Changeling (Illustrated) Read online

  CHANGELING

  Copyright © 1980 by Roger Zelazny Illustrations copyright © 1980 by Esteban Maroto

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  An ACE Book

  First Ace printing: June 1980 First mass market edition: April 1981

  2468097531 Manufactured in the United States of America

  This book is for Devin

  CHANGELING

  I.

  When he saw old Mor limp to the van of the besiegers’ main party, the Lord of Rondoval realized that his reign was about over.

  The day was fading fast behind storm clouds, a steady drizzle of cold rain descended and the thunder rolled nearer with each beat, with each dazzling stroke of light. But Det Morson, there on the main balcony of the Keep of Rondoval, was not yet ready to withdraw. He patted his face with his black scarf and ran a hand through his hair—frost-white and sparkling now, save for the wide black band that passed from his forehead to the nape of his neck.

  He withdrew the finely wrought scepter from his sash and held it with both hands, slightly above eye-level, at arm’s distance before him. He breathed deeply and spoke softly. The dragon-shaped birthmark on the inside of his right wrist throbbed.

  Below, a line of light crossed the path of the attackers, and flames grew upward from it to wave before them. The men fell back, but the centaur archers stood their ground and unleashed a flight of arrows in his direction. Det laughed as the winds beat them aside. He sang his battle-song to the scepter, and on the ground, in the air and under the earth, his griffins, basilisks, demons and dragons prepared themselves for the final assault.

  Yet, old Mor had raised his staff and the flames were already falling. Det shook his head, reflecting on the waste of talent.

  Det raised his voice and the ground shuddered. Basilisks emerged from their lairs and moved to stare upon his enemies. Harpies dove at them, screaming and defecating, their claws slashing. Werewolves moved in upon their flanks. On the cliffs high above, the dragons heard him and spread their wings . . . .

  But, as the flames died and the harpies were pierced by the centaurs’ shafts, as the basilisks—bathed in the pure light which now shone from Mor’s staff—rolled over and died, eyes tightly shut; as the dragons—the most intelligent of all—took their time in descending from the heights and then avoided a direct confrontation with the horde, which was even now resuming its advance, Det knew that the tide had turned, his vultures had come home to roost and history had surprised him in the outhouse, so to speak. There was no way to employ his powers for deliverance with old Mor out there monitoring every magical avenue of egress; and as for Rondoval’s physical exits, they were already blocked by the besiegers.

  He shook his head and lowered the scepter. There would be no parlaying, no opportunity for an honorable surrender—or even one of the other kind. It was his blood that they wanted, and he had a sudden premonition of acute anemia.

  With a final curse and a last glance at the attackers, he withdrew from the balcony. There was still a little time in which to put a few affairs into order and to prepare for the final moment. He dismissed the notion of cheating his enemies by means of suicide. Too effete for his tastes. Better to take a few of them along with him.

  He shook the rain from his cloak and hurried down the hallway. He would meet them on the ground floor.

  The thunder sounded almost directly overhead now. There were bright flashes beyond every window that he passed.

  Lady Lydia of Rondoval, dark hair undone behind her, turned the corner and saw the shadow slide into the doorway niche. Uttering a general banishing spell, appropriate to most unhuman wights likely to be wandering these halls, she made her way up the corridor.

  As she passed the opening, she glanced within and realized immediately why the spell had been somewhat less than efficacious. She confronted Mouseglove the thief—a small, dark man, clad in blackclothand leather—whom she had, until that moment, thought safely confined to a cell beneath the castle. He regained his composure quickly and bowed, smiling.

  “Charmed,” he said, “to meet m’lady in passage.”

  “How did you get out?” she asked.

  “With difficulty,” he replied. “They make tricky locks in these parts.”

  She sighed, clutching her small parcel more closely.

  “It appears,” she said, “that you have managed the feat just in time for it to prove your undoing. Our enemies are already battering at the main gate. They may even be through it by now.”

  “So that is what the noise is all about,” he said. “In that case, could you direct me to the nearest secret escape passage?”

  “I fear that they have all been blocked.”

  “Pity,” he said. “Would it then be impolite of me to inquire whence you are hastening with—Ah! Ah!”

  He clutched at his burned fingertips, immediately following an arcane gesture on the Lady Lydia’s part when he had reached toward the bundle she bore.

  “I am heading for a tower,” she stated, “with the hope that I can summon a dragon to bear me away—if there still be any about. They do not take well to strangers, however, so I fear there is nothing for you there. I—I am sorry.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Go,” he said. “Hurry! I can take care of myself. I always have.”

  She nodded, he bowed, and she hurried on. Sucking his fingers,Mouseglove turned back in the direction from which he had just come, his plan already formed. He, too, would have to hurry.

  As Lydia neared the end of the corridor, the castle began to shake. As she mounted the stair, the window on the landing above her shattered and the rain poured in. As she reached the second floor and moved toward the winding stairway to the tower, an enormous clap of thunder deafened her to the ominous creaking noise within the walls. But, had she heard it, she might still have ventured there.

  Partway up the stair, she felt the tower begin to sway. She hesitated. Cracks appeared in the wall. Dust and mortar fell about her. The stairway began to tilt . . . .

  Tearing her cloak from her shoulders, she wrapped it about her bundle as she turned and rushed back in the direction from which she had come.

  The angle of the stair declined, and now she could hear a roaring, grating sound all about her. Ahead, a portion of the ceiling gave way and water rushed in. Beyond that, she could see the entranceway sliding slowly upwards. Without hesitation, she drew back the bundle and cast it through the opening.

  The world gave way beneath her.

  As the forces of Jared Klaithe pounded into the main hall atRondoval over the bodies of its dark defenders, the lord Det emerged from a side passage, a drawn bow in his hands. He released an arrow which passed through Jared’s armor, breastbone and heart, in that order, dropping him in his tracks. Then he cast the bow aside and drew his scepter from his sash. He waved it in a slow circle above his head and the invaders felt an invisible force pushing them back.

  One figure moved forward. It was, of course, Mor. His illuminated staff turned like a bright wheel in his hands.

  “Your loyalty is misplaced, old man,” Det remarked. “This is not your fight.”

  “It has become so,” Mor replied. “You have tipped the Balance.”

  “Bah! The Balance was tipped thousands of years ago,” said the other, “in the proper direction.”

  Mor shook his head. The staff spun fester and faster before him, and he no longer appeared to be holding it.

/>   “I fear the reaction you may already have provoked,” he said, “let alone what might come to pass should you be permitted to continue.”

  “Then it must be between us two,” said Det, slowly lowering the scepter and pointing it.

  “It always was, was it not?” said Mor.

  The Lord of Rondoval hesitated for the barest moment. Then, “I suppose you are right,” he said. “But for this, be it upon your own head!”

  The scepter flared and a lance of brilliant red light leaped from it. Old Mor leaned forward as it struck full upon the shield his spinning staff had become. The light was instantly reflected upward to strike against the ceiling.

  With a roar that outdid the thunder, great chunks of masonry came loose to crash downward upon the Lord of Rondoval, crushing and burying him in an instant.

  Mor straightened. The wheel slowed, becoming a staff again. He leaned heavily upon it.

  As the echoes died within the hall the remaining sounds of battle came to a halt without. The storm, too, was drifting on its way, itslightnings abated, its thunders stilled in that instant.

  One of Jared’s lieutenants, Ardel, moved forward slowly and stood regarding the heap of rubble.

  “It is over,” he said, after a time. “We’ve won . . . .”

  “So it would seem,” Mor said.

  “There are still some of his men about—to be dealt with.”

  Mor nodded.

  “ . . . And the dragons? And his other unnatural servants?”

  “Disorganized now,” Mor said softly. “I will deal with them.”

  “Good. We—what is that noise?”

  They listened for several moments.

  “It could be a trick,” said one of the sergeants, Marakas by name.

  “Choose a detail. Go and find out. Report back immediately.”

  Mouseglove crouched behind the arras, near to the stairwell that led to the dark places below. His plan was to return to his cell and secure himself within it. A prisoner of Det’s would be about the only person on the premises likely to receive sympathetic treatment, he had reasoned. He had succeeded in making it this far on his journey back to duress when the gate had given way, the invaders entered and the sorcerous duel taken place. He had witnessed all of these things through a frayed place in the tapestry.

  Now, while everyone’s attention was elsewhere, would be the ideal time for him to slip out and head back down. Only . . . His curiosity, too, had been aroused. He waited.

  The detail soon returned with the noisy bundle. Sergeant Marakaswore a tense expression, held the baby stiffly.

  “Doubtless Det planned to sacrifice it in some nefarious rite, to assure his victory!” he volunteered.

  Ardel leaned forward and inspected. He raised the tiny right hand and turned it palm upwards.

  “No. It bears the family’s dragon-mark of power inside the right wrist,” he stated. “This is Det’s own offspring.”

  “Oh.”

  Ardel looked at Mor. But the old man was staring at the baby, oblivious to all else.

  “What should I do with it, sir?” Marakas asked.

  Ardel chewed his lip.

  “That mark,” he said, “means that it is destined to become a sorcerer. It is also a certain means of identification. No matter what the child might be told while it was growing up, sooner or later it would learn the truth. If that came to pass, would you like to meet a sorcerer who knew you had had a part in the death of his father and the destruction of his home?”

  “I see what you are getting at . . . ” said Marakas.

  “So you had best—dispose of—the baby.”

  The sergeant looked away. Then, “Suppose we sent it to some distant land where no one has ever heard of the House of Rondoval?” he asked.

  “ . . . Where one day there might come a traveler who knows this story? No. The uncertainty would, in many ways, be worse than a sureness of doom. I see no way out for the little thing. Be quick and merciful.”

  “Sir, could we not just cut off the arm? It is better than dying.”

  Ardel sighed.

  “The power would still be there,” he said,”arm or no arm. And there are too many witnesses here today. The story would be told, and it would but add another grievance. No. If you’ve no stomach for it yourself, there must be someone in the ranks who—“

  “Wait!”

  Old Mor had spoken. He shook himself as one just awakening and moved forward.

  “There may be a way,” he said, “a way to let the child live and to assure that your fears will never be realized.”

  He reached out and touched the tiny hand.

  “What do you propose?” Ardel asked him.

  “Thousands of years ago,” Mor began, “we possessed great cities and mighty machines as well as high magics—”

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Ardel said. “How does that help us now?”

  “They are more than just stories. The Cataclysm really occurred. Afterwards, we kept the magic and threw much of the rest away. It all seems so much legend now, but to this day we are biased against the unnatural tech-things.”

  “Of course. That is—”

  “Let me finish! When a major decision such as that is made, the symmetry of the universe demands that it go both ways. There is another world, much like our own, where they threw away the magic and kept the other. In that place, we and our ways are the stuff of legend.”

  “Where is this world?”

  Mor smiled.

  “It is counterpoint to the music of our sphere,” he said, “a single beat away. It it just around the corner no one turns. It is another forking of the shining road.”

  “Wizards’ riddles! How will this serve us? Can one travel to that other place?”

  “I can.”

  “Oh. Then . . . ”

  “Yes. Growing up in such a place, the child would have its life, but its power would mean little. It would be dismissed, rationalized, explained away. The child would find a different place in life than any it might have known here, and it would never understand, never suspect what had occurred.”

  “Fine. Do it then, if mercy can be had so cheaply.”

  “There is a price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That law of symmetry, of which I spoke—it must be satisfied if the exchange is to be a permanent one: a stone for a stone, a tree for atree . . . ”

  “A baby? Are you trying to say that if you take this one there, you must bring one of theirs back?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would we do with that one?”

  Sergeant Marakas cleared his throat.

  “My Mel and I just lost one,” he said. “Perhaps . . . ”

  Ardel smiled briefly and nodded.

  “Then it is cheap. Let it be done.”

  With the toe of his boot and a nod, Ardel then indicated Det’s fallen scepter.

  “What of the magician’s rod? Is it not dangerous?” he asked.

  Mor nodded, bent slowly and retrieved it from where it had fallen. He began to twist and tug at it, muttering the while.

  “Yes,” he finally said, succeeding in separating it into three sections. “It cannot be destroyed, but if I were to banish each segment to a point of the great Magical Triangle of Int, it may be that it will never be reclaimed. It would certainly be difficult.”

  “You will do this, then?”

  “Yes.”

  At that moment, Mouseglove slipped from behind the arras and down the stairwell. Then he paused, held his breath and listened for an outcry. There was none. He hurried on.

  When he reached the dimness of the great stair’s bottom, he turned right, took several paces and paused. They were not corridors, but rather natural tunnels that faced him. Had it been the one directly to the right from which he had emerged earlier? Or the other which angled off nearby? He had not realized that there were two in that vicinity . . .

  There came a noise from above. He chose the opening on t
he extreme right and plunged ahead. It was as dark as the route he had traversed earlier, but after twenty paces it took a sharp turn to the right which he did not recall.

  Still, he could not afford to go back now, if someone were indeed coming. Besides, there was a small light ahead . . .

  A brazier of charcoal glowed and smoked within an alcove. A bundle of faggots lay upon the floor nearby. He fed tinder into the brazier, blew upon it, coaxed it to flame. Shortly thereafter, a torch blazed in his hand. He took up several other sticks and continued on along the tunnel.

  He came to a branching. The lefthand way looked slightly larger, more inviting. He followed it. Shortly, it branched again. This time, he bore to the right.

  He gradually became aware of a downward sloping, thought that he felt a faint draft. There followed three more branchings and a honeycombed chamber. He had begun marking his choices with charcoal from the body of the torch, near to the righthand wall. The incline steepened, the tunnel twisted, widening. It came to bear less and less resemblance to a corridor.

  When he halted to light his second torch, he was aware that he had traveled much farther than he had on the way out earlier. Yet he feared returning along the way he had come. A hundred paces more, he decided, could do no harm . . .

  And when he had gone that distance, he stood at the mouth of a large, warm cavern, breathing a peculiar odor which he could not identify. He raised the torch high above him, but the further end of the vast chamber remained hidden in shadows. A hundred paces more, he told himself . . . .

  Later, when he had decided not to risk further explorations, but to retrace his route and take his chances, he heard an enormous clamor approaching. He realized that he could either throw himself upon the mercy of his fellow men and attempt to explain his situation, or hide himself and extinguish his light. His experience with his fellow men being what it had been, he looked about for an unobtrusive niche.

  And that night, the servants of Rondoval were hunted through the wrecked castle and slain. Mor, by his staff and his will, charmed the dragons and other beasts too difficult to slay and drove them into the great caverns beneath. There, he laid the sleep of ages upon everything within and caused the caverns to be sealed.