Part 29 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+ver 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, brandis.h.i.+ng 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.