But these were real people he would be leaving to their fate; and two—no, three, counting the QB now, were his friends. Still, the temptation to do so was almost a physical force taking over his body.
"What Carolinus told me was that the Dark Powers seek to either hold History back until it is motionless—in which case, all things stop; and what stops, eventually, dies—or to keep enlarging Chance until there is no more certainty in the world—when Chaos would rule: bits of earth, water, buildings, everything, mixed up and flying mindlessly through the air together, evermore—in which case there would be nothing left to live for; and therefore all people would have reached their end."
He could not bring himself to do it. A sense of duty as ancient as the land that surrounded him now—duties of friendship to Brian and Dafydd, even obligation to the QB, and the cantankerous, willful old man who was Carolinus—all these stopped him.
He paused. They were listening now—they were actually listening closely as Dafydd translated.
"So," he finished, "the Dark Powers must be opposed in all they do, if we wish to survive and progress. That is a duty on all men and women—and, indeed, it's the duty that brings Sir Brian, the QB, and me to you now. It does not matter who the Dark Powers attack, or where. Their attack has to be stopped each time."
He finished speaking, and Dafydd’s translation, which had almost been keeping pace with his words, ended also. Jim waited for someone to say something. But no one did. After some long seconds it dawned on him that somehow he had reached them. He had touched them. In some way, across the double barrier that was the difference in their lives from his, their language from his, they had come to feel the reality and dangerousness of the Dark Powers.
"Is there no defeating these Dark Powers for good, then, Sir James? Killing them, mayhap?" said the King, at last.
"No, Sire," said Jim, "because in a way they're"—he caught himself just about to say "a product of the environment"—"offspring of the natural battle between History and Chance. We humans are always trying to mark our History on time. A wise man once said, 'For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.' Chaos is the reaction to History."
The King frowned, trying to absorb this.
"Then, what can we do?"
"Try to stop them whenever they try to interfere with our lives, Sire. The Collegiate of Magickians in the land above, which I mentioned, has had some luck in backing certain people to oppose those men and women the Dark Powers use, to try to make the changes they want."
"But how do we find such men and women?"
"They have to be here, somewhere, in the Drowned Land and in Lyonesse, since both lands are under the shadow of the Powers. They must be found, that's all."
"But, again, how?"
"This is what Sir Brian, the QB, and I came here to try and find a way to do. The first step's to find out who the Powers are working through. One might be Morgan le Fay, a Witch Queen in Lyonesse. But who are they working through here—if they're actually working here as well?"
"That broken quarrel piece was magick," said the King. "What more proof do we need?"
"And as for one working for them here," said Dafydd, "when I became Regent, I was told by our people that Morgan le Fay paid our land a visit but five weeks past."
"She did?" said the QB—it was the first time Jim had heard him sounding startled. Even their sudden, surprised appearance here in the Drowned Land had not brought that note to his sibilant voice.
The young King had looked quickly at Dafydd.
"I was not told!" he said.
"It was before your father's death; but when he was already into his last sickness. There seemed no reason then to disturb you with word of it. But clearly, from what Sir James says, our people and those of Lyonesse must help each other now—if those stiff necks in Lyonesse will allow help from us."
"I will speak them. I am as much a king as any king among them."
"Perhaps, Sire, that might be good," said Dafydd. "But I would wish to look for other ways first. Sir James, Sir Brian, my Lord QB, have you any suggestions?"
Neither Brian nor the QB spoke.
"I think we can all make guesses," said Jim. "But it's not smart making decisions on guesses. Someone else besides Morgan le Fay could be an unwitting tool of the Dark Powers—it could be another person or persons completely. We need to find out all we can about the situation before heading in any particular direction. What was it, said just now, about the Borderlands; and about monsters and strangers there? Sir Brian and I—and the Lord QB if he will—had better go take a look at it."
Dafydd, who had continued to translate the English of this conversation for the benefit of those beyond the table, broke back into English.
"If you go there, I must needs go with you," he said—"with my King's permission, of course."
"You have it, Dafydd," said the King; and himself repeated Dafydd's request and his agreement to it to the audience in their own tongue.
"Thank you, my Lord King," said Dafydd in English.
The seated men rose and began to form in line—a line that was still stretching out even as the first of them came to one knee, as close before the King as the width of the table would allow. Dafydd spoke to them directly, almost harshly, in their own language.
"What was that now?" growled Brian into Jim's left ear. "What did he say?" For the line was now formed and the King was rising to lean forward across the table to a man in green, the first man to kneel before him.
"He said, "You will keep and protect him as if I was here to tell you to!" Jim answered, suddenly realizing he had forgotten Brian was not understanding anything not said in English.
"That would be well," Brian said.
"—But he had to get the King's permission. The King gave it; but that meant he'd be doing without his Regent. Dafydd was just telling the others to watch out for the boy as if he was still there."
"Ah. What are they up to now, then?" The youthful King was stretching to reach across the not-narrow width of the table, to place his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling man—who then gave up his place to the man behind him. Much as Jim and Brian had seen in a similar situation during their earlier trip through the Drowned Land, the King was laying his hand for an instant not merely on the shoulder, but the head of each one.
"Some ceremony?"
"I think they're all pledging their loyalty personally—and possibly that of all those who wear the same Color—to him while Dafydd is gone."
"Very well. Properly done, then."
"You did hear the King say that Dafydd could go with us to the Borderland?"
"Of course!" There was a note of relief in Brian's tone now. "And I approve. A wise decision. Dafydd will be much more useful with us than nursemaiding that boy." Brian broke off on a sudden note of worry. "James, you don't suppose his Majesty could change his mind now?"
"No," not after this ceremony."
"Well, that's a relief. The King is a good lad, but still young; and these foreigners, you know—"
"Sir James, Sir Brian, QB," said the King to them, "Dafydd"—he reeled off the Drowned Land's unpronounceable—for Englishmen—rest of Dafydd's full name and title down here, Prince of the Sea-Washed Mountains—"will go with you to the Borderland, or where else you four may need to go. Keep good care of yourself for my sake, Dafydd."
"I will, my King," said Dafydd, kneeling to be touched on his head, in turn.
He stood up once more; suddenly again the tall woodsman and Master Bowman they had known in all their time before. "I will need to guide you. Let us go."
They mounted their horses and followed Dafydd—who was on foot—away from the tent and all those there, up the slope of a green hill in the near distance. They had ridden off at a walk. But as they reached the top of the hill, a thunder of hooves sounded behind them; and there was the tall man with the graying beard, riding up to them with a led horse, the reins of which he gave to Dafydd.
"Thank you, Llewelyn," s
aid Dafydd, mounting. The other lifted his hand briefly in something between a wave and a twentieth-century-style salute, turned his own mount, and thundered away at full gallop back down the slope.
"They must break a lot of necks here, men and horses both," said Brian, but without any real rancor in his voice, as they reined in for a moment to wait for Dafydd. "By God, they can ride, though!"
"Our first horses were stolen from the Romans," said Dafydd, reaching them in time to pick up the words. They all moved on. "But we bred them lighter and faster; and we made our own way of riding."
"Is it far to the Borderland from where we were?" asked the QB.
They had all but forgotten him. But there he was beside them, loping along as if he could keep up the pace all day.
"Just beyond the next hill," said Dafydd.
"It was in my mind to move us all there swiftly by means of the magick I own—but I remember now that, not being in Lyonesse, I do not have it here. Why do you not use Drowned Land magick to move us there quickly?"
"No," said Dafydd. "There is no magick in the Drowned Land—or was not until today with Gruffydd and our King. Even the word is not one in good repute among us. Nor was I ever, or wished to be, a magickian. No, the King and I set our meeting place back there close to the edge of the Borderland for reason."
"Hah!" said Brian with satisfaction—he, as Jim knew, being the kind of person who wanted all things done for a definite reason, if they were to be done at all.
"Yes it was in our minds if everything else failed to make agreement among the leaders—he and I might decide to enter the Borderland to see what was now to be found there. Those with us of the Colors could never have let us go alone, for shame. Then might we all have seen. It was a happy chance indeed, James, that you suggested we three—crave pardon, QB—we four should go alone; since that was our aim in any case."
While they were talking, they had gone down into what was only a fold in the hills, and were halfway up the slope beyond. Within minutes they had reached the top of what Dafydd had called the "next" hill; and they looked down on an open hillside giving way to a forest as inviting as any Jim had seen in the Drowned Land, where the landscape as a whole was inviting.
But as they halted their horses at the top of the hill to let them breathe—and without making a particular point of it, let the QB himself catch his breath, in case he also needed it—it was only then that Jim, gazing at the trees—which here were elms, rather than oaks—and the greensward visible before and between them, got a feeling, a very definite feeling, of uneasiness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Do any of you feel anything?" Jim asked the rest of them.
"No," said Brian. "Though I would say it is not the merriest ground in the world, ahead there—couldn't say why, though."
"Ware!" said the QB. "I feel it also—" And almost in the same instant Hob cried out.
"Ware, m'Lord! Ware! The trees are calling 'Ware' to us!"
"Back!" said Brian, wheeling Blanchard. Jim turned Gorp sharply about; and they all galloped back down the slope they had just come up. The moment they were completely below the brow of the hill, the feeling disappeared.
Brian reined in. They all stopped.
"The edge between my land and Lyonesse moves back and forth sometimes in the Borderland," said Dafydd. "But I have never known it to be this far into ground that is ours. For this must be magick, unless—"
He broke off and looked at Jim.
"It's magic," said Jim grimly.
"The small one has it," said the QB. "It is the trees here giving warning, and since they do not know me in this land, it must be to the little one or you the warning comes."
"I wish I could hear them," said Jim. "I learned to hear the Gnarlies and the horses. I ought to be able—"
"It may never be that easy for you," said the QB. "The Gnarlies are Naturals, which are closer to you than trees. I am not learned in magick, nor am I gifted like Merlin, or even the Witch Queens. I only hear the trees and the animals because the Old Magic or the Legends made it so."
"Well, we cannot sit here all day through, talking about it," said Brian. "James, do we go forward, or not?"
"Forward," said Jim. He found his jaws were clenched tight. "If there's magic ahead, let me deal with it."
He made his jaw unclench as they went back up the slope and then down its farther side, toward the first few trees. These stood more or less in a row across the edge of the clear ground; and there was some distance between them and the next trees, which were the more obvious beginnings of the forest. The feeling of uneasiness grew as they went, until they reached level ground, now only twenty-five or thirty yards from the nearest trees. Then it held steady.
Jim led the way straight ahead, between the two largest trunks in the front row. The sun was at his back, and so the grass beyond those first trees was darker and more indistinct. No one said anything, no breeze stirred the leaves overhead. They rode in silence, and Gorp suddenly tossed his head, as if he found the bridle bit in his mouth uncomfortable.
It was only when the next step of Blanchard, who was leading, would have carried them on between these first sentinel trees that Dafydd stepped out from behind the thick trunk of the tall elm on their right.
The horses stopped immediately, without reins being touched. If Dafydd had not been beside him at that moment, Jim would have found it almost impossible to believe that the figure just before him was not the Prince-bowman he knew.
The new Dafydd said nothing. He only turned and swept out an arm, as if unveiling the space behind the. trees—and as they all looked where he indicated, the ground there sagged, broke, and opened into a chasm across their way, its ends cutting a deep rift in the earth that ran away between the trees on either hand, out of sight.
The edge of this rift that they could see fell steeply below view, showing earth with broken stone protruding—stone that as you looked deeper into the cleft became blacker and more black, and bulged and creased into shapes. Shapes like the upper halves of human bodies, their lower parts buried in the stone itself, shapes like gargoyles and part-human figures, spitted on sharp outthrusts of the stone.
But the rift itself went down and down into darkness.
"Even if that was not there," said the second Dafydd, "I would not let you pass. You must kill me to go by here, and you cannot do that."
His voice was eerily like Dafydd's in timbre and rhythm, but his speech was without living warmth, almost mechanical.
"Indeed?" said Brian, and picked up his reins.
Dafydd—their Dafydd—thrust out a hand to stop the knight, but checked himself before he actually touched Brian's armored upper arm.
"No, Brian," he said, "it must be me."
"Wait a minute," said Jim. "Let's none of us rush into this without thinking. This is nothing natural for the Drowned Land is it Dafydd?"
"No," said Dafydd. "That is why it must be I who meets him. He is a blemish, a false thing and a false place, desecrating our land!"
"Hold on, Dafydd, Brian," said Jim. "As you said, Dafydd, this is a false thing. It doesn't belong in this land of yours, where there's no magic—but plainly it is magic. Let's take a second or two and think about it."
The other two were patiently still. So was the QB. So was Hob on Jim's shoulders—even the other Dafydd was silent, waiting. Jim studied him—or, rather, it. The fake Dafydd stood, utterly unmoving, perfectly mirroring the real man, with no change of expression, evidently content to wait as long as they did. The perfect duplication, Jim told himself, was not a matter of importance, as long as magic was obviously at work. Once again, as with the false river, he was face to face with what seemed to be a massive work of magic.
Jim's mind searched for some other difference, some possible giveaway mistake in what had appeared before them. He did not know what he was looking for, but he had a strong feeling that if he kept searching, he would discover something. But over the shoulder of the second Dafydd, he could see th
e bottomless rift as plainly as ever.
All that came to mind was the fact that the river had turned out not to be a massive magical construct after all; but largely an artifact, to be turned on and off like a water faucet. The same could be true here—because if what he was looking at was real, the amount of magical energy required to make it was all out of proportion to the need to bar the way further.
"Come with me," he said to the rest of them, turning Gorp. They rode back the way they had come, and after some hundred yards he reined in and looked back over his shoulder. His companions stopped and looked with him. The second Dafydd stood as he had, the empty, tortured darkness still deep behind him, and still barring their path.
"Mayhap we may ride around that hole in the ground," said Brian. "Though it would sit very ill with me to let that imposter go unpunished."
"We may not have to," said Jim. "Come along." He turned Gorp to his left and led off along the front of the trees. A glance over his shoulder showed the second Dafydd still there, behind them, smaller with distance but still seemingly on guard; and when he looked between the trees they were now passing, he saw the dark mouth of the rift extending parallel with their progress, still.
"Wait for me a moment."
He turned and rode directly for the nearest trees. As he got closer, he could look down into the rift and see the stone of its far side, with its bulges and indentations. They none of them clearly showed tormented human shapes, but they pulled at his feelings nonetheless, making him imagine more, the more he looked.
And suddenly the second Dafydd was there, standing in his way once more.
"Bingo!" said Jim softly to himself.
"My Lord?" asked Hob, behind his head.
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. It's all right."
"Yes, m'—my Lord."
Jim rode back out to his waiting friends.
"I think I'm beginning to understand this," he said. "There's no use our trying to go around that whatever-he-is there"—he nodded at the imitation Dafydd behind them—"or that hole in the ground. But let's ride out a ways and then back the way we came. I've got an idea."