The Sword of Straw (22 page)

O
N
S
ATURDAY
afternoon Eric Rhindon dropped into the bookshop to have tea with the Wards. “I’ve been thinking,” Nathan told him. “There must be
some
way to pick up the Traitor’s Sword. After all, you could ward off the gnomons with that herb that smells so bad—
sylpherim
—and white noise, and iron. There’s always a way to deal with things, otherwise what would be the point?”

“Spirit in sword is very powerful,” Eric volunteered. “Much stronger than gnomon. I never hear of anything.”

“If it was a story,” Nathan said, “there’d be Gauntlets of Protection—something like that.”

“Life isn’t like stories,” Annie said. “It’s too untidy.”

“The princess told me there’s a legend in her world about a mysterious stranger who lifts the sword and ends the curse on the kingdom. He’s a prince or a knight, or whatever. They always are.” He went on: “I’m a mysterious stranger, but I’d have to cheat for the rest.”

For all her anxiety, Annie managed a faint smile. “True heroes always cheat,” she said. “It’s the difference between brains and brawn. Anyone can be a hero with pecs.”

“This princess,” Eric asked, “she is pretty?”

“Ish.” Nathan was carefully noncommittal. “She’s got lots of hair that always needs brushing—it reminds me of Hazel. And she can be quite spiky. But when she smiles…” He stopped, uncertain of the words for Nell’s smile.

“She is pretty.” Eric nodded, satisfied.

Annie hovered on the verge of saying
You ought to bring her home sometime,
and sighed. Other mothers had it easy, she decided. She glanced at her son’s dark alien face, and felt a sudden pang of fear, because he looked so much like a stranger…

That night, Nathan dreamed. He had been sure he would, had felt it with a certainty that came from deep in his spirit, not confidence but knowledge. Perhaps the future, like the past, was something you could remember, if you were able to stretch your mind beyond the confines of the present. Time holds us, drives us, limits us, but there are moments when the spirit breaks free, and can touch infinity. Nathan felt he and the princess belonged together—their lives met and crossed—maybe forever, maybe just for a little while (he didn’t want to think about that), but the strength of their fate would bridge the gulf between worlds, and open the unopenable doors. He didn’t need to roam the inside of his head, groping for the portal—the patch of wrongness, like interference on a television set. He closed his eyes, and he was there.

There, in this case, being the library. He was standing in the shadows with which the palace—and the library in particular—was abundantly provided. The princess was seated at the table on what seemed to be a pile of books, leaning forward, chin on palm, listening. Frimbolus Quayne sat opposite her, talking with great energy, his dandelion-seed hair quivering in the backdraft from his hand gestures. Daylight had wriggled in somehow, past a shredded banner of curtain, and showed the multiple expressions—sometimes several at once—that flickered over his face. “…know nothing about him,” he was saying. “I’ve seen him in my workroom—spying on me—hovering around like the phantoms you see with diseases of the liver, all pale and shimmery. I spoke to him, but he didn’t say a word. No manners at all! Just stood there gaping like a fish and then faded away.”

“He’s been solid enough lately,” said the princess. “He helped me shell the peas.”

“Very good, those peas. Even Gobbledygoose couldn’t spoil them…”

“He says he can’t help disappearing sometimes. He gets pulled back into his own world.”

“A likely story! Fifteen years ago—before you were born—I found a thief in the king’s bedroom, hiding in the wardrobe. Said he’d just popped through from another world. Bumskittles! I daresay if I was up to something nefarious, and got caught out,
I’d
claim I was from another world. As good a story as any—it’s common knowledge there are other worlds all over the place. The point is—the point
is
—you can’t get to them, or
from
them. Not through wardrobes or dreams or spell-windows—trust me. Other worlds are out of bounds: it’s an Ultimate Law. Of course, he might just
think
he’s from another world. Could be from somewhere else in this one—dreaming out of his body. Might be a scoundrel. Might just be batty.”

At this juncture Nathan knew he ought to announce himself—he had left it rather late already—but the temptation to eavesdrop a little longer was irresistible. After all, he told himself, rather doubtfully, it could be Frimbolus who was summoning the Urdemons. He must have the necessary magical know-how. If he kept his presence a secret, the old man might yet give himself away.

“He’s not batty,” Nell was saying firmly, “and he’s not a scoundrel. I thought he might be the mysterious stranger in the legend.”

“Too much mystery,” said Quayne, “and could be very strange. Never trust a legend, anyway. Has it occurred to you that if he was
really
from another world he wouldn’t look like us? Do you think the human form is universal, let alone multiversal? You think nature can’t do better? If this ghostly slubberdegullion of yours was actually from an alternative cosmos, he’d probably have two heads—or no head at all—or merely be a lump of intelligent slime with half a dozen eyes on stalks like a snail. No reason for him to appear as an attractive young man unless he’s up to no good.”

“I didn’t say he was attractive,” the princess demurred.

Nathan, on the verge of stepping forward, lurked a moment longer.

“Didn’t need to,” said Frimbolus. “It’s obvious. Didn’t see him too clearly when he came haunting around, but it’s written all over you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nell said with a sudden access of dignity. “I’m a princess. I don’t go about being attracted to any old young man who turns up, whatever world he’s come from.”

“Good for you,” Nathan said, emerging from the shadows. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

The princess started, trying to counteract the effect of her mounting blush with a glow of anger. Frimbolus raised his eyebrows so far up his forehead that they almost disappeared over the top of his skull; wrinkles moved to get out of their way.

The old man recovered first. “Aha!” he said. “The world traveler! You may have insinuated yourself into Nell’s good graces, but you won’t find it so easy with me. I can see through you—”

“I don’t think so.” Nathan looked down, and noted with relief that he was completely solid. He had also taken the precaution of going to bed in his clothes.

“Trying to be clever, are we?” Frimbolus responded. “Think
I’m
going to fall for all this potherguffle about other worlds? If it’s the truth, why haven’t you got two heads? That’s what I want to know.”

“I only need one?” Nathan suggested.

“We have a saying here,” Frimbolus said, with the air of someone who thinks he has scored a point, “two heads are
better
than one.”

“Not on the same person,” Nathan pointed out. “They would clutter up your shoulders. We have that saying in our world, too, which only goes to show how similar it is. After all, parallel universes are supposed to be—parallel.”

“Frizzle my principles! I almost think he knows what he’s talking about. Exactly what form of magic do you use to get here?”

“No magic,” Nathan said. “I just dream.”

“He says it’s physics,” the princess interrupted. She didn’t like being left out of the conversation.

Frimbolus waved physics away. “One of the minor sciences. I knew a man once who was obsessed with falling objects. He wanted to know why things fall down instead of up. Call that intellectual research! One day, an apple hit him on the head.”

“Did he discover gravity?” Nathan asked.

“No, but I had to treat him for a mild concussion. After that, he gave up physics to develop a kettle that
tells
you when it’s boiling. He was a little eccentric.”

“Without physics,” Nathan inquired, “how do you know about parallel universes?”

“Logic,” declared Quayne, “supported by the evidence. In nature there is never only one of anything. Many leaves on the tree, many trees in the wood, many woods in the country, many countries on the earth. Therefore, it follows that there must be many worlds out there, too. My great-great-great-grandfather wrote a treatise on it; I have developed the concept even farther. We have infinity and eternity: that’s far too much space for only one universe. But each world—like ours—must have its own equilibrium. When universes overlap, their balance is disturbed, and that can only lead to trouble.”

“Do you think the Traitor’s Sword could come from another universe?”

Frimbolus’s eyebrows soared, plunged, frowned. “Now, that
is
an idea. Perhaps that is at the root of its malevolence—it’s in the wrong world and it wants to go home. And the so-called curse on the kingdom is actually a symptom of disturbance in the balance of nature. It completely vindicates my theory…I like it.”

The princess, increasingly piqued at being sidelined, said skeptically: “How would it get here? Swords don’t dream.”

“I’m not sure,” Nathan admitted. “If it’s what I think it is, the sword was sent here for safekeeping by a very powerful magician in the world it comes from. He wanted to hide it from possible thieves until he needed it, and an alternative universe must have seemed the best place. He…he might have had a contact here to help him establish a link. That’s what happened in
my
world when something was hidden there.” He was thinking of Josevius Grimthorn, original holder of the Grail.

“How many worlds are we dealing with here?” Frimbolus complained. “Never mind. According to the stories, the sword was brought to Carboneck by a venerable knight, or alchemist, or both, named Gryphonius Tupper. We don’t know precisely how long ago it was—they didn’t record time in those days, I’m afraid—but probably several hundred years. Gryphonius was supposed to be holy, and he committed the sword to the care of the kings of Wilderslee, as a God-given charge.”

“What kind of god do you worship here?” Nathan asked.

“The usual kind,” Frimbolus said rather sniffily. “Invisible, ineffable, doesn’t interfere much.”

“Oh,” said Nathan, slightly at a loss. “One of those.”

“Right,” the princess intervened. “I’ve had enough of this. We need to talk”—she seized Nathan’s wrist—“and
not
about Alternative Universe Theory, or whatever it is. Frim, I expect you have important work to do.
We
are leaving—before Nathan disappears on me again.”

“You can’t possibly go wandering off with a strange young man,” Frimbolus objected. “Especially when I’m talking to him.”

“I’ll do what I please,” Nell announced with sudden haughtiness. “I’m the princess.”

Frimbolus muttered something about teenagers—a remark common to older generations in all the worlds—but Nathan, borne off into the passageway, didn’t catch what it was.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” Nell said.

“In a place as empty as this,” Nathan commented, “that shouldn’t be difficult.”

“You’d be surprised,” Nell said darkly. “Sometimes, either Frim or Prenders seem to be everywhere. Prenders fusses, but Frim’s not usually like that. Only just lately…”

“You can’t blame them,” said Nathan. “They love you. It’s natural they should want to look after you.”

“Do you have to be so
reasonable
?”

Nathan laughed suddenly. “You sound like Hazel!”

The princess, who was walking briskly along a gallery, stopped abruptly. “Who’s she?”

“My friend,” Nathan said. “Sort of like a sister. We grew up together.”

Nell looked unconvinced.

“I like her,” he went on. “I like her a lot. But not the same way I like you.”

He found he was gazing straight into her eyes. Afterward, he couldn’t have said what color they were, whether they were dark or light, but it seemed to him that her soul gazed back at him. It was a magic moment—a moment when he felt he could do anything. Such moments are rare in anyone’s life, and all too often slip away unregarded, but Nathan sensed that instant of power and certainty, and flowed into it. He took her hands, took her gaze, opened his mind, and let his spirit stretch out…and out…The gallery vanished. There was a second that was neither night nor day, dusk nor dawn—and then everything was different.

They were standing in the middle of a wood. The ground sloped gently near the bottom of what seemed to be a shallow valley; it was soft with moss and crunchy with dead leaves. The trees were of every kind and no kind, faintly familiar, subtly different, akin to beech and birch and oak but with traces of maple and mallorn, baobab and banyan. It was spring, and the new leaves came in every shade of yellow and green, but those underfoot held more colors than any autumn in our world, their gold deepening to tints of crimson and bronzy purple. If there were flowers Nathan didn’t notice them; only the mingled hues of a million leaves. It was, he thought, the woodiest wood he had ever seen. Humans were out of order here and even animals would be intruders, unless they were very small and unobtrusive. Yet it didn’t feel unfriendly or dangerous, only wild, with the aloof wildness of a place where people never come.

“The Deepwoods,” the princess said. “You did it.”

And then, in case he should think her too impressed: “What about the picnic?”

“Sorry.” Nathan grinned.

“Can’t you conjure up some sandwiches?”

“I’m a dreamer, not a magician.”

“Oh well…” The princess sighed, then smiled—not quite her usual smile but one with an almost unearthly quality, touched with the wildness of the wood. “It’s wonderful to be here, even if we have nothing to eat. Thank you.”

“Come on then,” said Nathan. “Let’s explore.”

They walked for what seemed like hours, out of the valley and across a low ridge and into another valley, and another—through sun-speckled glades, under low-slung branches, over root-stumps and fallen boughs. In one of the valleys they found a little stream, running downhill between shaggy grasses and deep green water plants. They drank from it in cupped hands, and ate some wild strawberries that were growing nearby, and sat on the ground side by side, talking little, until sitting became lying, and they were gazing up through the treetops at a shifting kaleidoscope of leaf and sky. It wasn’t really a picnicky place, Nathan thought, unable to imagine anyone camped here with rug and hamper, eating ham sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. It was just meant for the trees, and tiny wild things too cunning or too cautious to be seen. He had a feeling he had been here before, or somewhere like it, perhaps in a dream of long ago, but the source of the memory eluded him and he was too happy to search for it. Once, he asked Nell: “Are we lost?”