain was still strong. A palimpsest. And the blurred, erased writing was becoming visible, as though treated with some strong chemical.
The writing that was my lost memory.
The castle—how did I know it was a castle?—was a labyrinth. Twice I passed silent soldiers standing guard, with a familiar shadow of fear in their eyes—a shadow that, I thought, deepened as they saw me.
I went on, hurrying along a pale-amber hallway. I brushed aside a golden curtain and stepped into an oval room, dome-ceilinged, walled with pale, silken draperies. A fountain spurted, its spray cool on my cheek. Across the chamber, an archway showed the outlines of leafy branches beyond.
I went on through the arch. I stepped out into a walled garden. A garden of exotic flowers and bizarre trees.
The blooms were a riot of patternless color, like glowing jewels against the dark earth. Ruby and amethyst, crystal-clear and milky white, silver and gold and emerald, the flowers made a motionless carpet. But the trees were not motionless.
Twisted and gnarled as oaks, their black boles and branches were veiled by a luxuriant cloud of leafage, virulent green.
A stir of movement rippled through that green curtain. The trees roused to awareness.
I saw the black branches twist and writhe slowly —
Satisfied, their vigilance relaxed. They were motionless again. They—knew me.
Beyond that evil orchard the dark sky made the glowing ember of the sun more brilliant by contrast.
The trees stirred again.
Ripples of unrest shook the green. A serpentine limb, training a veil of leaves, lashed out—struck—whipped back into place.
Where it had been a darting shape ran forward, ducking and twisting—as the guardian trees struck savagely at it.
A man, in a tight-fitting suit of earth-brown and forest-green, came running toward me, his feet trampling the jewel-flowers. His hard, reckless face was alight with excitement and a kind of triumph. He was empty-handed, but a pistol-like weapon of some sort swung at his belt.
“Edward!” he said urgently, yet keeping his voice low. “Edward Bond!”
I knew him. Or I knew him for what he was. I had seen dodging, furtive, green-clad figures like his before, and an anger already familiar surged over me at the very sight of him.
Enemy, upstart! One of the many who had dared work their magic upon the great Lord Ganelon.
I felt the heat of rage suffuse my face, and the blood rang in my ears with this unfamiliar, yet well-known fury. My body stiffened in the posture of Ganelon—shoulders back, lip curled, chin high. I heard myself curse the fellow in a voice that was choked and a language I scarcely remembered. And I saw him draw back, disbelief vivid upon his face. His hand dropped to his belt.
“Ganelon?” he faltered, his eyes narrow as they searched mine. “Edward, are you with us or are you Ganelon again?”
V. Scarlet Witch
GRIPPED in my right hand I still held the sword. I cut at him savagely by way of answer. He sprang back, glanced at me over his shoulder, and drew his weapon. I followed his glance and saw another green figure dodging forward among the trees. It was smaller and slenderer—a girl, in a tunic the color of earth and forest. Her black hair swung upon her shoulders. She was tugging at her belt as she ran, and the face she turned to me was ugly with hate, her teeth showing in a snarl.
The man before me was saying something.
“Edward, listen to me!” he was crying. “Even if you’re Ganelon, you remember Edward Bond! He was with us—he believed in us. Give us a hearing before it’s too late! Aries could convince you, Edward! Come to Aries. Even if you’re Ganelon, let me take you to Aries!”
“It’s no use, Ertu,” the voice of the girl cried thinly. She was struggling with the last of the trees, whose flexible bough-tips still clutched to stop her. Neither of them tried now to keep their voices down. They were shouting, and I knew they must rouse the guards at any moment, and I wanted to kill them both myself before anyone came to forestall me by accident. I was hungry and thirsty for the blood of these enemies, and in that moment the name of Edward Bond was not even a memory.
“Kill him, Ertu!” cried the girl. “Kill him or stand out of the way! I know Ganelon!”
I looked at her and took a fresh grip on my sword. Yes, she spoke the truth. She knew Ganelon. And Ganelon knew her, and remembered dimly that she had reason for her hate. I had seen that face before, contorted with fury and despair. I could not recall when or where or why, but she looked familiar.
The man Ertu drew his weapon reluctantly. To him I was still at least the image of a friend. I laughed exultantly and swung at him again with the sword, hearing it hiss viciously through the air. This time I drew blood. He stepped back again, lifting his weapon so that I looked down its black barrel.
“Don’t make me do it,” he said between his teeth. “This will pass. You have been Edward Bond—you will be again. Don’t make me kill you, Ganelon!”
I lifted the sword, seeing him only dimly through a ruddy haze of anger. There was a great exultation in me. I could already see the fountain of blood that would leap from his severed arteries when my blade completed its swing.
I braced my body for the great full-armed blow!
And the sword came alive in my hand. It leaped and shuddered against my fist.
Impossibly—in a way I cannot describe—that blow reversed itself. All the energy I was braced to expend upon my enemy recoiled up the sword, up my arm, crashed against my own body. A violent explosion of pain and shock sent the garden reeling. The earth stuck hard against my knees.
Mist cleared from my eyes. I was still Ganelon, but a Ganelon dizzy from something more powerful than a blow.
I was kneeling on the grass, braced with one hand, shaking the throbbing fingers of my sword-hand and staring at the sword that lay a dozen feet away, still faintly glowing.
It was Matholch’s doing—I knew that! I should have remembered how little I could trust that shifting, unstable wolf-ling. I had laid hands upon him in his tower-room—I should have known he would have his revenge for that. Even Edward Bond—soft fool that he was—would have been wise enough not to accept a gift from the shape- changer.
There was no time now for anger at Matholch, though. I was looking up into Ertu’s eyes, and into the muzzle of his weapon, and a look of decision grew slowly in his face as he scanned mine.
“Ganelon!” he said, almost whispering. “Warlock!”
He tilted the weapon down at me, his finger moving on the trigger.
“Wait, Ertu!” cried a thin voice behind him. “Wait—let me!”
I looked up, still dazed. It had all happened so quickly that the girl was still struggling in the edge of the trees, though she cleared them as I looked and lifted her own weapon. Behind it her face was white and blazing with relentless hate. “Let me!” she cried again. “He owes me this!”
I was helpless. I knew that even at this distance she would not miss. I saw the glare of fury in her eyes and I saw the muzzle waver a little as her hand shook with rage, but I knew she would not miss me. I thought of a great many things in that instant—confused memories of Ganelon’s and of Edward Bond’s surged together through
