Night Mare Part 15

"We should have had that mirror fixed long ago," Chem muttered. "But it seemed like such a ch.o.r.e when we didn't have any emergency."

"Life is ever thus," Chet said. "We've got to reach him. He's got to be King again, at least until King Dor gets better, and he'll have to stop the Nextwave from crossing the Gap Chasm."

"Dor's not getting better," Grundy said. "Queen Iris tried everything to bring King Trent around, but the healer says it's an ensorcellment, not an illness, and we don't know the counterspell."

"I can reach the Zombie Master," Imbri projected. "I have been to his castle before, delivering dreams to his wife."

"His wife is Millie the Ghost!" Chet protested. "Surely she doesn't have bad dreams!"

"She worries about the mischief her children may get into," Imbri sent.

"Now that's worth worrying about!" Chem agreed. "They visited Castle Roogna some years back, and I'm not sure the place has recovered yet. Those twins must drive even the zombies to distraction!"

"We have to get news to the Magician that the onus has fallen on him again," Grundy said. "He won't believe Imbri alone. He doesn't know her, and will think it's just another bad dream."

"He'll believe Irene," Chet said. "But I don't know whether she--"

"She's all broken up right now," Chem said. "I don't think she can handle it."

"There's Chameleon," Chet said. "But she's lost her son--"

Chem shook her head. "There's more to Chameleon than shows. But she's not yet out of her pretty phase. That means--"

"We all know what that means!" Grundy cut in. "But maybe it's better for her to be busy while her husband is away in Mundania."

"Cynically put," Chem said. "Still, we could ask her. The need is pressing."

They asked her. Chameleon, pale from reaction to her son's sudden fate, nevertheless did not hesitate. "I'll go."

Just like that, Imbri and Chameleon were traveling again, this time without other companions. They had delayed three hours until nightfall, for that was the night mare's best traveling time, and with the gourds, the distance did not matter. Imbri filled up on hay and oats, and Chameleon forced herself to eat, too, preparing herself for the excursion.

At dusk they went out, going to the nearest patch of hypnogourds. As darkness thickened, Imbri phased through the peephole and galloped across another segment of the gourd world. She regretted she couldn't stop to check in with the Night Stallion and report on her recent activities. But he surely knew, and he could send another night mare to contact her any time he needed to.

The gourds ushered any ordinary peeper into a continuing tour, locked to the particular person. If someone broke eye contact, he reverted immediately to the world of Xanth, but if he looked into any gourd again, he would find himself exactly where he left off. Imbri was not bound by that; she was pa.s.sing strictly from one gourd to another, and the terrain was incidental. But she was carrying Chameleon, and this influenced the landscape; they were in the region they had left before--the burning iceberg.

But the amorphous ent.i.ties that reached for Chameleon no longer frightened her. "I have lost my son," she said simply. "What worse can the likes of you do to me?"

Imbri realized that the woman was smarter than she had been. She was also less lovely, though still quite good-looking for her age. Every day made a difference with her, and several days had pa.s.sed since their last journey together.

The amorphous shapes gaped and grabbed, but were helpless against the woman's disdain. Also, Imbri and her rider were not completely solid here; nothing in the gourd could touch them physically.

Imbri galloped on over the iceberg and down the far slope. Now they came to the stonemasons' region. The stonemasons were made of stone, and worked with wood and metal and flesh, as was reasonable. Some were fashioning a fancy backdrop set painted with horrendous fleshly monsters, the stage scenery for some of the worst dreams. There was, of course, no sense wasting effort bringing in real monsters when they weren't going to be used; the pictures were just as good in this case.

Chameleon stared at these with dull curiosity. "Why do they work so hard to make dreams people don't like?" she asked.

"If people didn't suffer bad dreams, they would never improve their ways or prepare for emergencies," Imbri explained. "The dreams scare them into behaving better and warn them about possible calamities. There's a lot of evil in people, waiting to take over unless they are always on guard against it."

"Oh. Like not fixing the magic mirror."

Well, that was close enough. Probably a warning dream should have been sent about that, but of course it was hard for the Night Stallion to keep up with every minor detail of a crisis. People did have to do some things on their own initiative, after all.

They moved on past the stonemasons and into a region of boiling mud. Green and purple ma.s.ses of it burst out in messy bubbles, and bilious yellow currents flowed between them. Imbri's hooves didn't even splash, however; she didn't need a mud bath. "What's this for?"

"This is the very best throwing-mud," Imbri explained. "It is impossible to hurl a glob of it without getting almost as much on yourself as on your target. Most people, after a messy experience with this, start to mend their ways."

"Most?"

"A few are addicted to mud. They wallow in it constantly."

"They can't have many friends."

"That's the funny thing! They have almost as many friends as the clean people. The trouble is, the friends are all the same kind of people."

"But who would want that kind of friend?"

"n.o.body. That's the beauty of it."

Chameleon smiled. She was definitely getting smarter.

They raced on through a tangle of carnivorous vines and out another peephole. They were back in Xanth proper, in sight of the Zombie Master's new castle.

It looked just about the way an edifice constructed by zombies should look. The stones were slimy green and crumbling; the wood was wormy and rotten. The hinges on the door and the bars on the windows were so badly rusted and corroded they were hardly useful or even recognizable. The moat was a putrid pool of gray gunk.

"This is certainly the place," Chameleon remarked.

Imbri picked her way through the surrounding gravesites and across the bedraggled drawbridge. She remained phased out, so that she had virtually no weight; otherwise it could have been a risky crossing.

A zombie guard met them at the main entrance. "Halsh!" it cried, losing part of its decayed epiglottis in the effort of breath and speech.

"Oh, I never liked zombies very well," Chameleon said. But she nerved herself to respond to the thing. "We came to see the Zombie Master. It's urgent."

"Thish waa," the zombie said. It turned, dropping a piece of its arm on the ground. Zombies had the ability to lose material continually without losing ma.s.s; it was part of their magic.

They followed it into the castle. Once they got past the decrepit outer wall, an amazing change occurred. The stone became firm and clear and the wood solid and polished. Healthy curtains draped the hall. There was no further sign of rot.

"Millie must have laid down the law," Chameleon murmured. "He has his way outside, she has it her way inside. A good compromise, the kind men and women often arrive at."

"Eh?" something inquired.

They both looked. A huge human ear had sprouted from the wall, and a mouth opened to the side.

Chameleon laughed. "Tell your mother she has visitors, Hi," she said.

Imbri remembered now: the Zombie Master had twin children, eleven years old, named Hiatus and Lacuna.

"Then sign in, dummy," the lips said.

There ahead of them was a big guest book. Chameleon dismounted, going to the book. "Oh, see who has signed in before!" she exclaimed. "Satan, Lucifer, Gabriel, Jack the Ripper, King Roogna--"

"Lacky's talent is changing print," Imbri reminded her in a dreamlet.

"Oh, of course; I remember," Chameleon said. She signed the book, watching to make sure her signature didn't change to something awful. Then Imbri set her right forehoof on the page, imprinting her signature-map of the moon, with MARE IMBRIUM highlighted.

"Chameleon! I'm so glad to see you again!" It was Millie, no longer a ghost. Her talent was s.e.x appeal, and, like Chameleon, she remained true to her nature as she matured. She was now about eight hundred and forty years old, with only the forty really counting, and looked as pretty as her visitor.

The two women hugged each other. "It's been so long!" Chameleon exclaimed. "Hasn't it been eight years since you visited Castle Roogna?"

"And then only because Jonathan had to be King for a while. That was simply awful! He doesn't like indulging in politics."

Chameleon sobered. "I have bad news for you, Millie."

Millie looked at her, quickly turning serious herself. "You came on business!"

"Terrible business. I apologize."

"The King--"

"Is ill. Too ill to rule."

"Your son Dor--"

"Is similarly ill."

"Chameleon, that's horrible! But--"

"The Zombie Master must be King now, as he was before, until the crisis is past."

Millie looked stricken. "King Trent--he was getting old--we knew that sometime he would--but your son is in his prime--"

"He was ensorcelled."

Millie stared at her for a long moment. Then her face began losing its cohesion, as if she were becoming a ghost again. "I was Dor's governess! I always liked him--and he rescued Jonathan for me. He fetched the elixir that made Jonathan whole. And in doing that, he gave me back my happiness. I really owe him everything. How could something like that happen to him?"

"He got married. Then he was King. Then he won a battle against the Nextwave. Then he--"

"Oh, Chameleon!" Millie cried, horror-stricken. Now at last Chameleon collapsed, her burden shared.

"My son! What will I do without my son? I was ready to, to let him be married, but this--he's almost dead!" She was crying openly now.

Millie embraced her again, joining her in tears. "Oh, I know what it is to be almost dead! Oh, Chameleon, I'm so sorry!"

Imbri did not wish sorrow on anyone; that was part of what had made her lose her effectiveness on dream duty. It seemed she had been thrust into a reality with horrors worse than those of dreams. She had worried about Chameleon's lack of reaction to Dor's loss. Now she realized that Chameleon had come to the right place; Millie the Ghost had known Dor almost as closely as his mother had. Shared grief was easier to bear than isolated grief.

A man appeared in the far doorway. He was of middle age, dourly handsome, and wearing a black suit. He was the Zombie Master, the Magician from Xanth's past.

"You are a night mare," the Zombie Master said to Imbri. "I am familiar with your kind. Speak to me in your fashion."

Imbri realized that it would be some time before the women were able to communicate intelligibly. Quickly she sent a dream that summarized the situation, showing pictures of Kings Trent and Dor lying mindlessly on beds in Castle Roogna, with the grieving widows sitting beside them. Xanth needed a new King.

"I had hoped this type of crisis would not come again," the Zombie Master said gravely. "I have seen prior Waves, in life and death. This one must be abated. I will go with you to Castle Roogna tonight. Chameleon can remain here with my family."

"But you must bring your zombies!" Imbri sent.

"I fear there is no time for that. At any rate, most of them are already at Castle Roogna. They will have to do the job."

"But how will Chameleon get home, when--?"

"We have Magician Humfrey's magic carpet here, on loan but never returned. She can use that when she is ready. But she will be more comfortable here for the time being, I believe."

"I don't know--" Imbri demurred.

"If what you tell me is true, I am now King Pro Tem. Balk me not, mare."

That was the truth. King Jonathan the Zombie Master bade farewell to his wife and children, then mounted Imbri, who trotted out into the night. She returned to the gourd patch, warned the Zombie Master not to be alarmed at what he might perceive, and dived in.

This time they entered Phantom Land. The phantoms swooped in, howling.

"Say, haven't I seen you before?" the Zombie Master asked, looking directly at one phantom. The thing paused, startled.

"They are trying to scare you," Imbri sent.

"Naturally. I am in the same business." He concentrated on the phantom. "Beside Specter Lake, about seven hundred years ago. I was the zombie Jonathan, keeping company with a ghost. You--"

The phantom brightened, literally. It remembered.

"But that was in Xanth," the Zombie Master continued. "How did you get in here?"

The phantom made a gesture of holding an object and of looking closely at it.

"Oh--you peeped into a gourd," the Zombie Master said. "And got trapped inside."

The phantom nodded.

"But I suppose one place is as good as another for your kind," the Zombie Master concluded. "You can operate here as readily as in Xanth, and you, have companions of your own kind. And the useful occupation of acting in cautionary dreams."

The phantom made a gesture of appreciative agreement. Someone understood! Then it moved on, evidently having business elsewhere. Dreams were too important to be delayed by social meetings.

Imbri moved on also. She should have known that the Magician would not be frightened by routine horrors!

They pa.s.sed through a region of spinning nebulae, avoiding the brightest and hottest of them. Then on into a forest so thick with giant spiders that Imbri had to weave between their legs to get through. Then on out the peephole of a gourd near Castle Roogna, and to the castle itself.

"You certainly have an efficient mode of travel," the Zombie Master remarked.

The two widows were grieving by the two Kings, dry-eyed and sleepless, exactly as Imbri had shown them in her dream for the new King. Imbri brought the Zombie Master right into the bedroom where both Kings lay like corpses, side by side.

The Zombie Master dismounted and approached. "This ascension is not of my choosing," he said to the women. "Allow me to verify their condition. Perhaps they can be revived."

He put his hand on Dor's forehead. "He does not respond to my power. He is not dead."