Krull

  "No. Impossible. This nose asleep while the ambrosial aroma of gooseberries fills the air?" He sat up the rest of the way, grabbed Titch hard by the shoulders. "Where are they, boy? Tell me where they are and I forgive you everything, from your insufferable precocity to your choice of companions—including myself."

  "Take it easy." Titch grinned hugely, enjoying himself. He looked to his left and nodded. "They're right behind you."

  Ergo turned, saw the three men and Rell standing next to a gooseberry trifle. The vision was impossible, surreal, but Ergo's nose did not deceive him. The trifle stood eight feet high. In the moonlight and firelight it gleamed as brightly as the walls of the White Castle.

  His voice was reduced to an awed whisper. "A gooseberry trifle as big as a house."

  "A small house," Rell admitted modestly.

  "Did you think I'd forgotten your wish?" Titch said pridefully. "After you'd granted mine, if only temporarily? Rell and I had to sneak into the village to find the rest of the ingredients, then build a cook-fire far enough away from here to conceal the smell of baking. Rell's a good cook."

  "Comes of living alone with a large appetite," the cyclops informed them all.

  "I smelled out the gooseberry bushes," Titch added.

  "Prince of nostrils, emperor of odors. I will crown you myself, boy." Ergo's voice was unnaturally subdued. He was unable to take his eyes from the dream become reality. "A small house you say? And what do you think a small person lives in, foolish cyclops? How deceiving you two were! I never would have imagined you were leaving me behind to mope while you and the boy were off arranging my assassination."

  Titch frowned. "Assassination?"

  Ergo rose slowly. "Do you not think I'm going to eat myself to death this very night? Hah? A supreme end, fit only for a king or master chef. How can I thank you both? Mere words will not suffice."

  Titch smiled shyly. "If you don't die, sir, I'd still like a puppy." But Ergo was beyond hearing. At last he would be one with the upper crust. He worshipfully approached the trifle. Never was there a pastry so inaptly named.

  "Look at its beauty," he murmured. "Rell, you are not a cook. You are an architect of the kitchen for all that you use flour instead of cement and berries instead of wood. Look at its lines, its color, its beauty."

  Torquil stepped forward and held out a large spoon. "Look at its insides."

  Ergo turned to him, held up both hands. "No! Not yet. This moment must be made to last, for all that my stomach is threatening me. Let me hug and kiss it a little. Let me run my fingers over its lovely skin."

  Off to one side Oswyn shook his head sadly, whispered to Kegan. "You'd think the man was going to make love to it instead of eat it." Kegan withheld comment.

  Ergo strolled slowly around the trifle. When he did not speak again, Titch moved to follow him. . . and followed until he'd circled the trifle completely.

  "He's gone! Has he turned himself into a puppy again?"

  As if in response, Ergo's head ripped through the top of the trifle, his face awash in gooseberry juice and bits of pulp and pastry.

  "Not gone, but going, for I am preparing to turn myself into a glutton. And if I should die before this night is done, write this for my epitaph: 'Here lies Ergo, who died with his lips on a gooseberry. His friends were true and his desserts were just!' " He vanished back into the trifle's depths.

  Oswyn took a step toward the monumental pastry. "Do you think he'd object to my snatching a bite or two?"

  "Nay," said Kegan confidentally, "he owes us more than that after that leathery supper. Even if he turns himself into a horse he'll have trouble finishing this little tart."

  Time passed as sections of pastry disappeared down hungry throats. One by one the revelers fell away from the trifle, sated and content. Not surprisingly, Ergo was the last to concede. He fell through an opening that had been made in the crust, staggered over to a nearby clump of thick grass, and collapsed. His long, drawn-out moan echoed through the forest. Titch and Rell walked over to join him.

  Their presence did nothing to quell the throbbing beneath his hands. "Ohhhh . . . where is that wise man? I need his ministrations now!"

  Titch pursed his lips as he studied his friend. "I fear you have gone beyond Ynyr's abilities."

  "I fear I've gone beyond living," Ergo groaned pitifully. "It was that last gooseberry."

  There was no sympathy in Rell's reply: "That last gooseberry weighed five pounds."

  Ergo twisted painfully on the grass. "Torturer! You had to remind me, as if I was ignorant of the fact at the time. A thousand torments consume you both!"

  Rell looked knowingly down at Titch. "Spoken like a true friend, wouldn't you say?" Titch nodded solemnly.

  Ergo's distress was good for at least an hour's clever commentary from his companions. Then the joke began to weary. Lulled by the steady sound of Ergo's moans, one by one they drifted off into contented sleep.

  Only Colwyn remained awake, leaning against his tree, staring up at the mountain. Only Colwyn—and the girl Vella. She sat nearby, watching him with preternatural intensity.

  Ynyr saw the light before he saw the opening. It was a pale glow, so faint it seemed no more than a reflection of the moonlight from the rocks, but as he drew nearer he saw that it had nothing to do with the moon. The light came from inside the mountain, illuminating the wide, oval opening like the mouth of a monster lit from the throat. The image was upsetting and he discarded it.

  The climb had been harder than he expected. Now he paused to gather his strength before entering the cave. Inside he would need all the energy he could muster, and more. The inhabitant of this solitary place would not be impressed by shouts. It would take more than big words and sonorous phrases for him to succeed here. It would take the right words.

  Carefully he edged inward along the right-hand wall. The rock was cool to his touch. It was reassuring to have something solid to lean against in such a place, where nightmares became real and death was something you could taste in the back of your mouth.

  Ahead the cavern was draped with white; thin ropes fashioned from cream, a milky maze whose appearance was deceptively soft. The softness was as deceptive as the elasticity. Each thin cable was stronger than steel.

  Ynyr slowed, reluctant to leave the comparative safety of the entrance. His gaze traveled to the center of the immense spiderweb, fastening on the solid white mass at its core.

  "I seek the widow of the web!" His voice echoed through the silken chamber. A faint scuttling sound made him retreat a couple of steps. It stopped and he resumed his approach. A pair of pale cables quivered, then stilled.

  As soon as the last echo of his cry vanished into the far reaches of the cavern, he was gifted with a stark reply: "Enter here and die!"

  That was hardly encouraging, but then he had no reason to expect anything else. "I call the widow of the web!"

  This time no response was forthcoming. He would have to force an audience. Carefully he chose the driest-looking cables and started out across them, aiming for the silken mass at the center of the web. It was hard to balance on the two unsteady cables and his physical skills were not what they used to be.

  He was halfway across the web when a cable off to his left twitched. It was not connected to the ones he was slowly and patiently traversing. He forced himself to look up and across the web.

  There it was: the white death. Drawn by his movements, the crystal spider had emerged from its ceiling hidey-hole, anxious to see what might have stumbled into its lair. It was bigger than a cow and transparent as old glass. The apparition would have shocked a normal man into insensibility.

  Ynyr was sufficiently startled to lose his balance. He tumbled backward, flailing at the silk. This action only excited the crystalline arachnid. It moved rapidly now, turning toward the disturbance in the web, flashing glassy palps and dripping clear poison from fangs of dark diamond.

  "Lyssa!" Ynyr shouted. No time left for subtlty or surprise. His fate would b
e decided in a few seconds. Even as he called out to her he was fumbling for the dagger at his waist. The spider's poison would paralyze without killing. He did not want to die slowly, sucked dry like an orange.

  "Lyssa!"

  The voice that had replied to his own when he'd first entered had been sharp and forceful. Now uncertainty bred hesitation. "Who speaks that name? Answer me!"

  "It is Ynyr!" The spider was close now, nightmarishly close. No man should have to bear such a sight nor anticipate such a death. Far better to perish beneath the hooves of the Slayers' mounts or by one's own hand. He hefted the dagger, positioned it over his heart.

  The voice came again. "I give you the sand in the hourglass."

  The words he'd prayed for. The spider stopped, frozen by the movement of sand in the widow's strange glass. It would remain motionless until the sand ran out. Ynyr didn't know how much time had been given to him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Instead, he concentrated on making his way as rapidly as possible over the unsteady cables toward the mass of silk suspended at the center of the web.

  The silk clutched and tugged at his body and limbs as if conscious of his presence, trying to hold him back until its spinner's spell was ended. He slashed at the cables with his arms, forcing a path where none existed. One wave of a groping hand uncovered a globular white mass. The skull showed two widely spaced punctures, one above each earhole. Ynyf knocked it aside and it went tumbling down through the web. A faint, final crash indicated how far it was to the rock below.

  The sticky silk gave way reluctantly, but he adroitly avoided the worst spots, keeping to the dry cables the spider used itself. The central cocoon was close now.

  Then he slipped. He'd rushed his approach. As he fell, he grabbed frantically for an overhead strand. It was thinner than the cables he'd been traversing, but it held long enough to enable him to swing into a net of thin webbing just beneath the cocoon. At the same time the spider seemed to regain its composure as well as its senses. It lunged across the gap, landing in the webbing just below the white sphere. But by then Ynyr had started to pull himself up into the cocoon.

  The spider turned a slow circle, moving in short, erratic starts, pulling on various cables in an attempt to relocate the prey that had so mysteriously vanished. It rested there, sensing in its dull fashion that its supper was out of sight as well as out of reach.

  Gasping for breath, not daring to glance back, Ynyr finally pulled himself up into the cocoon. The surface he relaxed against was unimaginably soft. He lay there a long moment before rising, then stood and inspected his surroundings. He likened the sensation to walking on a feather mattress ten feet thick.

  The light that illuminated the cave was slightly brighter here, as though it emanated from the silk itself. There were chairs, a mirror, other implements of human design. A bed of spun silk lay off in one corner. There was no suggestion of wood in its frame. It appeared to have been woven rather than built. He smelled freshly cooked food and his mind told him not to inquire into the nature of the ingredients.

  Across the room sat a table. Various utensils decorated the top. Some were familiar to him, others not. A large hourglass squatted on the far side of the table. The old woman who sat there staring at him rested one hand atop the device. All the sand had collected in the bottom of the glass.

  She didn't smile as she studied him. A finger tapped the side of the glass, marking thoughts as well as time. "I gave you the sand. You nearly used it all."

  "I am not as sprightly as I once was and this body works not as well as the one I remember."

  "None of us is young anymore."

  He walked toward her. "Lyssa." Yes, it was she who shared name and more with the young woman betrothed to Colwyn. Age could not hide the resemblance.

  What must she think of my appearance, he thought? Have I changed that much? From her stare he felt certain that he had.

  None of us sees ourself true, he mused. It lies only in the power of others to do that. But I can see the past as well as the present in her eyes. She remembers. Whether that is good or ill we will soon know.

  "I was young when I last heard that name."

  He moved nearer, took a chair across the table from her. "I was young when last I spoke it to you."

  "My face was as beautiful as my name then."

  "More beautiful. You were renowned throughout the Fifty Kingdoms and men came even from across the seas to court you."

  "None of them was suitable. Many were handsome, all were wealthy, others brave and valorous. But none was suitable. Only you were suitable, Ynyr, and you would not stay with me."

  He did not turn away. This was not the time for turning away. But the memory was still painful. Let her take some solace from my pain, he thought. I too have suffered. Loneliness is a poor companion.

  "I could not. You know that, Lyssa. There were many responsibilities, duties."

  "Ambition," she said tightly.

  "It had nothing to do with ambition. Perhaps I was too forceful at times in expressing my hopes for the future. Some might interpret that as ambition. But for myself I wished nothing." He smiled gently. "And as you can see by my appearance, that is precisely what I have gained. There were more important things to attend to. The fate of Krull was placed in my hands."

  "Ambition," she reiterated stubbornly.

  "Is it ambition that one should wish to see Krull restored to its rightful place? Is it ambition that makes me sorrow as I watch the Slayers ravage quiet towns and villages and murder for pleasure? Is it ambition that I should want to see men rule their own lives and determine their own destinies instead of leaving them to the whims of the Beast?"

  "You make it sound so noble," she murmured. "So inevitable. As if you never had a choice." Her eyes flashed and beneath the age and the exhaustion and the bitterness there was a hint of the woman who had been. "You had a choice. Every man has a choice. As for me, I grew tired of waiting. I despaired of you, Ynyr."

  "Great things can come to pass only if one exercises patience and caution."

  "Love does not make room for patience and caution. It burns wild for an instant and if not captured, it dies."

  "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think that while dreaming all my dreams and planning all my plans, I didn't think of that? Of you? My life has been as lonely as yours. Knowledge is little comfort on a cold night. I have lived a life as solitary as your own, without wife or children. You see, Lyssa, though I encountered many women from many lands who came to learn from me, you and I were too much alike. None of them was"—his smile twisted—"suitable."

  She turned away from him. "You were not as alone as you believe. You had a son."

  Here was the thing he'd feared most, the thing he had not prepared for, could not prepare for. No wonder her greeting had been so much harsher than he'd anticipated.

  "You said nothing. You told me nothing. You let me leave in ignorance."

  "I would not use such a thing to place a hold on you, Ynyr. There is no place in true love for such manipulation. I was alone when you left. I was alone!" She gestured weakly toward the woven bed.

  "I killed him."

  "You killed our son?"

  "I killed him at birth. I was angry, mad with anger at you and what you'd done to me. I could not strike at you, so I struck at him. With him went the last vestige of my hope and my humanity." She gestured at the silken prison that enclosed them. "I know you cannot forgive me.

  "This small room is my life now, my life and my punishment, and the web-spinner is my jailer. I am left only with wisdom I cannot use. Men come in hopes of stealing it. They leave the mouth of the cave in terror. Those who try to enter never leave at all."

  She bent over the table. For the first time in many years, she cried, though whether the tears were for herself, for her slain son, or for what might have been, Ynyr could not say.

  He reached out to her, touched her gently.

  "I cannot forgive myself. I have already forgiven you. I did wh
at I felt had to be done . . . but if I'd known it would cause you this life of pain . . ."

  "It matters not. You cannot forgive a woman who has killed your son."

  There was a small mirror nearby. The effort cost Ynyr some of his remaining strength, but he could feel the surge of love rising from deep within, reaching out to her.

  "If I had not already forgiven you, Lyssa, how could I see you now as you were then?"

  She changed as he stared, the wrinkles fading, the old Lyssa brought back momentarily through the power of love.

  She looked at the glass, wiping at her eyes, and marveled at the image of the exquisite woman that lived for an instant in the shifting silica.

  "You allow me to see back through time through your eyes. I had almost forgotten. I was beautiful, wasn't I?"

  "Beyond compare." He fought to keep his emotions in check while holding the projection. "How could I have left you! Perhaps I deceived myself, perhaps I was afraid." The effort was too much. The mirror image rippled, became a true reflection of the woman gazing into its depths.

  She reached across the table and for the first time her tone was comforting. "Poor Ynyr. You have suffered too, haven't you? You told the truth in that."

  "I always told you the truth, Lyssa."

  "And I would not let myself believe that anything could be more important than our lives together. Blindness and ambition. Fate has not been kind to us." She nodded at the mirror. "Your vision was a gift to me. I know what it has cost you and I thank you for it. My memory weakens with age. I too had forgotten much."

  "Your vision can be a gift to me, Lyssa. You are the finest seer Krull has ever produced."

  "That is why so many continue to seek me despite the depradations of my guardian, and why they would make use of my talent against my wishes."

  "It is that and more that I seek to prevent, for there is another of power who is to be used against her will."

  From anger to sorrow the widow's emotions changed to curiosity. "What can I see for you, Ynyr?"