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HEALER SPRITE

Ben Holiday awoke at dawn and could not figure out where he was. His disorientation was so complete that for several moments he could remember nothing of the events of the past thirty-six hours. He lay on grasses damp with morning dew in a clearing in a forest and wondered why he wasn’t in his own bed at Sterling Silver. He glanced down his body and wondered why he was wearing such shabby clothing. He stared off into the misted trees and wondered what in the hell was going on.

Then he caught sight of Edgewood Dirk perched on a fallen log, sassy and sleek, preening with studied care as he licked himself, all the while studiously ignoring his human company. Ben’s situation came back to him then in a rush of unpleasant memories, and he found himself wishing rather ruefully that he had remained ignorant.

He rose, brushed himself off, drank a bit of spring water, and ate a stalk from the Bonnie Blues. The fruit taste was sweet and welcome, but his hunger for more substantial fare was to go unassuaged for yet another meal. He glanced once or twice in Dirk’s direction, but the cat went on about the business of washing himself without noticing. Some things obviously took precedence over others.

When Dirk was finally finished, he rose from his sitting position, stretched, and said, “I have decided to come with you.”

Ben refrained from saying what he was tempted to say and simply nodded.

“For a while, at least,” Dirk added pointedly.

Ben nodded a second time. “Do you know where it is that I intend to go?” he asked.

Dirk gave him one of those patented “must you be such an idiot?” looks and replied, “Why? Don’t you?”

They departed the campsite and walked in silence through the early morning hours. The skies were gray and oppressive. A heavily clouded sun lifted sluggishly from out of the tree line, its mist-diffused light sufficiently bright to permit small patches of dull silver to chase the shadows and dot the pathway ahead like stepping stones across a pond. Ben led, Dirk picking his way carefully a yard or two behind. There were no forest sounds to keep them company; the woods seemed empty of life.

They reached the Irrylyn at midmorning and followed its shoreline south along a narrow footpath that wound through forest trees and deadwood. Like the woods surrounding, the lake seemed lifeless. Clouds hung low across its waters, and there was no wind. Ben’s thoughts drifted. He found himself reliving his first meeting with Willow. He had come to the lake country seeking the support of the River Master in his effort to claim Landover’s throne. Willow and Ben had chanced upon each other bathing naked at night in the warm, spring-fed waters of this lake. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as the sylph. She had given back to him feelings he had thought dead and gone.

He shook his head. The memory left him oddly sad, as if it were an unpleasant reminder of something forever lost. He stared out across the gray, flat surface of the Irrylyn and tried to recapture the moment. But all he found were ghosts at play in the mists.

They broke away from the lake at its southern end and moved back into the forest. It was beginning to spit rain. The small patches of gray sunlight disappeared and shadows closed about. The character of the woods underwent a sudden and distinct change. The trees turned gnarled and damp, monstrous sentinels for a surreal world of imaginary wraiths that slipped like smoke through a mist that shrouded everything. Sounds returned, but they were more haunting than comforting, bits and pieces of life that sprinkled the gloom with hints of what lay hidden. Ben slowed, blinking his eyes, wiping the water from his face. He had made the trip down into the lake country on several occasions since that first meeting with Willow, but each time it had been in the company of the sylph or Questor Thews, and one of the fairy people had always met them. He could find his way as far as the Irrylyn by himself, but he could not find his way much farther than that. If he expected to find the River Master and his people, he was going to have to have some help—and he might not get it. The lake country people lived in Elderew, their home city, hidden somewhere in these forests. No one could find Elderew without help. The River Master could either bring you in or he could leave you out—the choice was his.

He walked a bit farther, saw the path before him disappear completely, and stopped. There was no indication of where to go next. There was no sign of a guide. The forest about him was a sullen wall of damp and gloom.

“Is there a problem of some sort?”

Edgewood Dirk appeared next to him and sat down gingerly, flinching as the rain struck him. Ben had forgotten the cat momentarily. “I’m not sure which way to go,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Oh?” Dirk looked at him, and Ben could have sworn the cat shrugged. “Well, I suggest we trust to our instincts.”

The cat stood up and padded silently ahead, moving slightly left into the mist. Ben stared after the beast momentarily, then followed. Who knew? Maybe the cat’s instincts were worth trusting, he thought. They certainly couldn’t be any worse than his own.

They picked their way slowly ahead, slipping through the massive trees, ducking low-hanging branches with mossy trailers, stepping over rotting logs, and skirting marshy patches of black ooze. The rain quickened, and Ben felt his clothing grow damp and heavy. The forest and the mist thickened and wrapped about him like a cloak; everything disappeared outside a ten-foot sweep. Ben heard things moving all about him, but saw nothing. Dirk kept padding steadily on, seemingly oblivious.

Then abruptly a shadow detached itself from the gloom and brought them to a halt. It was a wood sprite, lean and wiry, small as a child, his skin browned and grainy, his hair thick and dark, grown like a mane down the back of his neck and arms. Dressed in nondescript, earth-colored clothing, he seemed as much a part of the forest as the trees and, had he wished, might have disappeared as quickly as he had come. He said nothing as he glanced first at Ben, then at Dirk. He hesitated as he caught sight of the cat, seemed to consider something, then beckoned them forward.

Ben sighed. Halfway home, he thought.

They walked ahead silently, following a narrow trail that wound snakelike through vast, empty stretches of swamp. Fog rolled over the still surface of the water, clouds of impenetrable gray. A thin sheet of rain continued to fall. Shapes darted and glided wraithlike through the gloom, some with faces that were almost human, some with the look of forest creatures. Eyes blinked and peered out at him, then were gone—sprites, nymphs, kelpies, naiads, pixies, elementals of all forms. The fairy worlds of dozens of childhood stories came suddenly to life, an impossible mix of fantasy and truth. As always, it left Ben filled with wonder—and slightly afraid.

The path he followed was unfamiliar to him. It was like that whenever he came to Elderew; the River Master always brought him in a different way. Sometimes he passed through water that rose to his waist; sometimes he passed along marshy earth that sucked eagerly at his boots. Whichever way he came, the swamp was always close about, and he knew that to stray from any of the paths would bring a quick end to him. It always bothered him that not only could he not find his way in, but he could not find his way out again either. That meant he was trapped here if the River Master did not choose to release him. That would not have been a consideration in the past. After all, he had been Landover’s King and he had possessed the power of the medallion. But all that was changed now. He had lost both his identity and the medallion. He was just a stranger. The River Master could do as he chose with a stranger.

He was still thinking about his dilemma when they entered a great stand of cyprus, brushed aside curtains of damp moss trailers, wove past massive gnarled roots, and emerged at last from the marsh. Ben’s boots found firmer ground, and he began a short climb up a gentle slope. The mist and gloom thinned, cyprus gave way to oak and elm, fetid smells dissipated, and the sweeter scent of open woodlands filled the morning air. Colors reappeared as garlands of rain-soaked flowers strung along hedges and roped from sway bars lined the path. Ben felt a tinge of relief. The way forward was familiar again. He quickened his pace, anxious that the journey be done.

Then the slope crested, the trees parted at the path’s end, and there he was. Elderew stretched away before him, the city of the lake country fairies. The great, open-air amphitheater where the people held their festivals stood in the foreground, gray and empty in the rainfall. Massive trees framed its walls, the lower branches connected by sawn logs to form seats, the whole ringing an arena of grasses and wild flowers. Branches interlaced overhead to create a leafy roof, the rain water dripping from its eaves in a steady trickle. Beyond, trees twice the size of California’s giant redwoods rose over the amphitheater against the clouded horizon and cradled in their branches the city proper—a broad cluster of cottages and shops interconnected by an intricate network of tree lanes and stairways that stretched from forest earth to tree-top and down again.

Ben stopped, stared, and blinked away the rain that ran down his forehead into his eyes. He realized suddenly that he was gaping like the country boy come to the city for the first time. It reminded him of how much a stranger he really was in this land—even after having lived in it for over a year, even though he was its King. It underlined in bold strokes the precariousness of his situation. He had lost even the small recognition he had enjoyed. He was an outsider stripped of friends and means, almost completely reliant on the charity of others.

The River Master appeared from a small stand of trees to one side, flanked by half-a-dozen guards. Tall and lean, his strange scaled skin gleaming with a silver cast where it shone beneath his forest green clothing, the lord of the lake country fairies stalked forward determinedly. His hard, chiseled face did not evidence much in the way of charity. His demeanor, normally calm and unhurried, seemed brusque. He said something to the guide in a dialect Ben did not recognize, but there was no mistaking the tone. The guide stepped back quickly, his small frame rigid, his eyes turned away.

The River Master faced Ben. The silver diadem about his forehead flashed dully with rain water as he tilted his head up. Coarse, black hair rippled along the back of his neck and forearms. There were to be no preliminaries. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Ben had anticipated some resistance, but nothing like this. He had expected that the River Master wouldn’t recognize him, and, sure enough, he hadn’t. But that didn’t explain why the ruler of the once-fairy people was being so deliberately unfriendly. The River Master was surrounded by guards, and they were armed. He had left the members of his family behind where always before he had gathered them about him to receive visitors. He had not waited for Ben to reach the amphitheater, the traditional greeting place for visitors. And his voice reflected undisguised anger and suspicion. Something was dreadfully wrong.

Ben took a deep breath. “River Master, it’s me, Ben Holiday,” he announced and waited. There wasn’t even a hint of recognition in the other’s dark eyes. He forged ahead. “I know I don’t look like myself, but that’s because something has been done to me. A magic has been used to change my appearance. The wizard who served the old King’s son, the one who abandoned Landover—he calls himself Meeks in my world—has returned and stolen both my identity and the throne. It’s a long story. What’s important is that I need your help. I have to find Willow.”

The River Master stared, obviously surprised. “You are Ben Holiday?”

Ben nodded quickly. “I am—even though I don’t appear to be. I’ll try to explain. I traveled back to …”

“No!” The River Master cut him short with an irritated chop of one hand. “There is only one explanation I wish to hear from you—whoever you are. I wish to know why you brought the cat.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to stare. Rain water tricked steadily down his face, and he blinked it from his eyes. “The cat?”

“Yes, the cat! The prism cat, the fairy creature who sits next to you—why did you bring it here?” The River Master was a water sprite and there were gills directly below his chin at either side of his throat. He was so agitated now that the gills fluttered uncontrollably.

Surprised, Ben glanced at Dirk, who sat a dozen paces away and washed his paws with what appeared to be total disinterest in the conversation taking place. “I don’t understand,” he replied finally, looking back again at the River Master. “What’s the problem with … ?”

“Am I not making myself clear to you?” the River Master interrupted once more, rigid with anger now.

“Well, no, not …”

“The cat, I asked you—what is the cat doing here?”

Ben gave up trying to be diplomatic. “Now look. I didn’t bring the cat; the cat chose to come. We have a nice working arrangement—I don’t tell him where to go or what to do, and he doesn’t tell me. So why don’t you quit being difficult and tell me what’s going on. The only thing I know about prism cats is that they can start campfires and change shape. Obviously you know something more.”

The River Master’s face tightened. “I do. And I would think that the High Lord of Landover would make it his business to know as well!” He came forward a step. “You still claim that you are the High Lord, don’t you?”

“I most certainly do.”

“Even though you look nothing like Ben Holiday at all, you wear a workman’s clothing, and you travel without retainers or standard?”

“I explained all that …”

“Yes, yes, yes!” The River Master shook his head. “You certainly have the High Lord’s boldness, if nothing else.”

He seemed to consider the matter for a moment, saying nothing. The guards about him and the chastened guide were like statues. Ben waited impatiently. A handful of faces appeared from behind the trunks of surrounding trees, materializing through the rain and gloom. The River Master’s people were growing curious.

Finally, the River Master cleared his throat. “Very well. I don’t accept that you are Landover’s High Lord, but whoever you are, allow me to explain a few things about the creature with whom you travel. First, prism cats are fairy creatures—true fairy creatures, not exiles and emigrants like the people of the lake country. Prism cats are almost never seen beyond the mists. Second, they do not normally keep company with humans. Third, they are uniformly unpredictable; no one pretends to understand fully what they are about. And fourth, wherever they journey, they bring trouble. You are fortunate that you were allowed into Elderew at all in the company of a prism cat. Had I known that you traveled with one, I would almost certainly have kept you out.”

Ben sighed wearily, then nodded. Apparently superstitions about cats weren’t confined to just his world. “Okay, I promise to keep all that in mind in the future,” he replied, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice. “But the fact remains you did not keep me or the cat out, so here we are and whether you believe that I am High Lord of Landover or not doesn’t really matter a rat’s whiskers. I still need your help if I …”

A sudden gust of rain blew into his face, and he choked on what he was about to say next. He paused, shivering within the cold and damp of his clothing. “Do you suppose that we could continue this discussion somewhere dry?” he asked quietly.

The other man studied him silently, his expression unchanged.

“River Master, your daughter may be in great danger,” Ben whispered. “Please!”

The River Master continued to study him a moment longer, then beckoned him to follow. A wave of one hand dismissed the guide. The faces of the watching villagers disappeared just as quickly. They walked a short distance through the trees to a gazebo-like shelter formed of sculpted spruce, the guards trailing watchfully. A pair of benches sat within the shelter facing each other over a broad, hollowed stump converted to a planter of flowers. The River Master seated himself on one bench, and Ben took the other. The rain continued to fall all about them, a soft, steady patter on the forest trees and earth, but it was dry within the shelter.

Dirk appeared, jumped up beside Ben, settled down with all four paws tucked away, and closed his eyes sleepily.

The River Master glanced at the cat with renewed irritation, then squared around to Ben once more. “Say what you would,” he advised.

Ben told him the whole story. He felt he had nothing to lose in doing so. He told him about the dreams, the journeys embarked upon by Questor, Willow, and himself, the discovery of the missing books of magic, the unexpected appearance of Meeks, the theft of both his identity and the medallion, and his exile from Sterling Silver. The River Master listened without comment. He sat there as if he had been carved from stone, unmoving, his eyes fastened on Ben’s. Ben finished, and the lord of the lake country people remained a statue.

“I don’t know what else I can say to you,” Ben said finally.

The River Master responded with a barely perceptible nod, but still said nothing.

“Listen to me,” Ben pleaded. “I have to find Willow and warn her that this dream of the black unicorn was sent by Meeks and I don’t think I can do that without your help.” He paused, suddenly reminded of a truth that he still had difficulty acknowledging—even to himself. “Willow means a great deal to me, River Master. I care for her; you must know that. Now tell me—has she been here?”

The River Master pulled his forest cloak closer about him. The look in his eyes was distant. “I think perhaps you are who you claim to be,” he said softly. “I think perhaps you are the High Lord. Perhaps.”

He rose, glanced from his shelter at the guards who ringed them, motioned all but one of them away, and came over to stand next to Ben. He bent down, his strange, wooden face right next to Ben’s. “High Lord or fraud, tell me the truth now—how is it that you come to travel with this cat?”

Ben forced himself to stay calm. “It was a matter of chance. The cat found me at the edge of the lake country last night and suggested his company might be useful. I’m still waiting to find out if that’s true.”

He looked down at Dirk momentarily, half expecting the cat to confirm what he had said. But Dirk sat there with his eyes closed and said nothing. It occurred to Ben suddenly that the cat hadn’t said a word since they had arrived in Elderew. He wondered why.

“Give me your hand,” the River Master said suddenly. He reached down with his own and clasped Ben’s tightly. “There is one way in which I may be able to test the truth of your claim. Do you remember when you first came to Elderew and we walked alone through the village and talked of the magic of the lake country people?” Ben nodded. “Do you remember what I showed you of the magic?”

The pressure of his grip was like an iron bar. Ben winced, but did not try to pull away. “You touched a bush stricken with wilt and healed it,” he replied, his eyes locked on those of the other man. “You were attempting to show me why the lake country people could manage on their own. Later, you refused to give your pledge to the throne.” He paused deliberately. “But you have given it since, River Master—and you have given it to me.”

The River Master studied him a moment, then pulled him effortlessly to his feet. “I have said that you could be Ben Holiday,” he whispered, his hard face bent close. “I believe it possible.” He placed both of Ben’s hands in his own. “I do not know how your appearance was altered, but if magic changed you to what you are, then magic can be used to change you back again. I possess the power to heal much that is sickened and distressed. I will use that power to help you if I can.” The scaled hands tightened harder about Ben’s. “Stand where you are and do not move.”

Ben took a quick breath. The River Master’s grip warmed his own, and the chiseled features lowered into shadow. Ben waited. The other’s breathing slowed and a sudden flush spread through Ben’s body. He shivered at the feeling, but remained stationary.

Finally the River Master stepped back. There was a hint of confusion in the dark eyes. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you,” he said finally. “Magic has indeed been used to alter your appearance. But the magic is not of another’s making—it is of your own.”

Ben stared. “What?”

“You have made yourself who and what you are,” the other said. “You must be the one to change yourself back again.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” Ben exploded. “I haven’t done a thing to change what I look like—it was Meeks! I watched him do it! He stole the medallion of the Kings of Landover and gave me … this!”

He yanked the tarnished image of Meeks from his tunic and thrust it out angrily, almost as if to snap it from its chain. The River Master studied it a moment, touched it experimentally, then shook his head. “The image graven here is clouded in the same manner as your appearance. The magic at work is again of your own making.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, and he snatched the medallion back again. The River Master was talking in riddles. Whatever magic was at work was most assuredly not of Ben’s making. The River Master was either mistaken or misled—or he was deliberately trying to confuse Ben because he still didn’t trust him.

The River Master seemed to read his mind. He shrugged. “Believe me or don’t—the choice is yours. What I tell you is what I see.” He paused. “If this new medallion you wear was given to you by your enemy, perhaps you should discard it. Is there a reason you keep it?”

Ben sighed. “Meeks told me that the medallion would let him know what I was about. He warned that a certain magic protects against trying to remove it—a magic that could kill me.”

“But is that so?” the other asked. “Perhaps the wizard lied.”

Ben hesitated before replying. He had considered that possibility before. After all, why should he believe anything Meeks told him? The problem was that there was no way to test the truth of the matter without risking his life.

He lifted the tarnished medallion before him experimentally. “I have given it some thought …” he began.

Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edgewood Dirk stir. The cat’s head lifted, and the green eyes snapped open. It was almost as if the cat had roused himself from his near-comatose state for the express purpose of seeing what Ben would do. The strange eyes were fixed and staring. Ben hesitated, then slowly lowered the medallion back inside his tunic. “I think maybe I need to give it some more thought,” he finished.

Dirk’s eyes slipped closed again. The black face lowered. Rain beat down steadily in the momentary stillness, and a long peal of thunder rolled across the lake country from somewhere east. Ben experienced a strange mix of frustration and anger. What sort of game was the cat playing now?

The River Master moved back to the other bench and remained standing. “It appears I cannot help you after all,” he advised. “I think that you had better go—you and the cat.”

Ben saw his chance for any help slipping away. He rose quickly. “At least tell me where to find Willow,” he begged. “She said she was coming here to the lake country to learn the meaning of her dream. Surely she would come to you for help.”

The River Master studied him silently for a moment, considering in his own mind things hidden from Ben, then shook his head slowly. “No, High Lord or pretender—whichever you are—she would not.”

He came partway around the stump once more, then stopped. Wind blew sharply at his cloak, and he pulled it close to ward away the chill of the rain. “I am her father, but not the parent from whom she would seek help when it was needed. I was never that. I have many children by many wives. Some I am closer to than others. Willow has never been close to me. She is too much like her mother—a wild thing who seeks only to sever ties, not to bind them. Neither seeks companionship from me; neither ever did. The mother came to me only once, then was gone again, back into the forest …”

He trailed off, distracted. “I never even knew her name,” he continued after a moment. “A wood nymph, no more than a tiny bit of silk and light, she dazzled me so that names were of no consequence for that one night. I lost her without ever really having had her. I lost Willow, I think, because of what that did to me. I begrudged the mother her freedom, and Willow was forced to live with my anger and resentment. That caused her to slip gradually from me, and there was no help for it. I loved her mother so much that I could neither forgive nor forget what she had done to me. When I gave Willow permission to live at Sterling Silver, I severed the only tie that still bound us. She became forever her own woman and my daughter no longer. Now she sees me as a man who has more children than he can ever truly be father to. She chooses not to be one of those.”

He turned away, lost perhaps in memories. His confession was a strange one, Ben thought—told simply and directly, but without a trace of emotion. There had been no inflection in the River Master’s voice, no expression in his face. Willow meant much to him, and yet he could demonstrate nothing of it—he could only relate the fact of its being. It made Ben wonder suddenly about his own feelings for the sylph and question what they were.

The River Master stared out into the rain for a time, motionless, silent, and then he shrugged. “I could heal so much, but not that,” he said quietly. “I did not know how.” Suddenly he looked back again at Ben—and it was as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Why is it that I tell this to you?” he whispered in surprise.

Ben had no idea. He kept silent as the River Master stared at him as if mystified by his even being there. Then the lord of the lake country people seemed simply to dismiss the matter. His voice was flat and cold. “You waste your time with me. Willow will go to her mother. She will go to the old pines and dance.”

“Then I will search for her there,” Ben said. He rose to his feet. The River Master watched him, silent. Ben hesitated. “You need not send a guide with me. I know the way.”

The River Master nodded, still silent. Ben started away, walked a dozen paces from the shelter, stopped, and turned. The single remaining guard had faded back into the trees. The two men were alone. “Would you like to come with me?” Ben asked impulsively.

But the River Master was staring out into the rain again, lost in its dull silver glitter, lost in its patter. The gills on his neck slowed to a barely perceptible flutter. The hard, chiseled face seemed emptied of life.

“He doesn’t hear you,” Edgewood Dirk said suddenly. Ben glanced down in surprise and found the cat at his feet. “He has gone inside of himself to discover where he’s been. It happens like that sometimes after revealing something so carefully guarded for so long.”

Ben frowned. “Carefully guarded? Do you mean what he said about Willow? About her mother?” The frown deepened as he knelt next to the cat. “Dirk, why did he tell me all that? He’s not even sure who I am.”

Dirk looked over at him. “There are many forms of magic in this world, High Lord. Some come in large packages, some in small. Some work with fire and strength of body and heart … and some work with revelation.”

“Yes, but why … ?”

“Listen to me, High Lord! Listen!” Dirk’s voice was a hiss. “So few humans listen to anything a cat has to say. Most only talk to us. They talk to us because we are such good listeners, you see. They find comfort in our presence. We do not question and we do not judge. We simply listen. They talk, and we listen. They tell us everything! They tell us their innermost thoughts and dreams, things they would tell no other. Sometimes, High Lord, they do all this without even understanding why!”

He was still again, and suddenly it occurred to Ben that Dirk wasn’t speaking in general terms, but in very specific ones. He wasn’t talking about just everyone, but about someone definite. His eyes lifted to find the solitary figure of the River Master.

And then he thought suddenly about himself.

“Dirk, what … ?”

“Shhhhhh!” The cat hushed him into silence. “Let the stillness be, High Lord. Do not disturb it. If you are able, listen to its voice—but let it be.”

The cat moved slowly off into the trees, picking his way gingerly over the damp, water-soaked forest earth. Rain fell in steady sheets out of skies clouded over from horizon to horizon, a gray ceiling canopied above the trees. Silence filled the gaps left by the sound of the rain, cloaking the city of Elderew, the houses and tree lanes, the walkways and parks, and the vast, empty amphitheater that loomed behind the still-motionless figure of the River Master. Ben listened as Dirk had said he should and he could almost hear the silence speak.

But what was it saying to him? What was it that he was supposed to learn? He shook his head hopelessly. He didn’t know.

Dirk had disappeared into the haze ahead of him, a pale gray shadow. Abandoning his efforts to listen further, Ben hurried after.