Lyonesse

Chapter 13

SHIMROD, SCION OF MERGEN THE MAGICIAN, early demonstrated an inner impulse of extraordinary strength, and in due course wandered beyond Murgen's control into autonomy.

The two were not obviously similar, save for competence, resource and a certain immoderacy of imagination, which in Shimrod evinced itself as an antic humor and a sometimes painful capacity for sentiment.

In appearance the two were even less alike. Murgen revealed himself as a strong white-haired man of indefinable age. Shimrod appeared as a young man with an almost ingenuous expression. He was spare, long of leg, with sandy-buff hair and hazel-gray eyes. His jaw was long, his cheeks somewhat concave, his mouth wide and twisted as if at some wry reflection.

After a time of loose-footed wandering Shimrod took up residence at Trilda, a manse on Lally Meadow, formerly occupied by Murgen, in the Forest of Tantrevalles, and there settled himself to the serious study of magic, using the books, patterns, apparatus and operators which Murgen had given into his custody.

Trilda was a congenial seat for intensive study. The air smelled fresh of foliage. The sun shone by day, the moon and stars by night. Solitude was near-absolute; ordinary folk seldom ventured so deep into the forest. Trilda had been built by Hilario, a minor magician of many quaint fancies. The rooms were seldom square and overlooked Lally Meadow through bay windows of many sizes and shapes. The steep roof, in addition to six chimneys, disposed itself in innumerable dormers, gables, ridges; and the highest verge supported a black iron weathercock, which served in double stead as a ghost-chaser.

Murgen had dammed the brook to create a pond; the overflow turned a wheel beside the workroom, where it powered a dozen different machines, including a lathe and a bellows for his hot-fire.

Halflings occasionally came to the edge of the forest to watch Shimrod when he went out on the meadow, but otherwise ignored him for fear of his magic.

The seasons passed; autumn turned to winter. Flakes of snow drifted down from the sky to shroud the meadow in silence. Shimrod kept his fires crackling and began an intensive study of Balberry's Abstracts and Excerpts, a vast compendium of exercises, methods, forms and patterns inscribed in antique or even imaginary languages. Using a lens fashioned from a sandestin's eye, Shimrod read these inscriptions as if they were plain tongue.

Shimrod took his meals from a cloth of bounty, which, when spread on a table, produced a toothsome feast. For entertainment he schooled himself in the use of the lute, a skill appreciated by fairies of Tuddifot Shee, at the opposite end of Lally Meadow, who loved music, though no doubt for the wrong reasons. Fairies constructed viols, guitars and grass-pipes of fine quality, but their music at best was a plaintive undisciplined sweetness, like the sound of distant windchimes. At worst they made a clangor of unrelated stridencies, which they could not distinguish from their best. Withal, they were the vainest of the vain. Fairy musicians, discovering that a human passerby had chanced to hear them, invariably inquired how he had enjoyed the music, and woe betide the graceless churl who spoke his mind, for then he was set to dancing for a period comprising a week, a day, an hour, a minute and a second, without pause. However, should the listener declare himself enraptured he might well be rewarded by the vain and gloating halfling. Often, when Shimrod played his lute, he found fairy creatures, large and small,* sitting on the fence, bundled in green coats with red scarves and peaked hats. If he acknowledged their presence, they offered fulsome approbation and asked for more music. On certain occasions fairy horn-players asked to play along with him; each time Shimrod made polite refusal; if he allowed such a duet he might find himself playing forever: by day, by night, across the meadow, in the treetops, higgledy-piggledy through thorn and thicket, across the moors, underground in the shees. The secret, so Shimrod knew, was never to accept the fairies' terms, but always to close the deal on one's own stipulations, otherwise the bargain was sure to turn sour.

*Fairies maintain no specific size indefinitely. When dealing with men they often appear the size of children, seldom larger. When caught unawares, they seem on occasion only four inches to a foot tall. The fairies themselves take no heed of size. See Glossary II. Fairies share with humans the qualities of malice, spite, treachery, envy and ruthlessness; they lack the equally human traits of clemency kindness, pity. The fairy sense of humor never amuses its victim.

One of those who listened as Shimrod played was a beautiful fairy maiden with flowing nut-brown hair. Shimrod tried to lure her into his house with the offer of sweetmeats. One day she approached and stood looking at him, mouth curved, eyes glinting with mischief. "And why would you wish me inside that great house of yours?"

"Shall I be truthful? I would hope to make love to you."

"Ah! But that is sweetness you should never try to taste, for you might become mad, and follow me forever making vain entreaties."

"'Vain', always and always? And you would cruelly deny me?"

"Perhaps."

"What if you discovered that warm human love was more pleasing than your birdlike fairy couplings? Then who would beseech and who would follow whom forever, making the vain entreaties of a love-sick fairy maid?"

The fairy screwed up her face in puzzlement. "That concept has never occurred to me."

"Then come inside and we shall see. First I will pour you wine of pomegranates. Then we will slip from our clothes and warm our skins by firelight."

"And then?"

"Then we will make the test to learn whose love is the warmer."

The fairy maiden pulled her mouth together in a pout of mock-outrage. "I should not flaunt before a stranger."

"But I am no stranger. Even now, when you look at me, you melt with love."

"I am frightened." Quickly she retreated and Shimrod saw her no more.

Spring arrived; the snows melted and flowers bedizened the meadow. One sunny morning Shimrod left his manse and wandered the meadow rejoicing in the flowers, the bright green foliage, the bird calls. He discovered a track leading north into the forest which he never before had noticed.

Under the oaks, thick-boled with sprawling branches, he followed the trail: back, forth, over a hillock, down into a dark glen, then up and through a clearing, walled with tall silver birches, sprinkled with blue corn-flowers. The way led up over an outcrop of black rocks, and now, through the forest, Shimrod heard laments and outcries, punctuated by a reverberant thudding sound. Shimrod ran light-footed through the woods, to discover among the rocks a tarn of black-green water. To the side a long-bearded troll, with an extravagantly large cudgel, beat a lank furry creature hanging like a rug on a line between a pair of trees. With every blow the creature cried out for mercy: ‘Stop! No more! You are breaking my bones! Have you no pity? You have mistaken me; this is clear! My name is Grofinet! No more! Use logic and reason!"

Shimrod moved forward. "Stop the blows!"

The troll, five feet tall and burly, jumped around in surprise. He lacked a neck; his head rested directly on the shoulders. He wore a dirty jerkin and trousers; a leather cod-piece encased a set of very large genitals.

Shimrod sauntered forward. "Why must you beat poor Grofinet?"

"Why does one do anything?" growled the troll. "From a sense of purpose! For the sake of a job well done!"

"That is a good response, but it leaves many questions unanswered," said Shimrod.

"Possibly so, but no matter. Be off with you. I wish to thrash this bastard hybrid of two bad dreams."

"It is all a mistake!" bawled Grofinet. "It must be resolved before damage is done! Lower me to the ground, where we can talk calmly, without prejudice."

The troll struck out with his cudgel. "Silence!"

In a frantic spasm Grofinet won free of the bonds. He scrambled about the clearing on long big-footed legs, hopping and dodging, while the troll chased after with his cudgel. Shimrod stepped forward and pushed the troll into the tarn. A few oily bubbles rose to the surface and the tarn was once more smooth.

"Sir, that was a deft act," said Grofinet. "I am in your debt!"

Shimrod spoke modestly: "Truly, no great matter."

"I regret that I must differ with you."

"Quite rightly," said Shimrod. "I spoke without thinking, and now I will bid you good day."

"One moment, sir. May I ask as to whom I am indebted?"

"I am Shimrod; I live at Trilda, a mile or so through the forest."

"Surprising! Few men of the human race visit these parts alone."

"I am a magician of sorts," said Shimrod. "The halflings avoid me." He looked Grofinet up and down. "I must say that I have never seen another like you. What is your sort?"

Grofinet replied in a rather lofty manner. "That is a topic which gentle-folk seldom see fit to discuss."

"My apologies! I intended no vulgarity. Once again, I bid you good day."

"I will conduct you to Trilda," said Grofinet. "These are dangerous parts. It is the least I can do."

"As vou wish."

The two returned to Lally Meadow. Shimrod halted. "You need come no farther. Trilda is only a few steps yonder."

"As we walked," said Grofinet, "I pondered. It came to me that I am much in your debt."

"Say nothing more," declared Shimrod. "I am happy to have ‘been of help."

"That is easy for you to say, but the burden weighs on my pride! I am forced to declare myself in your service, until the score is settled. Do not refuse; I am adamant! You need provide only my food and shelter. I will take responsibility for tasks which otherwise might distract you, and even perform minor magics."

"Ah! You are also a magician?"

"An amateur of the art, little more. You may instruct me further, if you like. After all, two trained minds are better than one. And never forget security! When a person intently looks forward, he leaves his backside unguarded!"

Shimrod could not shake Grofinet's resolution, and Grofinet became a member of the household.

At first Grofinet and his activities were a distraction; ten times in the first week Shimrod paused on the very verge of sending Grofinet away, but always drew back in the face of Grofinet's virtues, which were notable. Grofinet caused no irregularities and disturbed none of Shimrod's properties. He was remarkably tidy, and never out of sorts; indeed, Grofinet's high spirits caused the distractions. His mind was fertile and his enthusiasms came one upon the other. For the first few days Grofinet conducted himself with exaggerated diffidence; even so, while Shimrod strained to memorize the interminable lists in The Order of Mutables, Grofinet loped about the house talking to imaginary, or at least invisible, companions.

Presently Shimrod's exasperation became amusement, and he found himself looking forward to Grofinet's next outbreak of foolishness. One day Shimrod waved a fly from his work-table; at once Grofinet became the vigilant enemy of flies, moths, bees, and other winged insects, allowing them no trespass. Unable to catch them, he opened wide the front door, then herded the individual insect to the outdoors. Meanwhile a dozen others entered. Shimrod noticed Grofinet's efforts and worked a small bane upon Trilda, which sent every insect fleeing posthaste from the house. Grofinet was greatly pleased by his success.

At last, bored with boasting of his triumph over the insects, Grofinet developed a new caprice. He spent several days contriving wings of withe and yellow silk, which he strapped to his lank torso. Looking from his window Shimrod watched him running across Lally Meadow, flapping his wings and bounding into the air, hoping to fly like a bird. Shimrod was tempted to lift Grofinet by magic and flit him aloft. He controlled the whimsy lest Grofinet become dangerously elated and bring himself to harm. Later in the afternoon Grofinet attempted a great bound and fell into Lally Water. The fairies of Tuddifot Shee spent themselves in immoderate glee, rolling and tumbling, kicking their legs into the air. Grofinet threw aside the wings in disgust, and limped back to Trilda.

Grofinet next gave himself to the study of the Egyptian pyramids. "They are extraordinarily fine and a credit to the pharaohs!" declared Grofinet.

"Exactly so."

On the next morning Grofinet spoke farther on the subject. "These mighty monuments are fascinating in their simplicity."

"True."

"I wonder what might be their scope?"

Shimrod shrugged. "A hundred yards to the side, more or less, or so I suppose."

Later Shimrod observed Grofinet pacing out dimensions along Lally Meadow. He called out: "What are you doing?"

"Nothing of consequence."

"I hope you are not planning to build a pyramid! It would block the sunlight!"

Grofinet paused in his pacing. "Perhaps you are right." He reluctantly suspended his plans, but quickly discovered a new interest. During the evening Shimrod came into the parlor to light the lamps. Grofinet stepped from the shadows. "Now then, Sir Shimrod, did you see me as you passed?"

Shimrod's mind had been elsewhere, and Grofinet had stood somewhat back past his range of vision. "For a fact," said Shimrod, I utterly failed to see you."

"In that case," said Grofinet, "I have learned the technique of invisibility!"

"Wonderful! What is your secret?"

"I use the force of sheer will to put myself beyond perception!"

"I must learn this method."

"Intellectual thrust, pure and simple, is the key," said Grofinet, and added the warning: "If you fail, don't be disappointed. It is a difficult feat."

"We shall see."

The following day Grofinet experimented with his new sleight. Shimrod would call: "Grofinet! Where are you? Have you gone invisible again?" Whereupon Grofinet would step from a corner of the room in triumph.

One day Grofinet suspended himself from the ceiling beams of the workroom, on a pair of straps, to hang as if in a hammock. Shimrod, upon entering the room, might have noticed nothing, except that Grofinet had neglected to put up his tail, which dangled into the middle of the room, terminating in a tuft of tawny fur.

Grofinet at last decided to put by all his previous ambitions and to become a magician in earnest. To this end he frequented the workroom, to watch Shimrod at his manipulations. He was, however, intensely afraid of fire; whenever Shimrod, for one reason or another, excited a tongue of flame, Grofinet bounded from the room in a panic, and at last put by his plans to become a magician.

Midsummer's Eve drew near. Coincidentally a series of vivid dreams came to disturb Shimrod's sleep. The landscape was always the same: a terrace of white stone overlooking a beach of white sand and a calm blue sea beyond. A marble balustrade enclosed the terrace, and low surf broke into foam along the beach.

In the first dream Shimrod leaned on the balustrade, idly surveying the sea. Along the beach came walking a dark-haired maiden, in a sleeveless smock of a soft gray-brown cloth. As she approached, Shimrod saw that she was slender and an inch or so taller than medium stature. Black hair, caught in a twist of dark red twine, hung almost to her shoulders. Her arms and bare feet were graceful; her skin was a pale olive. Shimrod thought her exquisitely beautiful, with an added quality which included both mystery and a kind of provocation that, rather than overt, was implicit in her very existence. As she passed, she turned Shimrod a somber half-smile, neither inviting nor forbidding, then went along the beach and out of sight. Shimrod stirred in his sleep and awoke.

The second dream was the same, except that Shimrod called to the maiden and invited her to the terrace; she hesitated, smilingly shook her head and passed on.

On the third night, she halted and spoke: "Why do you call me, Shimrod?"

"I want you to stop, and at least talk with me."

The maiden demurred. "I think not. I know very little of men, and I am frightened, for I feel a strange impulse when I pass by."

On the fourth night, the maiden of the dream paused, hesitated, then slowly approached the terrace. Shimrod stepped down to meet her, but she halted and Shimrod found that he could approach her no more closely, which in the context of the dream seemed not unnatural. He asked: "Today will you speak to me?"

"I know of nothing to tell you."

"Why do you walk the beach?"

"Because it pleases me."

"Whence do you come and where do you go?"

"I am a creature of your dreams; I walk in and out of thought."

"Dream-thing or not, come closer and stay with me. Since the dream is mine, you must obey."

"That is not the nature of dreams." As she turned away, she looked over her shoulder, and when at last Shimrod awoke, he remembered the exact quality of her expression. Enchantment! But to what purpose?

Shimrod walked out on the meadow, considering the situation from every conceivable aspect. A sweet enticement was being laid upon him by subtle means, and no doubt to his eventual disadvantage. Who might work such a spell? Shimrod cast among the persons known to him, but none would seem to have reason to beguile him with so strangely beautiful a maiden.

He returned to the workroom and tried to cast a portent, but the necessary detachment failed him and the portent broke into a spatter of discordant colors.

He sat late in the workroom that night while a cool dark wind sighed through the trees at the back of the manse. The prospect of sleep brought him both misgivings and an uneasy tingle of anticipation which he tried to quell, but which persisted nevertheless. "Very well then," Shimrod told himself in a surge of bravado, "let us face up to the matter and discover where it leads."

He took himself to his couch. Sleep was slow in coming; for hours he twitched through a troubled doze, sensitive to every fancy which chose to look into his mind. At last he slept.

The dream came presently. Shimrod stood on the terrace; along the beach came the maiden, bare-armed and bare-footed, her black hair blowing in the sea-wind. She approached without haste. Shimrod waited imperturbably, leaning on the balustrade. To show impatience was poor policy, even in a dream. The maiden drew near; Shimrod descended the wide marble stairs.

The wind died, and also the surf; the dark-haired maiden halted and stood waiting. Shimrod moved closer and a waft of perfume reached him: the odor of violets. The two stood only a yard apart; he might have touched her.

She looked into his face, smiling her pensive half-smile. She spoke. "Shimrod, I may visit you no more."

"What is to stay you?"

"My time is short. I must go to a place behind the star Ach-ernar."

"Is this of your own will where you would go?"

"I am enchanted."

"Tell me how to break the enchantment!"

The maiden seemed to hesitate. "Not here."

"Where then?"

"I will go to the Goblins Fair; will you meet me there?"

"Yes! Tell me of the enchantment so that I may fix the counter-spell."

The maiden moved slowly away. "At the Goblins Fair." With a single backward glance she departed.

Shimrod thoughtfully watched her retreating form... From behind him came a roaring sound, as of many voices raised in fury. He felt the thud of heavy footsteps, and stood paralyzed, unable to move or look over his shoulder.

He awoke on his couch at Trilda, heart pumping and throat tight. The time was the darkest hour of the night, long before dawn could even be imagined. The fire had guttered low in the fireplace. All to be seen of Grofinet, softly snoring in his deep cushion was a foot and a lank tail.

Shimrod built up the fire and returned to his couch. He lay listening to sounds of the night. From across the meadow came a sad sweet whistle, of a bird awakened, perhaps by an owl.

Shimrod closed his eyes and so slept the remainder of the night.

The time of the Goblins Fair was close at hand. Shimrod packed all his magical apparatus, books, librams, philtres and operators into a case, upon which he worked a spell of obfuscation, so that the case was first shrunk, then turned in from out seven times to the terms of a secret sequence, so as finally to resemble a heavy black brick which Shimrod hid under the hearth.

Grofinet watched from the doorway in total perplexity. "Why do you do all this?"

"Because I must leave Trilda for a short period, and thieves will not steal what they cannot find."

Grofinet pondered the remark, his tail twitching first this way then that, in synchrony with his thoughts. "This, of course, is a prudent act. Still, while I am on guard, no thief would dare so much as to look in this direction."

"No doubt," said Shimrod, "but with double precautions our property is doubly safe."

Grofinet, had no more to say, and went outside to survey the meadow. Shimrod took occasion to effect a third precaution and installed a House Eye high in the shadows where it might survey household events.

Shimrod packed a small knapsack and went to issue final instructions to Grofinet, who lay dozing in the sunlight. "Grofinet, a last word!"

Grofinet raised his head. "Speak; I am alert."

"1 am going to the Goblins Fair. You are now in charge of security and discipline. No creature wild or otherwise is to be invited inside. Pay no heed to flattery or soft words. Inform one and all that this is the manse Trilda, where no one is allowed."

"I understand, in every detail," declared Grofinet. "My vision is keen; I have the fortitude of a lion. Not so much as a flea shall enter the house."

"Precisely correct. I am on my way."

"Farewell, Shimrod! Trilda is secure!"

Shimrod set off into the forest. Once beyond Grofinet's range of vision, he brought four white feathers from his pouch and fixed them to his boots. He sang out: "Feather boots, be faithful to my needs; take me where I will."

The feathers fluttered to lift Shimrod and slide him away through the forest, under oaks pierced by shafts of sunlight. Celandine, violets, harebells grew in the shade; the clearings were bright with buttercups, cowslips and red poppies.

Miles went by. He passed fairy shees: Black Aster, Catterlein, Feair Foiry and Shadow Thawn, seat of Rhodion, king of all fairies. He passed goblin houses, under the heavy roots of oak trees, and the ruins once occupied by the ogre Fidaugh. When Shimrod paused to drink from a spring, a soft voice called his name from behind a tree. "Shimrod, Shimrod, where are you bound?"

"Along the path and beyond," said Shimrod and started along the way. The soft voice came after him: "Alas, Shimrod, that you did not stay your steps, if only for a moment, perhaps to alter events to come!"

Shimrod made no reply, nor paused, on the theory that anything offered in the Forest of Tantrevalles must command an exorbitant price. The voice faded to a murmur and was gone.

He presently joined the Great North Road, an avenue only a trifle wider than the first, and bounded north at speed.

He paused to drink water where an outcrop of gray rock rose beside the way, and low green bushes laden with dark red riddleberries, from which fairies pressed their wine, were shaded by twisted black cypresses, growing in cracks and crevices. Shimrod reached to pick the berries, but, noting a flutter of filmy garments, he thought better of such boldness and turned back to the way, only to be pelted with a handful of berries. Shimrod ignored the impudence, as well as the trills and titters which followed.

The sun sank low and Shimrod entered a region of low rocks and outcrops, where the trees grew gnarled and contorted and the sunlight seemed the color of dilute blood, while the shadows were smears of dark blue. Nothing moved, no wind stirred the leaves; yet this strange territory was surely perilous and had best be put behind before nightfall; Shimrod ran north at great speed.

The sun dropped past the horizon; mournful colors filled the sky. Shimrod climbed to the top of a stony mound. He placed down a small box, which expanded to the dimensions of a hut. Shimrod entered, closed and barred the door, ate from the larder, then reclined on the couch and slept. He awoke during the night and for half an hour watched processions of small red and blue lights moving across the forest floor, then returned to his couch.

An hour later his rest was disturbed by the cautious scrape of fingers, or claws: first along the wall; then at his door, pushing and prying; then at the panes of the window. Then the hut thudded as the creature leapt to the roof.

Shimrod set the lamp aglow, drew his sword and waited.

A moment passed.

Down the chimney reached a long arm, the Color of putty. The fingers, tipped with little pads like the toes of a frog, reached into the room. Shimrod struck with his sword, severing the hand at the wrist. The stump oozed black-green blood; from the roof came a moan of dismal distress. The creature fell to the ground and once again there was silence.

Shimrod examined the severed member. Rings decorated the four fingers; the thumb wore a heavy silver ring with a turquoise cabochon. An inscription mysterious to Shimrod encircled the stone. Magic? Whatever its nature, it had failed to protect the hand.

Shimrod cut loose the rings, washed them well, tucked them into his pouch and returned to sleep.

In the morning Shimrod reduced the hut and proceeded along the trail, which stopped short on the banks of the River Tway; Shimrod crossed at a single bound. The trail continued beside the river, which at intervals widened into placid ponds reflecting weeping willows and reeds. Then the river swerved south and the trail once more north.

Two hours into the afternoon he arrived at the iron post which marked that intersection known as Twitten's Corner. A sign, The Laughing Sun and The Crying Moon hung at the door of a long low inn, constructed of rough-hewn timber. Directly below the sign a heavy door bound with iron clasps opened into the common-room of the inn.

Entering, Shimrod saw tables and benches to the left side, a counter to the right. Here worked a tall narrow-faced youth with white hair and silver eyes, and—so Shimrod surmised—a proportion of halfling blood in his veins.

Shimrod approached the counter. The youth came to serve him. "Sir?"

"I wish accommodation, if such is available."

"I believe that we are full, sir, owing to the fair; but you had best ask of Hockshank the innkeeper. I am the pot-boy and lack all authority."

"Be so good, then, as to summon Hockshank."

A voice spoke: "Who pronounces my name?"

From the kitchen came a man of heavy shoulders, short legs and no perceptible neck. Thick hair with much the look of old thatch covered the dome of his head; golden eyes and pointed ears again indicated halfling blood.

Shimrod responded: "I spoke your name, sir. I wish accommodation, but I understand that you may be full."

"That is more or less true. Usually I can supply all grades of accommodation, at varying prices, but now the choice is limited. What did you have in mind?"

"I would hope for a chamber clean and airy, without insect population, a comfortable bed, good food and low to moderate rates."

Hockshank rubbed his chin. "This morning one of my guests was stung by a brass-horned natrid. He became uneasy and ran off down the West Road without settling his account. I can offer you his chamber, along with good food, at moderate cost. Or you may share a stall with the natrid for a lesser sum."

"I prefer the room," said Shimrod.

"That would be my own choice," said Hockshank. "This way, then." He led Shimrod to a chamber which Shimrod found adequate to his needs.

Hockshank said, "You speak with a good voice and carry yourself like a gentleman; still, I detect about you the odor of magic."

"It emanates, perhaps, from these rings."

"Interesting!" said Hockshank. "For such rings I will trade you a high-spirited black unicorn. Some say that only a virgin may ride this creature, but never believe it. What does a unicorn care about chastity? Even were he so nice, how would he make his findings? Would maidens be apt to display the evidence so readily? I think not. We may dismiss the concept as an engaging fable, but no more."

"In any case, I need no unicorn."

Hockshank, disappointed, took his departure. "

Shimrod shortly returned to the common-room, where He took a leisurely supper. Other visitors to the Goblins Fair sat in small groups discussing their wares and transacting business. Little conviviality was evident; there was no hearty tossing back of beer, nor jests called across the room. Rather, the patrons bent low over their tables muttering and whispering, with suspicious glances darted to the side. Heads jerked back in outrage; eyeballs rolled toward the ceiling. There were quivering fists, sudden indrawn breaths, sibilant exclamations at prices considered excessive. These were dealers in amulets, talismans, effectuaries, curios and oddments, of value real or purported. Two wore the blue and white striped robes of Mauretania, another the coarse tunic of Ireland. Several used the flat accents of Ar-morica and one golden-haired man with blue eyes and blunt features might have been a Lombard or an Eastern Goth. A certain number displayed the signals of halfling blood: pointed ears, eyes of odd color, extra fingers. Few women were present, and none resembled the maiden Shimrod had come to meet.

Shimrod finished his supper, then went to his chamber where he slept undisturbed the night through.

In the morning Shimrod breakfasted upon apricots, bread and bacon, then sauntered without haste to the meadow behind the inn, which was already enclosed within a ring of booths.

For an hour Shimrod strolled here and there, then seated himself on a bench between a cage of beautiful young hobgoblins with green wings, and a vendor of aphrodisiacs.

The day passed without notable event; Shimrod returned to the inn.

The next day also was spent in vain, though the fair had reached its peak of activity. Shimrod waited without impatience; by the very nature of such affairs, the maiden would delay her appearance until Shimrod's restlessness had eroded his prudence—if indeed she elected to appear at all.

Midway through the afternoon of the third day, the maiden entered the clearing. She wore a long black cloak flared over a pale tan gown. The hood was thrown back to reveal a circlet of white and purple violets around her black hair. She looked about the meadow in a frowning reverie, as if wondering why she had come. Her gaze fell upon Shimrod, passed him by, then dubiously returned.

Shimrod rose to his feet and approached her. He spoke in a gentle voice: "Dream-maiden, I am here."

Sidelong, over her shoulder, she watched him approach, smiling her half-smile. Slowly she turned to face him. She seemed, thought Shimrod, somewhat more self-assured, more certainly a creature of flesh and blood than the maiden of abstract beauty who had walked through his dreams. She said: "I am here too, as I promised."

Shimrod's patience had been tried by the wait. He made a terse observation: "You came in no fury of haste."

The maiden showed only amusement. "I knew you would wait."

"If you came only to laugh at me, I am not gratified."

"One way or the other, I am here."

Shimrod considered her with analytical detachment, which she seemed to find irksome. She asked: "Why do you look at me so?"

"I wonder what you want of me."

She shook her head sadly. "You are wary. You do not trust me."

"You would think me a fool if I did."

She laughed. "Still, a gallant reckless fool."

"I am gallant and reckless to be here at all."

"You were not so distrustful in the dreaming."

"Then you were dreaming too when you walked along the beach?"

"How could I enter your dreams unless you were in mine? But you must ask no questions. You are Shimrod, I am Melancthe; we are together and that defines our world."

Shimrod took her hands and drew her a step closer; the odor of violets suffused the air between then. "Each time you speak you reveal a new paradox. How could you know to call me Shimrod? I named no names in my dreams."

Melancthe laughed. "Be reasonable, Shimrod! Is it likely that I should wander into the dream of someone even whose name I did not know? To do so would violate the precepts of both politeness and propriety."

"That is a marvelous and fresh viewpoint," said Shimrod. "I am surprised that you dared so boldly. You must know that in dreams propriety is often disregarded."

Melancthe tilted her head, grimaced, jerked her shoulders, as might a silly young girl. "I would take care to avoid improper dreams."

Shimrod led her to a bench somewhat apart from the traffic of the fair. The two sat half-facing, knees almost touching.

Shimrod said: "The truth and all the truth must be known!"

"How so, Shimrod?"

"If I may not ask questions, or—more accurately—if you give me no answers, how can I not feel uneasiness and distrust in your company?"

She leaned half an inch toward him and he again noticed the scent of violets. "You came here freely, to meet someone you had known only in your dreams. Was this not an act of commitment?"

"In a certain sense. You beguiled me with your beauty. I gladly succumbed. I yearned then as I do now, to take such fabulous beauty and such intelligence for my own. In coming here I made an implicit pledge, in the realm of love. In meeting me here, you also made the same implicit pledge."

"I spoke neither pledge nor promise."

"Nor did I. Now they must be spoken by both of us, so that all things may be justly weighed."

Melancthe laughed uncomfortably and moved on the bench. "The words will not come to my mouth. I cannot speak them. Somehow I am constrained."

"By your virtue?"

"Yes, if you must have it so."

Shimrod reached and took her hands in his. "If we are to be lovers, then virtue must stand aside."

"It is more than virtue alone. It is dread."

"Of what?"

"I find it too strange to talk about."

"Love need not be dreadful. We must relieve you of this fear."

Melancthe said softly: "You are holding my hands in yours."

"Yes."

"You are the first to hold me."

Shimrod looked into her face. Her mouth, rose-red on the pale olive of her face, was fascinating in its flexibility. He leaned forward and kissed her, though she might have turned her head to avoid him. He thought her mouth trembled under his.

She drew away. "That meant nothing!"

"It meant only that as lovers we kissed each other."

"Nothing truly happened!"

Shimrod shook his head in perplexity. "Who is seducing whom? If we are working to the same ends, there is no need for so many cross-purposes."

Melancthe groped for a reply. Shimrod pulled her close and would have kissed her again, but she pulled away. "First you must serve me."

"In what fashion?"

"It is simple enough. In the forest nearby a door opens into the otherwhere Irerly. One of us must go through this door and bring back thirteen gems of different colors, while the other guards the access."

"That would seem to be dangerous work. At least for whomever enters Irerly."

"That is why I came to you." Melancthe rose to her feet. "Come, I will show you."

"Now?"

"Why not? The door is yonder through the forest."

"Very well, then; lead the way."

Melancthe, hesitating, looked askance at Shimrod. His manner was altogether too easy. She had expected beseechments, protests, stipulations and attempts to force her into commitments which so far she felt she had evaded. "Come then."

She took him away from the meadow and along a faint trail into the forest. The trail led this way and that, through dappled shade, past logs supporting brackets and shelves of archaic fungus, beside clusters of celandines, anemones, monks-hood and harebells. Sounds faded behind them and they were alone.

They came to a small glade shadowed under tall birch, alders and oaks. An outcrop of black gabbro edged up from among dozens of white amaryllis, to become a low crag with a single steep face. Into this face of black rock an iron-bound door had been fitted.

Shimrod looked around the clearing. He listened. He searched sky and trees. Nothing could be seen or heard.

Melancthe went to the door. She pulled at a heavy iron latch, drew it ajar, to display a wall of blank rock.

Shimrod watched from a little distance with a polite if detached interest.

Melancthe looked at him from the corner of her eye. Shimrod's unconcern seemed most peculiar. From her cape Melancthe brought a curious hexagonal pattern, which she touched to the center of the stone, where it clung. After a moment the stone dissolved to become luminous mist. She stood back and turned to Shimrod. "There is the gap into Irerly."

"And a fine gap it is. There are questions I must ask if I am to guard effectively. First, how long will you be gone? I would not care to shiver here all night through."

Melancthe, turning, approached Shimrod and put her hands on his shoulders. The odor of violets came sweetly across the air. "Shimrod, do you love me?"

"I am fascinated and obsessed." Shimrod put his arms around her waist and drew her close. "Today it is too late for Irerly. Come, we will return to the inn. Tonight you will share my chamber, and much else besides."

Melancthe, with her face three inches from his, said softly, "Would you truly wish to learn how much I could love you?"

"That is exactly what I have in mind. Come! Irerly can wait."

"Shimrod, do this for me. Go into Irerly and bring me thirteen spangling jewels, each of a different color, and I will guard the passage."

"And then?"

"You will see."

Shimrod tried to take her to the turf. "Now."

"No, Shimrod! After!"

The two stared eye to eye, Shimrod thought, I dare press her no further; already I have forced her to a statement.

He closed his fingertips against an amulet and spoke between his teeth the syllables of a spell which had lain heavy in his mind, and time separated into seven strands. One strand of the seven lengthened and looped away at right angles, to create a temporal hiatus; along this strand moved Shimrod, while Melancthe, the clearing in the forest and all beyond remained static.