“Yes, sire, though of a higher order than usual. Once the spell is broken, the castle will revert to whatever it was before it was transformed.”
“What would that be?”
“I do not know, sire.”
There was a moment of silence. Vorn glanced around the table, then looked at Osmirik. “Is that all?”
“His Royal Highness requested brevity,” Althair said with a snicker.
Vorn ignored him. To Osmirik, he said, “Continue.”
“Sire?”
“You have no idea what the castle would revert to?”
“Most likely the Stone itself and a pile of rubble. Or it may be that Castle Perilous is a transmogrified conventional castle. There is no historical evidence to support this supposition, but it may be true nonetheless.”
“We know,” Dax said, “that the castle has existed for the last three thousand years. The written record goes back no farther.”
“However, there are legends, my lord,” Osmirik said.
“Legends?” Vorn brought a meaty hand up to scratch his trimmed black beard. “What do they say?”
“Legend has it,” Osmirik said, “that the ancient home of the Haplodites, of whose line Incarnadine is, was far to the south, in another part of the Western Pale. Indeed, there are ruins in that region such that, if one undertakes a comparative analysis of architectural styles —”
“Which I hope we will not do this moment …”
“No, sire.”
“The upshot, scribe. The upshot.”
“The upshot, sire, is that it may very well be that Castle Perilous is the only edifice ever to have existed on this site.”
“In which case, once the spell is broken, the place becomes a pile of rocks. Is that it?”
“Perhaps, sire. Perhaps not.”
Vorn scowled. “Is it possible to get an answer from you that does not twist three ways at once?”
“Of course, sire. However, when —”
“Enough!” Vorn took a long drink from his gold chalice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why must there be a Spell Stone at all? Suppose the castle is real, in and of itself?”
“Impossible,” Dax said. “Its sheer bulk alone …”
Vorn looked at Osmirik. “You agree?”
“Yes, sire. It has long been taken for granted that Castle Perilous must be a magical construct. Human instrumentality alone could not account for its existence. The technique of construction by magic has long been known, but has been rarely practiced. Spells are tenuous things — most are, that is. People are loath to live in dwellings held up by a magician’s skill alone. As a result, the art has been lost over the years. Castle Perilous is doubtless a product of the craft at its highest level of advancement.”
“I see.” Vorn turned his head to Lady Melydia. “My lady. Forgive me if I bring up an indelicate matter …”
Melydia smiled mirthlessly. “You are forgiven. Your Highness. Since I was once betrothed to Incarnadine, you wish to know if I can confirm the Spell Stone’s existence. I cannot. Incarnadine never mentioned it. And though I stayed at Castle Perilous on many occasions as a Guest, I do not know where it is located.”
“I, too, have been a Guest,” Althair said. “I even asked him about it once. He took great pains to avoid answering.”
“It must be found,” Dax said.
“Now,” Vorn said, “let me ask this. Why can we not simply find Incarnadine and induce him to tell us where it is?”
“You could spend a lifetime trudging through that monstrosity,” Althair said dyspeptically.
“Sire, the castle is also known as the House of 144,000 Aspects. It contains gateways to other worlds, other planes of existence. Incarnadine could slip through any one of them to elude us.”
“May he not already have slipped away?” Vorn asked.
“Yes, sire, that is very possible. However, it was my impression that the object of this campaign was not Lord Incarnadine’s capture —”
“We are not interested in your impressions, scribe,” Melydia said.
“No, my lady.”
“Why not forget the Spell Stone,” Vorn went on, “and simply look for the treasure room?”
“That, too, would be difficult to locate,” Osmirik answered. “But if His Royal Highness would permit me an opinion, I would agree that this would be the best —”
“That is enough,” Melydia said.
Vorn looked at Melydia, eyes a trifle suspicious. “Is there something …?”
“A scholar’s daydreams, sire. He’ll propose a dozen different theories, then take the negative and argue each one into absurdity. It is naught but casuistry.”
“I merely meant to add, my lady, that —”
“You will be silent!”
Vorn, on unsure ground, stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“I would be interested, Lady Melydia, in what he has to say.”
Melydia sighed. She inserted an index finger between her cheek and the white cloth of her wimple, letting air in. “Forgive me,” she said, her hands going up to her pie-shaped orange hat to adjust it. “This man is a member of my household. I must put up with his convoluted gibberish and insubordination on a daily basis.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Yes, yes, by all means … go on.”
Osmirik stiffened. “Thank you, my lady. There are other legends concerning Castle Perilous. One of them has to do with the jewel known as the Brain of Ramthonodox.”
“Ah, yes, the jewel,” Vorn said, smiling. “It would likely be in the treasure room, would it not?”
“I do not know, sire. I do know that the name Ramthonodox appears in certain ancient writings —”
“Musty books he has his nose stuck in all day,” Melydia said.
“Yes, my lady. In one particular volume, the Archegonion, or The Book of the Most Ancient of Days — a compendium of classical texts in fragmentary form — one reads of a day long past, when the earth and the men who dwelt in it were subject to the depredations of great demons. It was a time of fear and desolation, when men scratched out a miserable existence in a world of waste and ruin.”
“Yes, yes,” Vorn said impatiently. “We have similar legends in the East. Go on.”
“The name Ramthonodox appears at various points in the texts. Unfortunately, the references are not clear, due to difficulties in translation. The original Tryphosite codices have been lost. All we have is an early Zamathian translation. However, in marginalia added to copies of the Zamathian codex done about fifteen hundred years ago, we find —”
Vorn struck the table with a mailed fist. “Get to the point!”
“Yes, sire. There are also references to —”
From inside the barbican there came a terrific sound like a clap of thunder. There were shouts and general commotion. Then, men screaming in agony.
Silence at the table.
“They have found our mine,” Dax said.
Vorn nodded grimly. The three men rose and walked solemnly out of the tent.
Melydia stood up slowly, turned and faced Osmirik, drawing up to him until the tip of her nose fairly met his.
“You think the art of colossal transmogrification lost?”
Her breath was hot on his face. “Not quite, my lady.”
“True, it is not. I have it, and I will transmogrify you into a mountain of pig shit if you vomit forth any more of your bookish nonsense!”
“My —”
“Silence!”
Osmirik’s body went slack. He took a deep breath.
“I have warned you before, and I do so now again.” Melydia stepped back. “Take heed, scribe.”
She turned and left.
Osmirik’s face grew pensive. He paced the length of the tent for a while, then halted.
“Library,” he said in a whisper. “The library …”