Yes.
With the pronunciation of my name I was immediately aware of who and what I was:
I am the Curse of Rondoval (a technical term, that), existing to defend both the premises and the members of the House, and failing that, to avenge them.
I look upon it as a challenging, exciting and wonderful occupation.
It is with extreme gratitude that I now consider the fact that Det Morson, hard-pressed as he was there at the end, yet managed to find time for the creation of a good Curse.
As I watched Henry Spier and Vonnie swaying and staggering back and forth, hurling their remaining energies through intricate and deceptive patterns at one another in a conflict to determine the fate of my charges, not to mention that of the world, I realized that, despite the forces which had been thrown against him, the man had the edge and would doubtless in a few moments emerge victorious. It was instructive to follow his magical manipulations. There was genuine artistry there, as I understood it. The man had, after all, once been a peer and close friend of my accursed master. It was, in this sense, unfortunate that he had become an enemy of Rondoval and, hence, the designated recipient of my wrath.
Which led me to another important train of considerations: With Det Morson dead these two decades and two heirs of Rondoval visible on the floor, who was his proper successor as my accursed master? Larick was Pol's senior, yet he had forsaken the family precincts to dwell at Avinconet. Pol, on the other hand, maintained his residence at the family seat and thus was more sensitive to the needs of Rondoval itself. Witness, his ongoing program of repair and renovation. The matter could, over the years, become very important when it came to the assigning of priorities in my work-schedule.
I resolved it finally in Pol's favor. Possibly, ultimately, a sentimental choice. While I allowed myself to be swayed by the argument from residence, I was not unaware that my decision could easily have been colored by the fact that I knew Pol better than I did his brother and that I had not approved of Larick's earlier actions against him. Or, to put it more simply, I liked Pol better.
I drifted near his twitching, recumbent form, and for the first time attempted direct communication with him.
Everything is all right now, accursed master, I reported, except for a few details.
He began coughing just as Vonnie screamed, interfering with his acknowledgement.
I regarded Henry Spier once more, his face twisted and blackened, as he tied the final knots of his spell. I noted, too, that Ryle Merson was awake and struggling to raise one arm. Larick and Ibal were likely to remain unconscious for some time longer. Taisa was sitting up and looking very bewildered.
I reviewed a number of possible actions I might take against Spier, rejecting many--even the one which involved flooding the chamber by diverting a nearby underground stream, a course which possessed a great esthetic appeal for me.
Finally, the choices were narrowed to one and the only remaining detail involved my decision as to the proper color scheme.
Avocado, ranging to a very pale green, I finally decided.
XXII
When Pol heard the voice in his head, he rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. He lacked the strength to do anything more. The situation appeared virtually unchanged so for as he could tell. Vonnie seemed no longer a young woman, but middle-aged and tired-looking. Spier also looked worn, but there was still some vitality in his gestures. A moment more and it appeared that the man would win.
There came a loud hissing sound from the back of the chamber. Spier glanced in that direction and his face froze. His hands halted in mid-gesture. Vonnie also looked that way, with identical results.
Pol struggled to turn his head, and when he succeeded he beheld a particularly ghastly materialization. It appeared to be the demon body he himself had briefly worn, taking rapid shape beside the table--headless. In place of a head, it wore a crown of flames--avocado, ranging to a very pale green.
Pol heard Taisa shriek. And from their changing expressions, it appeared that Spier and Vonnie each thought the other responsible for the phenomenon.
In that moment, a bit of light fled from between Ryle Merson's cupped hands to fall upon Spier's breast. Spier staggered back, gesturing as if to brush it away and casting a quick glance in Ryle's direction.
Pol raised his hand and moved it as if engaged in a sorcerous manipulation, though the power was gone, the dragonmark still once again. Spier made a warding movement just as the voice boomed out:
"The Curse of Rondoval is upon you, Henry Spier!"
The flame-headed demon-form lurched forward, and Spier--all color fled from his lace--turned and seized the statuette, which he raised before him.
"I have served you!" he cried. "Now it's your turn! Now, or never!"
There came a flash of light from Vonnie's mirror, directed toward Spier, simultaneous with a heavy scraping sound from the direction of the table.
The light from the mirror did not reach Spier. Somewhere in the vicinity of the figurine--at arm's length before him--it appeared to be absorbed. The jewels in the statuette suddenly shone like tiny, colored fires.
A dark shape rushed forward, racing the demon-form toward Spier. It passed the creature--a heavy wooden armchair from beside the table--passed Spier also, pivoted in midair, dropped and pushed forward, striking Spier behind the knees.
The sorcerer collapsed into the chair, still clutching the blazing icon.
The chair tilted backward and levitated rapidly, just as the Curse of Rondoval sprang toward it. It swung in a wide arc about the room and the fire-crowned avenger bounded after it.
It rushed at the wall, banked suddenly, then shot directly toward the window.
Belphanior recovered his balance, turned, and sprang after it, talons extended. He caught the edge of Spier's long yellow cloak which trailed behind.
The chair jerked and Spier made a gagging sound, clawing at his throat with one hand. Then its clasp tore loose and the cloak fell away. The chair resumed its forward motion, picking up speed, and passed out through the window.
Pol heard a startled cry followed by a dragon's roar. A moment later, there were gunshots. Then he heard Mouse-glove cursing. He propped himself with one stiff arm and started to sway. He felt Ryle's hand upon his shoulder, steadying him.
"Easy ..." Ryle said. "He's been checked. We're safe."
Ryle helped him into a sitting position, then looked toward Taisa, Larick, Vonnie.
The old woman was sitting upon the floor, the mirror at her side. She held Ibal's head in her lap and was speaking softly, almost crooning, above him. When she felt Ryle's gaze, she raised one hand to cover her face. Ryle quickly looked away.
Larick was stirring again. Ryle rose slowly, ponderously, to his feet and made his way toward his daughter. Pol caught only one brief glimpse of his face.
"Accursed master," Belphanior said then, prostrating himself before him. "I have answered your summons. I apologize that the man escaped my wrath."
"What--who are you?" Pol asked, moving his suddenly warm foot back from the bowed, avocado to pale green-flamed head. "And please rise."
"Belphanior, the Curse of Rondoval, your servant," he said, raising himself into a semi-erect stance.
"Really?"
"Yes. You called and I answered. I would have dismembered him for your delight, save for that unfair chair trick."
"Perhaps you'll have another opportunity one day," Pol said. "But thank you for this service. It was timely, and well done."
Belphanior handed him the yellow cloak.
"Your own garments are in need of repair. Perhaps the sorcerer's robe ..."
"Thanks."