“No—” Gamine whispered in protest, “Narayan—cannot go! His—his— talisman was destroyed! Only outside the tower—he cannot go in!”
“There is still—mine. Give it to him.” At Gamine’s cry of dismay, Rhys’ voice was suddenly a whip-lash. “Give it to him, Gamine! I still have power to—compel that! What does it matter what happens to me? I am old; it is Narayan’s turn; your turn.” “I’ll—keep it for Narayan—” Gamine faltered.
“No!” Rhys spoke sharply. “While you keep it—and I am bound to you—there is still the bondage. Give it to him!”
Gamine sobbed harshly. From the silken veils she drew forth a small jewelled thing; wrapped in insulating silk like Evarin’s mirror. She untwisted the silk. It was a tiny sword; not a dagger, but a perfectly modelled sword, a Toy. Evarin’s too; but different. I recalled that Evarin had called himself Toy-Maker. Gamine clung to it, the robed shoulders bent.
“Mike must take it,” Rhys’ voice was gentler. “If you keep it, I am still bound to you. If Adric had it, it would bind Narayan again. If Mike keeps it—near Narayan— Narayan is free. Free to go where he will, even in the Dreamer’s Keep. Give it to him, Gamine.” Rhys sat down, wearily, as if the effort of speech had tired him past bearing. I stood and listened with a rebellious patience; I was eager to be gone. But my eyes were on the little jewelled Toy in Gamine’s hands. It winked blue. It shimmered. It pulsed with a curious heartbeat, hypnotic. Rhys watched, too, his tired face intent and almost eager. “Gamine; if Adric had seen you, had remembered—”
“I want him to remember!” Gamine’s low wail keened weirdly in the silent room. Rhys sighed.
“I am Narabedlan,” he said at last, “I could not destroy my own people. Gamine is not bound—nor you, Mike Kenscott. I suppose I am a traitor; but when I was born Narabedla was a fair city—without so many crimes on its head. Go and warn Narayan, Mike.”
Gamine hovered near me, intent, jealous, the shrouded eyes fixed on Rhys. The old man spoke on in a fading voice. “My poor city—now, Gamine. Now. Give it to him and let me rest. Stand away from me, Mike; well away; I do not want the bondage again from you.”
I did not understand and stood stupidly still. Gamine gave me an angry push. “Over there, you fool!” I reeled, recovered my balance, stood about six feet from the couch where Rhys half-sat, half-lay. The old man laid one wrinkled hand on the toy sword Gamine held. He took his hand away.
“Now,” he said quietly.
Gamine thrust the sword into my hand, and I felt a sudden stinging shock, like electric current, jolt my whole body. I saw Gamine’s robed body shiver with the same jolt. The Toy in my hand was suddenly heavy; heavy as if it were made of lead, and the tiny winking in the hilt was darkened. The peaked hood of Rhys drooped until it covered the face.
Gamine caught my arm roughly and the steel of those narrow fingers bit to the bone as they hauled me almost bodily from the room. I heard the echo of a sob in the spell-singer’s whispering croon.
Rhys—Farewell!
The next thing I knew we were racing side by side down flight after flight of stairs. Together we fled through the subterranean passages of Rainbow City. Outside, in the pillared court, a man ran toward us. His brown tunic was ripped and torn; his blond hair was rumpled. A smudge of blood reddened his forehead. I gasped “Narayan!”
The man whirled—saw us—pulled his weapon from his belt. There was no time for explanations. I threw myself at his knees in a flying tackle no football coach would approve, but it did the trick. Narayan went down under me, kicking. Gamine was not one to stand aside in a fight; the robed figure rocketed forward, flung itself on the prone Narayan, holding him motionless with that steely strength. I wrenched the electrorod from Narayan’s relaxed fingers. “Listen—” I urged, “I’m not one of Karamy’s men—Gamine, let him up!”
“He’s got Cynara—” the Dreamer muttered dizzily, “Cynara—who in Zandru’s hells are you?” He picked himself up, gazing at me with a stunned, blank look. “My name’s Kenscott,” I said briefly. Suddenly, feeling it was the best way to establish my good-faith, I pulled out the Toy Gamine had put in my hand. “I’ve seen Rhys. He sent—this.”
Narayan stared at the thing in my hand, a double grief in his young face. “Rhys—” he muttered, “I felt he was—gone!” With bent head, he reached out to take the small thing from me.
In his hand it came alive. The small jewelled Toy seemed suddenly brilliant, flaring, dazzling with a wild burst of faceted light, blue, golden, crimson, flame-color. Gamine’s low sweet voice breathed “In the Dreamer’s hands!”
“In my hands,” Narayan murmured in a choked, almost a tranced ecstasy. I broke in on their raptures rudely. “Here, Narayan! Is it Adric who’s got Cynara?”
He gulped; swallowed hard; thrust the Toy into a pocket and came back to himself, but that light was still in his eyes. He spoke with a hard restraint. “Yes. Adric surprised me—knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone.” He blinked once or twice; rubbed his eyes; then, resolutely fumbled for the little Toy and extended it to me. “Here. Keep this till we get to the Dreamer’s Keep.”
I took it without comment. Gamine slipped away; came back, leading horses. “I couldn’t find a single guard,” the cold voice murmured, “I wonder where they are?” “Adric knows,” said Narayan, tight-lipped.
We mounted.
The wind was rising. Above us the moons swung slowly in an indigo sky. Sparks flew from our hooves against the frosty stones. We were racing against time, and a nightmare panic had me while I gripped the saddle of my racing horse. It took all my concentration to stick on the animal’s back, but I was acquiring balance and a feel for riding. The ill wind was blowing some good, I thought inanely. Narayan’s blond hair was frosty pale in the moonlight, and the eerie Gamine was a nightmare ghost, a phantom from nowhere. Far away we heard the spatter of gunfire, the screams of dying men, the ring of swords and spears. Thinly Gamine chanted in the night. Narayan’s face looked haunted. “There are the guards—attacking—” he jerked out over the hoof-noises.
The scream of falcons rang swiftly above Gamine’s chant. The too-familiar beat of wings slapped around my head, and I flung up my arm to knock away one serpentine neck. My terrified horse plunged and I rocked in the saddle nearly falling. Another bird swooped down on Narayan—another—then there were swarms of them, gold and purple and green, crimson, blue, flame-color. The air was thick with their wings. Gamine screamed; I saw Narayan beat the air with his cloak. The veiled spell-singer, crouched in the saddle, was lashing at them with the whip from her saddle. The lash kept the falcons at bay, but the razor talons caught at the blue shroudings. Narayan, whip in one hand, sword in the other, beat round him in great arcs, and I heard one bird’s death-cry sending ringing echoes to the sky. I flung round me with my knife—
“The mirror—” screamed Gamine, “Evarin’s mirror! Quick, they’re coming by millions!”
They were coming in scores—hundreds, whirling and screeing. These were not the soul-falcons, belled and elaborately endowed with the intelligence and cunning of their launcher. These were—machines. Alive, yes, but not a life we knew. Only the nightmare freak of a science gone mad could produce—or control—these hateful things that were filling the clean air, groping for us with needle beaks and talons and wild wings. Only Evarin—
I fumbled blindly for the mirror, clumsily stripping the silks. A needle-talon raked at my wrist, and by sheerest instinct I struck upward, turning the face of the mirror toward the bird.
The bird reeled in mid-air—flapped—fell. A tingling shock rattled through my arm. I dropped the mirror—leaped to catch it. The thing was a perfect conductor. It—drained energy. I knew now why Evarin had been so anxious to have me—or Adric—look into its depths. It could have touched the energy waves of my brain through my eyes. The birds were brainless;