Books of Barakhai - The Beasts of Barakhai"Huh?"
Collins wished he had not interrupted. "Never mind. Go on."
Zylas dutifully continued. "I've tried to go there in human form, but I can't get through."
Collins narrowed his eyes in innocent perplexity. He studied his companion. "But you're not any bigger than I am, and I fit through all right. Easily, in fact."
"From there to here."
Collins considered Zylas' words, realization accompanied by a shiver of discomfort. "Are you telling me it's a one-way door?"Zylas lowered his face fully into the shadows of his hat. "Only for humans."
"But I'm always ..." The significance finally penetrated. "You mean ..." Collins trailed off, then tried again. "No one can get from Barakhai to my world in human form." He looked at Zylas for confirmation; but, if the albino gave him any, he did not see it. "The people you brought here couldn't . . ." He remembered Zylas telling him that all of the others immediately looked for a way back to the lab rather than wandering off seeking food. No wonder Zylas had not had to worry about how long it took him to switch to human form in Barakhai. Those he lured to Barakhai became trapped. Trapped. I'm trapped here. I can't ever go back. The enormity of that realization froze his thoughts. He could not even contemplate the unlived future he no longer had in America.
Zylas waited long enough for the full force of understanding to seep in. "That's why the royals have not managed to find the portal."
Even when Carrie Quinton tried to lead them there. Of course, she thought she went to the wrong ruins when she couldn't go anywhere from there. Collins squeezed out the words. "I'm . . .
trapped . . . here?" He turned a bug-eyed stare onto Falima. "I'm here forever." All at once, the details of that simple statement crashed down around him. A list of "no-mores" filled his mind: friends, family, competent medical care, telephones, clean clothes, indoor plumbing, electric lights, heat, air-conditioning, Sony Play Station, pizza . . .
"You're not trapped. Once I get the crystal ..."
. . . email and instant messaging, real beds, blankets, James Bond movies, CDs . . .
"... Prinivere can definitely get you home. In fact, she managed to get the first guy I brought here home without it, though she hasn't had the strength for it since."
Yeah, Collins remembered. Home to the nut house. "She can?" His monotone delivery revealed no hope; the claim sounded suspiciously familiar. Wait a minute. "You're playing me again, aren't you?"
Zylas jerked. "What?"
"Telling me the only way to get what I want is to do what you want first. That's how you got me to the castle in the first place."
"But this time I'm not asking you to do anything."
"You're trying to get me to go with you."
"Only if you want to. I'm perfectly willing to go alone."
Korfius and Falima remained tensely silent throughout an exchange that could only end in stalemate.
"I'll bet," Collins mumbled, a statement clearly well-understood by Zylas, who had picked up most of his English by listening to American conversations.
"Fine," Zylas huffed. "I wouldn't have you along with me if you begged."
Falima rolled a wild gaze to Collins, who had won the argument but surely lost the war. When neither of the men spoke again, she softly added, "Shouting at one another won't get at the truth."
Collins folded his arms across his chest.
"Ben, if you don't believe Zylas, why don't the two of you go back to the ruins and try? Either you'll get what you want or you'll find yourself trapped. Then, at least, you'll know."
Zylas' stiff posture eased. "I'm willing. You?"
Collins pictured them struggling through days of woodland * travel, dodging hounds and horses, only to stand frustrating inches from the doorway that should take him home. Carrie Quinton's inability to return should corroborate the claim well enough, and the details did finally seem to fit together. "Well . .
."He gave Falima a corner of the eye glance, certain a full look would make him agree to whatever she requested. "... you know you're still under oath. You swore to G.o.d with sugar on top. We shared spit and a handshake. If you break that promise, the powers-that-be here will strike you down." That hardly seemed a threat given Zylas' willing death mission, so he added, "And all those you care about, too."
Zylas' grin returned. "Can't have that happening. Want me to restate my vow?"
"Not necessary." Collins tried to sound matter-of-fact. "You promised not to lie to me, and you're still fully bound by that promise, you know."
"All right," Zylas agreed. His nostrils flared. "But only to you, right? I mean, I can still lie to the king's guards if I need to.""Of course." It seemed ludicrous to talk about how Zylas could not lie to him while Collins maintained the illusionary significance of a nonsensical ritual he had only cobbled together to fool Vernon. "The first action Prinivere takes with that stone is to make me a portal?"
"First thing," Zylas agreed, holding out his hand to show he remembered he was still bound by his promise.
"And you know d.a.m.ned well I'm going with you." Collins tried to match Zylas' grin, though he felt anything but confident and strong. "Don't worry. I won't beg."
Falima loosed a relieved sigh. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much."
Zylas turned toward Falima, the smile that talk of the vow had raised turning c.o.c.ksure and insolent. "I told you I chose well this time."
Falima did not argue. "And thank goodness you did."
Tattered and filthy, doing his best imitation of a hunted man, Benton Collins arrived at the outer gatehouse of the king's curtain wall. Guards peered at him over the ramparts, and the drawbridge ratcheted downward before he could utter a word. No sooner had the wood slapped the ground, then a contingent of six guards scurried to greet him, their expressions screwed up in concern and anxiety, their movements as jerky and skittish as a mother hen's. "Are you all right?" one asked.
Feigning a slight limp, Collins waved them off. "Fine. Escaped. Need to see ... Carrie. And, if possible, the king."
The guards ushered Collins into the gatehouse more with their own forward movement than any particular words or guidance. Trying to look exhausted and pained, he tottered along with them, caught up in the motion. "His Majesty insisted we take you directly to the dining hall if we found you. We're glad you returned, Sire."
Sire? Collins wondered what the king had told them, then realized the obvious. The guards would all know by now that he had entered the upper quarters; which, to them, meant he had to be properly blooded, if distant, royalty.
Collins allowed them to fuss over him, through the second gatehouse, to the palace door, and up to the dining area. Someone must have rushed ahead for, when he arrived, the head table contained the king, Carrie Quinton, and a handful of other privileged guests. Her blonde hair hung in long ringlets, framing a face of beauty more exquisite than he had remembered. His escort joined the spa.r.s.e array of servants at the common tables, surely more interested in observing his welcome than in eating. Maids still fussed over some of the furniture, suggesting that a meal had recently ended.
At the sight of him, Quinton rushed out from behind the table. "Ben, Ben!" She caught him into an embrace that thrilled through him, stirring an excitement he had not antic.i.p.ated. He struggled to maintain his aura of fatigued relief as his body betrayed him. The hug became awkward as he found himself fixated on which parts of his body touched hers . . . and where. "You're all right. How did you . . . Did they make you . . . ?" She stopped speaking, withdrawing from his arms, ready to lead him to the head table.
"Sit. Eat. Get your strength back, then talk." She ushered him toward the table.
Collins dragged after Quinton, surrept.i.tiously adjusting his clothing, for once glad the linen hung loose on his narrow frame. He cursed the adolescent hormones that allowed a pretty girl to distract him from a life-or-death mission. On the other hand, he realized that, if he played this right, he could succeed at his task and win Carrie Quinton.
Quinton indicated the chair between her own and the king's. As surprised as unnerved by the honor, Collins glanced at King Terrin. The bearded face split in a welcoming grin, and he patted the indicated seat. "We're so glad you managed to get away. Did they hurt you?"
"Your Majesty," Quinton said as she sat, a hint of warning in her tone. "Please let the poor man catch his breath before you quiz him."
The smile remained in place, genuine, taking no offense at his young adviser's presumptuousness. "Of course, Carrie. You're quite right." He clapped his hands. Servants scurried to him, brandishing napkins, gla.s.ses, and bottles to fulfill the as yet unspoken command. "Bring a plate of food for our new arrival and anyone else who wishes it. Wine for me and the others."
A broad-faced redhead immediately distributed gla.s.ses, while a tall, thin man filled each one asquickly as she set them down. Others hurried toward the door.
Though Collins wanted to put off any questioning as long as possible, he thought it best to toss off a few crumbs. He addressed the king's question. "The fall off the wall hurt a lot, Sire. I was unconscious for the trip, so I'm not sure where they took me. Later, they gave me something that made me sleep and moved me again; but I woke up and managed to escape. They were chasing me." He plastered a stricken look on his face. "Did they ... did they ... did your guards manage ... to catch them?"
King Terrin shook his head. "We tried, but the rebels slunk away like the cowards they are."
Thank G.o.d. Collins tried to display the exact opposite of the relief he felt.
The king patted Collins' hand with a palm the size of a bear paw. "They won't bother you anymore; we'll see to that."
"Thank you." Genuinely thirsty, Collins picked up his winegla.s.s in a deliberately shaky hand and downed half of the contents in a swallow. Smooth and rich with the flavor of berries, it soothed his dry throat as well as serving as a vehicle for nervousness he no longer had to wholly fake. Necessarily vague, the plan did not antic.i.p.ate an immediate meal with King Terrin. He had expected a chance to corner Quinton first, to spend some time convincing her to hand over the crystal she still wore around her neck.
Zylas had a.s.sured him the rebels had a few spies placed within the curtain walls who might sacrifice their cover if the situation demanded it. At Collins' request, they would use the code word "storm" so he could identify or call for them, if necessary. The albino had also warned him to try not to let the royals lead him to the upper stories where none of the rebels could a.s.sist if something went awry.
"So," Terrin asked, not-quite-casually. "Could you describe the rebels you saw?"
Collins nearly spat out his wine. He forced himself to hold it, though a trickle eased down his windpipe. He managed to swallow the rest before a racking spasm of coughs overtook him. He hacked for several moments, sucked in a long breath that sounded more like a wheeze, then lapsed into another fusillade.
Quinton sprang to her feet, patting Collins between the shoulder blades. "Are you all right?"
Collins held up a hand to indicate he did not require her a.s.sistance. That's all I need. A chestful of Heimlich-broken ribs to expel a molecule of liquid. "I'm fine," he rasped, wishing he sounded it. He cleared his throat, loosed a few more coughs, then regained control. "Sorry, Sire." He sounded as much hoa.r.s.e as mortified. "Went down the wrong pipe."
King Terrin smiled, lightening the mood in much the same way Collins might have done in other circ.u.mstances. "I know I'm the king and people jump to my command, but you're permitted to swallow anything in your mouth before answering questions." The smile spread. "In fact, I encourage it."
Picturing people displaying their half-chewed food, Collins could not help smiling, too. "I'll keep that in mind, Sire." He found the t.i.tle coming much easier than it had in the past. The king's easygoing manner comforted, and Collins wished he had a way to reason with him rather than lie. He shook off the temptation. The king had good reason to treat Collins well: not only to extract information about Zylas and the others but for scientific advice and, in the future, perhaps even trips to his own world to fetch items of use. Having little pieces of technology would make the king even more powerful than his half-animal subjects, and Terrin had reason to believe Collins might know how to get there and back. He knew the king had another side. He had suffered the royal anger and the results of a chase that had sent him tumbling down the steps, followed by a day and night in the dungeon. He believed and trusted Zylas.
G.o.d, I hope I'm not wrong.
At that moment, a servant returned carrying a loaded plate, which he set in front of Collins along with utensils. It felt good to hold a fork again, even one as crudely made as the steel monstrosity he took into his hand. The plate contained a cooked fruit compote with sweet spices, roasted roots cut into cross sections, and a flaky fish chowder. Possibly hungry enough to even eat bugs, he devoured the food, unable to worry about manners. The king and Carrie Quinton exchanged glances that Collins believed were sympathetic. Likely, they believed the rebels had starved him. Though not true, the fare had been meager and coa.r.s.e compared with what he had before him now. He could get used to food like this.
When Collins had devoured every bite, he finally turned over his attention to the king. "Please excuse me, Sire. I was famished. And the food . . ."He could not think of a suitably complimentary word."Wonderful. Better than wonderful. Delicious." Oh, yeah. That made it clearer. He continued babbling, "Just the best."
"Thank you," Terrin said simply.
Needing time to consider strategy, Collins took advantage of his deliberately ragged appearance.
"Would you mind if I had some rest before we talk?"
The king stiffened for a moment, then regained his casual demeanor. Catching Collins' eye, he explained his discomfort, "The sooner we get after those rebels, the less time they have to hide."
"I won't take too long." Collins bluffed a yawn, stretching sleepily. "But I really need a bit of sleep to think clearly." The absurdity of his own statement struck him; he remembered cramming till morning on some of his most important tests.
The king gestured at Quinton. "Would you mind, Carrie?"
"Not at all." Quinton rose gracefully. "Come with me, Ben."
Collins' heart rate quickened, and he could scarcely believe his luck. The king had arranged the exact situation he needed, some time alone with Carrie Quinton. He rose, almost forgetting to appear tired in his excitement. The torchlight struck silver highlights through the thick, golden cascade of hair, and he could not help imagining the silky feel of it through his fingers. He followed her from the room to the spiral staircase, and she started up.
Eyes traveling to the muscular roundness of her b.u.t.t, it took Collins a moment to recognize their destination. "Are we headed for . . . royal chambers."
Quinton glanced at him over her shoulder. "Of course."
Remembering Zylas' warning, Collins remained in place. "Won't we be intruding?"
Quinton laughed. "Intruding? Intruding on what? We've spoken up here before, remember?"
Collins remembered. He also recalled swords hacking at him as he tumbled down the stairs. "Of course," he said. "I just didn't want to be presumptuous." He covered with a smile. "Being rude to royalty can be fatal."
Quinton dismissed the comment with a wave. She descended a step and offered her hand. "Come on, you goof. You're royalty."
"I am?" Collins accepted Quinton's smooth, soft hand.
"For all intents and purposes." Quinton started back upward, Collins now walking at her side. He studied her in the light of the bracketed torches, scarcely daring to believe a woman so beautiful would allow him to keep her hand so long. Too much protestation would raise suspicions, and it did not seem so dangerous to enter the warded areas with only Carrie Quinton. "You've heard 'it's good to be the king?' Well, it's even better to be the king's adviser. Same good food, same comforts, same deferences-none of the responsibilities. They don't even expect you to be right all that often."
They reached the next landing and continued upward. Collins digested the explanation. "But don't you miss chocolate?" His own craving for something sweet tainted the question.
"They have chocolate."
"They do?"
"The royals do. I'll get you some."
Nearly distracted from his point, Collins continued as they walked. "What about fast food?"
Quinton turned him a searching look. "You mean lumps of grease doused in ketchup?"
Collins felt his cheeks grow warm. "Well, yeah. Stuff like that."
"No." Quinton winked. "But I can get the cook to fry you up some salted lard and slap it between two hunks of white bread." She clapped her free hand down on their joined grip to simulate a sandwich.
"Primitive Whopper."
"Gee, thanks."
"Seriously, most of the fun of fast food is speed and not having to cook it yourself. Here, I don't ever have to cook again, or I can if I want to. I get what I want when I want it. And I still get things 'my way' if I request them."
They paused on the next landing, and Collins noticed that the stairs continued upward for at least two more stories. Thinking back, the extension had been there the last time Quinton and King Terrin hadbrought him here, but he had not thought to question. He could not recall Zylas' explanation; their lessons on the layout of the castle seemed like a year ago, and he had taken more than one blow to the head since then.
Hand on the door latch, Quinton waited. "You're not expecting to sleep on the roof, are you?"
Torn from his scrutiny, Collins glanced at Quinton. "What?"
"Next stop's the roof ramparts, for the lookout guards. Then the top of the tower."
Now, Collins remembered discussing the fact that some guards might climb the stairs past the royal areas to access their positions. Zylas had even mentioned the steps ending in a trapdoor that led to the top of one tower. "Oh." Duh.
Quinton tripped the latch and pushed the door open to reveal a large bedroom. Tapestries hung from every wall. The first depicted a forest, with deer grazing placidly among a vast variety of trees, birds and squirrels cavorting in the branches, a rabbit peering timidly around a weathered oak. Another showed a pasture full of a mixed herd of animals. Horses raced regally through the background, a cow lumbering behind them. Sheep and goats filled most of the foreground. The third wall contained a picture of a young boy herding a flock of geese, ducks, and chickens. The last held a portrait of a ginger tabby cat stretched luxuriously on a canopied bed. A real bed, looking very much like the one in the picture, took up most of the middle of the room. Tied back with golden ta.s.sels, emerald-colored curtains surrounded a mattress clotted with woolen blankets. A blue ceiling harbored a realistic arrangement of painted stars. A beautifully carved wardrobe and a matching wooden chest completed the furnishings.
While Collins admired the bedroom, Quinton borrowed a torch from the stairwell to light the ones on either side of the room. She replaced the torch, closed the door, and sat on the bed. Shoving aside the bunched blankets, she patted a spot next to her. "Welcome to my room."
Collins approached. "It's wonderful." Wanting to remind her of their similar backgrounds, and his own sense of observation, he said, "I particularly like the night sky. I see Orion, so it must be fall."
"Yup."
Collins continued to stare. "You know, the pattern's a bit different here. How'd you get it so close to ours?"