family.
As he wandered later, uprighting furniture, tossing trash out of windows, unscrambling and memorizing a number of minor spells, he decided to return to the library for one of the secret books he had thumbed, which had partly mapped the place.
The books now returned to their shelves, the room dusted after a fashion, he poured a glass of wine and studied the materials before him. Yes, there were many drawings, a number of floor plans, sketches of the place at various moments in its history and one rough outline of a vast series of caverns below, across which someone had penned 'The Beasts.' He did not know whether to chuckle or shudder. Instead, in response to an unvoiced desire, a blue-green thread came drifting by him. He hooked it with the first joint of the little finger of his right hand, twined it three times about his glass, tugged upon it twice with his middle finger accompanied by the appropriate image- commands, untwined it and dismissed it. Yes, now it was properly chilled.
Rising he placed the book in the pocket of the dark jacket he had found in a wardrobe earlier and dusted thoroughly when he saw that it fit him so well. He carried the wineglass with him as he walked out and descended the stair to the main floor. 'Beasts,' he said aloud, and smiled... Images of the villagers hurling stones through the night returned to him. 'Beasts,' he repeated, making his way to a small storeroom where he had discovered lanterns and fuel earlier.
Walking the dim tunnels, occasionally consulting his guidebook, the lantern in his left hand casting sharp-edged shadows upon the rough walls, he could almost smell the concentration of power ahead. Whenever he looked in that certain way, he could see great multicolored bunches of streamers in the air. Nowhere else had he yet witnessed signs of such massive workings. He had no idea what it represented, other than that it must be something of great importance. Nor had he any notion whether his newly awakened powers could have any effect whatsoever upon it. As he brushed his fingertips against the strands, it seemed almost as if he could feel the mumble of mighty words, echoing infinitely, slowly, along a vast convoluted circuit. If he tried very hard...
Several minutes later, he found his way barred by a huge slab of stone. Strands led around it, wrapped it, crisscrossed it. There had to be a spell involved, but he wondered whether he would also need a dozen men with pry bars to dislodge it, once any magical booby traps had been defused. He moved nearer, studying the pattern of the strands. There did seem something of a method to their positioning....
The strands faded as his eyes slipped back into more normal channels of perception. Then he saw what it was that had distracted him. He raised the lantern and moved nearer, to read the inscription he now beheld:
PASS AT YOUR PERIL. HERE SLEEP THE HORRORS OF RONDOVAL.
He chuckled. They may be horrors, he thought, but I'm going to need a little muscle in this world. So, by God! now they're my horrors!
He set down the lantern and shifted his attention back to the colored strands.
Just like unwrapping a very peculiar present, he thought, reaching forward with both hands.
He felt the tangles of power and began the motions that would unlock them. As he worked, the subaural mumbling returned, growing, intensifying, until words burst into his consciousness and he cried them out at the same time, whipping his hands back from the final threads and taking three timed paces backwards: 'Kwathad!... Melairt!... Deystard!'
The slab shuddered and began to topple away from him. He realized then that the spell must have been infinitely more difficult to lay than it had been to raise. All of that power had had to be channeled from somewhere and bound up here. His own work had been more on the order of figuring out how to pull a plug.
The crash that followed echoed and reechoed until he could not help but be impressed by the enormity of the cavern that must lie behind.
He had snatched up the lantern, covered half his face with his sleeve and squinted until the reverberations and the hail of stone chips had settled. Then he moved cautiously forward, crossing the cracked monolith he had toppled.
He was about to raise the lantern to look around the vast hall, when his new key of vision registered an enormous collection of filaments, like a multicolored ball of string larger than himself, resting just off to his left. Individual strands departed it in all directions before him. He realized that it would have taken ages to work each separate spell and then, in some fashion, join them at this common center. No ... It had to have been done the other way around ... He could not yet conceive of the manner of its laying but he'd a sudden flash of insight into its undoing. It, too, could fall like the door before his new skill.
However... Could he control whatever he released. A good man had obviously spent a lot of time and energy putting the thing together. Best to have a look around before doing anything else....
He raised the lantern.
Dragons, dragons, dragons... Acres of dragons and other fantastic beasts lay all about him, extending far beyond his feeble light. His eyes caught them at another level, also. To each of them extended one strand of the master spell.
He lowered the light. What the hell do you say to a dragon? How do you control one? He shuddered at the thought of releasing any of the slumbering horrors.
Probably wake up hungry, too....
He began to back away.
Clear out. Forget this part of the family heritage. They must have bred tougher Lords of Rondoval in the old days....
As he began to turn away, his attention was caught by a single green filament. Its color was slightly darker than any of the others, and it was also the thickest one in sight, almost twice the size of its mates. What might it tether? he wondered.
Suddenly, all the dreamlands he had ever read of or conjured in song, all the fantasy worlds he had ever sculpted of smoke or walked through at bedtime as a child rose before him, and he knew that he could not leave this place without looking upon the prodigy bound by this mighty spell. Turning back, he followed the strand among the massive sleepers, averting his eyes as well as his feet in some instances.
When he reached out to brush the strand with his fingertips, a sound like a crystal bell echoed within his head, 'Moonbird...'--constantly fading--and he knew that to be the name of the creature toward which he was headed.
'Moonbird,' he said, fingers still feeling the pulse of the cord.
Lord, I hear, beyond the depths of sleep or life. Shall we range the skies together, as in days gone by?
I am not the lord you knew, and Rondoval has come upon sad times, he thought back, still brushing the cord.
What matter? So long as there is a lord in Rondoval. You are of the blood?
Yes.
Then call me back from these ghost skies. I'll bear you where you would.
I am not even sure I know what to feed you...
I'll manage, never fear... . And then there is the problem of this spell.
Not for one such as--
Pol halted, for he could go no further. His hand had left the strand awhile back, as it seemed tangled on an overhead ledge. For several moments, he had thought it was a huge mineral formation which confronted him--a vast mound of scaly copper bearing the green patina of age. But it had moved, slightly, as he had watched.
He sucked air between his teeth as he raised the lantern. There, there was the great crested head! How huge those eyes must be when opened! He reached out and touched the neck. Cold, cold as metal. Perhaps nearly as tough.
'How low must your fires now be, bird of the moon...' he said.
Back to him came a jumbled vision of clouds and tiny houses, forests tike patches of weeds...
...Shall we range the skies together?
The fear was gone, leaving only a great desire to see the huge beast freed.
He moved back to the first place where the strand came within reach again. He touched it as he began to follow it back out.
Patience, father of dragons. We shall see....
...And kill your enemies.
First things first.
