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walked to the edge of the little stream. He glanced once more after Dirk, saw only empty forest, and
turned back again, a feeling of bleak resignation settling through him. He knelt down beside the stream
and splashed water on his soot-blackened face, rubbing it into his eyes. The water was like ice, and it
sent a shock through his system. He splashed some more on, throwing it up over his head and shoulders,
letting the cold galvanize him.
Then he sat back, the water dripping off his face, his eyes looking down into the stream.
Reason it through, he admonished himself. You have all the answers. Dirk said you had all the answers.
So what in the hell are they?
He resisted an almost overwhelming urge to leap up and charge off into the trees. He forced himself to
stay put. Action would have been more immediately gratifying  the sense of doing something, anything,
better than just sitting around. But running about heedlessly wasn't what the situation called for; thinking
was. He had to know what he was doing, had to understand once and for all what had happened.
Links in a chain, Dirk had said. All his problems were links in a chain, all locked together. Cut one, and
the chain would fall apart. Okay. He would do that. He would cut that link. But which link should he cut?
He looked down into the waters of the stream, staring at the rippling reflection of his image. A distorted
version of Ben Holiday's face glimmered back at him. But it was he, not someone else, not the stranger
everyone else saw. What was it that made others see him differently? A mask, Dirk had said  and he
was disappearing into it. He stared at himself for a long moment, then looked up again, focusing on a
random gathering of wild flowers several yards beyond, seeing them and seeing nothing.
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Magic of deception, Dirk had said.
Whose magic? Whose deception?
His own, the River Master had said. The River Master had offered to help, had tried in fact, but in the
end couldn't. The magic at work was magic of Ben's own making, the River Master had said  and only
he could act to break its hold.
But what magic had he used?
He tried to think it through, but couldn't. Nothing would come. He rocked back on his heels beside the
little stream, hunched down in the shadows of the mountain glade and let his mind wander freely for a
moment. It all went back to that night in his bedchamber in Sterling Silver when Meeks had appeared
before him from out of nowhere. That was when everything had gone wrong and he had lost the
medallion. Something grated at the memory, and he grasped futilely at it. He had lost the medallion, he
had lost his identity, he had lost his magic, he had lost his kingdom. A chain of links that needed breaking,
he thought. He recalled his shock at finding the medallion gone. He remembered his fear.
A sudden thought struck him, and a memory stirred. The fairies had said something to him once about
fear. It had been the only time they had spoken to him, long ago now, back when he had gone into the
mists in search of the Io Dust, back when he had first come into Landover and been forced to fight to
gain recognition for his right to the throne  just as he was fighting now. What was it they had said? Fear
has many disguises. You must learn to recognize them when next they come for you.
He frowned. Disguises? Masks? Not much difference between the two, he mused. He had wondered
what the words had meant. He found himself wondering again now. At the time, he thought they had
referred to his impending encounter with the Iron Mark. But what if they had referred to what was
happening to him now  to the fear he was experiencing over the loss of the medallion?
Could the fairies have foreseen that loss so long ago? Or was the warning simply generic, simply...
About the magic of this land?
Self-consciously, he reached within his tunic and brought forth the medallion he now wore, the medallion
Meeks had given him, its face graven with the dark wizard's harsh visage. It all began here  the
questions, the mysteries, a jumble of events that had swept him away from everything sane into this mire
of fear and doubt. How could it have happened, he wondered for at least the hundredth time? How
could he have lost the medallion without knowing it? How had Meeks gotten the medallion from him
when only he could remove it? It didn't make sense! Even if he had removed it, why couldn't he
remember removing it?
Unless he hadn't!
There was a sudden, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Oh, God!
Unless he was still wearing it!
Something had nudged his thinking a step farther than it had gone before. He could almost see the
cutters working on his chains. Self-deception, Dirk had said. Magic of his own making, the River Master
had said. Damn! He felt his breath begin to come in short, ragged gasps of excitement; he could hear his
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chest pounding. It made sense. It was the only answer that had ever made sense. Meeks couldn't take
the medallion from him unless he removed it himself, but he couldn't remember removing it, and the
reason he couldn't remember removing it was because he never had removed it!
Meeks had simply made him think so.
But how?
He tried to think it through a step at a time. His hands were shaking with excitement, the medallion
spinning in their grip. He still wore the medallion of the High Lords of Landover; he simply hadn't realized
it. Was that possible? His mind raced ahead, exploring the possibilities, whispering to him in a quick,
urgent voice. He still wore the medallion! Meeks had simply disguised it somehow, made him think it
wasn't the real medallion, just a substitute. That would explain why Meeks hadn't simply finished him off
in his bedchamber. Meeks was afraid that the Paladin might still appear  that the disguise was too new,
too thin perhaps. That's why the wizard had let him go after giving him the strange warning about not
taking off the substitute medallion. He had expected Ben to question that warning sooner or later. He had
hoped Ben would take off the medallion and throw it away, thinking he was breaking free. Then Meeks
would have had the medallion for good!
His mind spun. The language, he thought suddenly! How could he still communicate in the language of
Landover if he wasn't wearing the medallion? Questor had told him long ago that the medallion was the
reason be could understand the land's language, could write it, and could speak it! Why hadn't he thought
of that before? And Questor  Questor had always wondered how Meeks got the medallion back from
failed candidates for the kingship who refused to return it voluntarily. He would have done it something
like this! He would have tricked them into taking it off, thinking they had already lost it!
My God! Could all this be possible?
He took a deep breath to steady himself. Could it be anything else? He tacked on a negative answer
immediately. It was the only answer that made any sense. The winged demon hadn't broken off the
attack on the River Master's nymphs at Elderew because of Dirk; it had flown off because it had seen the
medallion held in Ben's hands and been frightened of its power. The demon had recognized the truth
when Ben couldn't. Magic had disguised the truth from Ben  magic Meeks had employed that night in
his bedchamber  an old magic, Ben thought suddenly. That was what Nightshade had said to Strabo.
That was why only the witch and the dragon could recognize it!
But how did the magic work? What was needed to break its spell? Was it this same magic that had
changed his identity? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]