“Go to hell, Inky.”
Incarnadine rose from the table. “I think it’s just about time.”
Thirty-two
Castle
The two brothers stepped through the veil their sister had erected to block the portal. Being of the House of Haplodie, they were immune; no spell could keep them out of the castle.
They found their sister Ferne slumped in a chair in the parlor, three empty sherry bottles at her feet. She was polishing off the remains of a fourth. Seeing Trent, dim recognition formed in her eyes.
“‘Lo,” was all she managed, along with a twisted smile.
“Stay with her,” Incarnadine said.
“For as long as I can,” Trent said.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t stay in the castle for any length of time. It’s the spell Dad laid on me when we had our difference of opinion. He banished me, Inky. Never told anyone. I guess he felt a little guilty.”
Nonplussed, Incarnadine said, “What sort of spell?”
“Nothing much. It’s just that if I stay here longer than, say, ten minutes, I begin to get a case of the paranoid heebie-jeebies. I just go quietly nuts and get this overwhelming urge to run screaming from the place. Very effective.”
“Gods. I’m sorry, Trent. I wish I had known.”
“Yeah. Well, I didn’t tell anyone, for the shame of it all. Silly, I guess. It’s not my fault Dad had it in for me.”
Incarnadine felt restrained from commenting. “Uh, well, if you have to go — listen. Thanks. I’ll never forget it, Trent.”
“Don’t mention it. Look me up next time you’re in New York.”
“I will.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
“Farewell, brother.”
“Farewell,” Incarnadine said. He turned and left the parlor.
He found Deems in the outer halls, along with the bodies of thousands of his men. Many had died of wounds, but more had succumbed to spell exhaustion. Judging from the number of enemy dead, they had given a good account of themselves, defending a strange castle in a foreign land.
Incarnadine took his overcoat off and covered his brother’s body with it, then recited a prayer for the departed.
He walked a good distance into the castle before encountering carcasses of the previous invaders. The place already stank to high heaven. It would be a monumental cleanup job.
A whispering silence held throughout the castle. Death skulked in the shadows, but would not show its face. Time hung like cobwebs in the corners.
Incarnadine walked with purposeful stride. As he did, he got the feeling that someone or something was ahead of him, keeping just out of sight. He didn’t see anything.
He knew exactly where to go. It was a long trip, and a lonely one. The years echoed in the halls, reverberating off stone-vaulted ceilings.
In a dim crypt in the nethermost reaches of the castle, he found what he sought. A black oblong lay inscribed in gray shadows. He approached it.
He heard his name called, far off, faint.
“No,” he said.
Dim shapes swam within the portal, and a cold wind blew out of it. There came to his ears a faint wailing and weeping.
He ignored it, raising his hands. He began the spellcasting, reciting each line of the incantation crisply and distinctly. As he continued, the wailing grew louder and louder.
The spell was short, succinct, and to the point. He finished it with a flourish of his hands, and the sounds emanating from the portal ceased. He stepped forward and peered into the darkness. What had been a gaping hole was now a blank stone wall. He reached out and touched it. The portal was gone.
On his way back, he undid the protective spells over a few of the aspects his Guardsmen had retreated into along with most of the castle’s local citizenry, and many of its Guests.
Tyrene, the captain of the Guard, was standing watch inside one of them. When the portal opened, Tyrene regarded his liege lord with some disgruntlement. Obviously he did not care for hiding out while the castle was overrun by invaders. But he had had his orders. Incarnadine did his best to assuage him and salve his wounded pride. Then he bade him sound recall.
Whistling a tune he had heard during his stay on Earth, he trudged up to his study to begin the job of bringing the castle back to life.
Thirty-three
Throne Room
His Serene and Transcendental Majesty sat in state upon the Siege Perilous.
“Bring the prisoner,” he ordered.
The prisoner was escorted through the huge room and brought to kneel at His Majesty’s feet.
“Arise,” he commanded. Then he said, “Do you have anything to say on your behalf before I pronounce judgment on you?”
Ferne shrugged. “Not really.”
“Perhaps you can clarify a few issues.”
“If I can, I would be most happy to.”
“Why did you do it, Ferne?”
Her laughter was low and private, as if no one could possibly share or understand it.
He said, “You will not answer?”
“Oh, Inky, what a question. I could give a hundred reasons. A thousand. I wanted your position, your power, your magic. I deserved it. Even if I didn’t deserve it, I wanted it. But all of that is rather academic now. Perhaps the real reason is that I was desperate for something to do.”
His Majesty pondered her answer.
“Perhaps I know what you mean,” he said.
Her look was haughty. “Don’t be so damned understanding! You couldn’t possibly know! You’re the type who’s perfectly happy raising children and keeping house and wallowing in the mundane things of half a thousand worlds. I’m not. I hunger, I thirst for things you’ve never dreamed of.”
“Do you claim to know my dreams?” he answered. “Do you claim to know me at all?”
“I don’t want to discuss it, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded slowly. “As you wish. Tell me one thing, though. I’m a little unclear as to the chronology of the plot you hatched. When did you begin to bargain with the Hosts?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“I talked with them off and on for years, trying to think of some way to use them to my advantage. After all, they are a powerful force, and would make excellent allies. But I couldn’t find a way that did not involve inordinate risks.”
“So you settled on a lesser ally?”
