“Was it something I said?” Snowclaw asked.
Six
Long Island
Trent’s house was of dark red brick with black wood trim, and stood on wooded grounds somewhere in the wilds of Nassau County, sea gulls pinwheeling in the sky above it. The interior was tastefully and expensively appointed. An accelerated course in the history of modern painting covered the walls, and various avant-garde sculptures graced tabletops and display pedestals. The furnishings were mostly modern, with dashes of tradition for flavor.
Trent’s study was book-lined and warm, a cheery fire going in the hearth.
“So, you say you’ve had some trouble up at the old place recently?”
Incarnadine took the glass of sherry from Trent and nodded. “It was a full-scale siege. Nearly successful, too.”
“Really? Who was it?”
“Vorn.”
“Prince Vorn of the Hunran Empire?” Trent seated himself in the leather easy chair opposite Incarnadine’s. “I wouldn’t have thought Castle Perilous was worth the bother.”
“He didn’t think so, either. Melydia worked her business on him, and he followed her like a lost, hungry puppy.”
“Amazing. Melydia, huh? She still has it in for you. Hell’s fury has nothing on that woman.”
“Had.”
Trent’s eyebrow’s rose. “Dead?”
“In a sense. She got to the Spell Stone, and —”
“Gods!”
Incarnadine smiled. “Yes,she finally figured it out. She got to it, somehow, and unraveled the transmogrification spell.”
“But … ” Trent was appalled. “That could have meant the end of everything.”
“Almost did.”
Trent waited. “Well, for crying out loud, tell me what happened!”
“It’s a long story. She messed up just enough to give me an edge. I did a little research, and found a good handle by which I could recast the spell almost immediately.”
“That must have taken some doing. But then, you must have seen … it. However momentarily.”
“Oh, yes. I saw it.”
Trent sat back. “Ramthonodox,” he murmured.
“The Ancient Beast, the Primal Demon. Ramthonodox, Hell-spawned enemy of man. Old Brimstone Breath himself.”
“It must have been an awful sight, in the true sense. Inspiring awe.”
“It was. It did.”
“Yet,” Trent went on, “perhaps thrilling, in some strange, subliminal way?”
Incarnadine considered it. “I wasn’t very thrilled at the time.”
“Not the tiniest bit? The primal force, the unlimited power of it —”
“Maybe a little. Evil has its attractions. But pure evil is a little heady even for the likes of us. Besides, evil really isn’t a force, is it? It’s more like entropy; the undoing of things.”
“Depends on your philosophical point of view, I suppose. Still, it must have been … stimulating, in any event.” Trent took a sip of whiskey. “But you managed to fix up the spell and reconstitute the castle. So Castle Perilous is still a place to hang your hat in, not a demon running around loose.”
“Right. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“So you are. What about Vorn and his minions — I presume he brought his army with him, and not just an overnight bag?”
“There was a slight but unavoidable delay in recasting the transmogrification spell.”
“Oh, I’ll bet,” Trent said, grinning malevolently.
“Ramthonodox had a good time out there on the plains. Nothing left of Vorn or … well, there wasn’t much left of anything after old Rammy was through.”
Trent shook his head slowly. “And Melydia?”
“Strangest thing. After it was all over, I heard her voice in the castle. Can’t exactly figure out what happened to her. Got caught up in the spell somehow.”
“Justice. The poetic kind, too.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well.” Trent smiled at his brother. “It’s nice to see you again, Inky.”
“You haven’t called me that in … hell, I hate to think how long.”
“About a century and a half? Longer.”
“Not since you and I were at university,” Incarnadine said.
“Which one? The one in Hunra, where we learned magic, or at Cambridge, where we read natural philosophy?”
“I never liked Hunra much, I must say.”
“Neither did I. It was a good thing Dad was so keen on us learning the ways of nonmagic universes.”
“Of which this one is the most nonmagical,” Incarnadine said.
“Well, Dad had a fondness for Earth generally, and for western European culture specifically.”
“Not surprising, since this culture bears some resemblance to our own. He once told me he spent some time in England. That’s why he gave us all English names, he said.” Incarnadine sampled the sherry, then continued, “I’ve always thought he must have been Merlin.”
“You think?” Trent thought it over. “Fantastic. I’d never considered it. But when you consider the time frame —” He shrugged it off. “Dad never did tell us how old he was, and I’m not particularly interested in researching his exploits.”
There was a pause as Incarnadine stared into the fire. Then he asked, “Do you still hate me, Trent?”
“Whatever led you to believe I hated you?”
“Just a feeling.”
Trent looked away. “I don’t hate you, Inky. You did come between me and my ambitions … once.” He sighed. “But that was centuries ago. I’m happy here. You can see that. The gateway disappeared, and I didn’t know it for five years. I never planned on going back, you see.”
Incarnadine nodded. “But when I die?”
“Do you plan on dying soon?”
“No.”
“Well? Yes,I suppose I’m next in line for the succession, but I’m not interested. If I were —” Trent grinned cordially. “ — I’d simply kill you now.”
“You could, I suppose. Easily. No one knows I’m here. Officially I don’t exist in this world.”
Trent got up and went to the bar. “Forget it. I’ve no interest in taking possession of a huge, drafty old castle that’s a cross between a carnival sideshow and a sci fi movie.” He made himself another whiskey and soda. “Besides, I own my share of useless real estate up in the Bronx. At least I can hire a guy to torch an abandoned apartment building.”
Trent’s oriental servant opened the door and poked his head in. “Dinner, sir,” he said.
“Thank you, Phan,” Trent answered as the door closed, then downed his drink in three swallows. “Well, shall we go in and eat?”
Dinner was superb, and mostly silent. There did not seem to be much more to talk about until coffee was served.
“Good food,” Incarnadine said.
“Phan does a good job. He was raised in a French Catholic mission in Phnom Penh — learned to cook Parisian.”
“Best coq au vin I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll tell him.” Trent lit a cigar and puffed thoughtfully. “When was the last time you heard from anyone else in the family?”
“Oh, not so long ago. Dorcas dropped in a while back.”
“How is our dear elder sister? She still married to that fat potentate who copulates with animals?”
“Nobody ever approves of in-laws. Besides, it’s a religious ritual, common in his land.”
“Disgusting. How about Ferne?”
“She hasn’t shown up in years. I fear for her. She was a wild one.”
“Oh, I’ve a notion Ferne’s okay … somewhere. And Deems?”
“Deems is still King of Albion, and loves it. He’ll never leave the place. I don’t blame him, it’s pretty nice.” Incarnadine drank the last of his coffee and sat back. “Then there’s Uncle Jarlath —”
“To hell with Uncle Jarlath and the rest of the fossils. I couldn’t care less.”