"Hell's kittens," Cezer remarked, "we were always one. At odds with each other, sometimes. Quarrelsome and bitchy. Nasty and mean-spirited. Argumentative and—"
"We get the picture, Cezer," Mamakitty declared, interrupting him.
"You know what I mean," the uncharacteristically solemn swordsman muttered. "A household."
No one said anything, but Cocoa quietly hugged Samm. Mamakitty smiled and nodded knowingly at Taj, while a newly ebullient Oskar spread his arms wide to embrace Cezer.
Holding his nose and wrinkling up his face, the swordsman hurried to duck away from the dog-man's effusive reach.
Friends they might be, companions in peril and comrades in arms—but a cat had its limits.
As the surge of color exploded from above the little house in the deep forest, it expanded and grew, piling up higher and higher upon itself in great frothy curls of azure and gold, scarlet and saffron, ocher and maroon. It gushed across the Gowdlands in a spreading prismatic wave so vivid it bordered on iridescence. And wherever it passed, color returned to the world.
Redbirds and cardinals again became worthy of their names. Pigs turned a healthy pink, goldfish gleamed in their bowls, and children inspired to resume their laughing and playing no longer wore expressions gray-washed by despair. The return of color brought forth laughter, laughter brought forth joy, and joy a lifting of the curse of depression that was worse than the absence of color itself. Hue and tint returned to conversation as well as complexions. Buildings brightly painted suddenly glowed anew with fresh life. From worm to washerwoman, the world was reinvigorated, as everyone and everything that had slumbered beneath the curse of the Mundurucu began to reawaken to the thrill of a colorful existence.
With the return of the glorious tints of natural life, musicians were inspired once more to make music. Hope returned to disconsolate painters in concert with their pigments. Accountants again took pleasure in the compiling of figures. The absence of color had not been a small thing in people's lives, and its sudden and unexpected return was the occasion for great rejoicing. Many were the children born that day who were joyously christened with the forename "Rainbow" or "Red" or some other descriptive reminder of the unexpected miracle.
Coloration returned to the rivers, to the fish and frogs that dwelled within them, to the trees and flowers that lined their banks, and even to the somber fortress of Malostranka that loomed above them. It flooded back into the faces of the melancholy refugees huddled within its sheer stone walls, reanimated the arms and armor of its defenders, and struck with unwholesome spots of mottled brown and green the gargoylish faces of those who besieged it.
No one, from the lowliest kitchen drudge sorting through the fortress's dwindling supplies to the most toadlike spear-carrier farting his way through the front ranks of the blockading Horde, escaped the import of the atmospheric transmutation. The latter drew much of their strength and determination from the knowledge that none could stand against the might of the Khaxan Mundurucu. When they were confronted with undeniable evidence to the contrary, a disorderly and disturbed murmuring arose among them that their officers were unable to suppress with fulminations and whips.
Within the castle Malostranka, Valkounin the Strong, resplendent in battle gear to which every glaze and patina had been restored, appeared before Princess Petrine, his face flushed with excitement and barely repressed zeal.
"Your Highness, something—we know not what—has broken the hex laid upon the Gowdlands by the Khaxan Mundurucu. Those of us who have survived to defend this fortress are the best, the toughest, and the most determined warriors remaining." Helmet tucked firmly in the crook of his left arm, he drew himself up to his full height. Around him and hanging from the rafters were myriad banners to which full glory had been restored. "I have been deputed to request your permission to mount a sortie, in an attempt to drive from our doorstep an enemy that is at present clearly flustered. If it should prove successful, we propose to move against the Horde in strength and push them out of the province. As word of our victories spreads, the dispirited folk of the Gowdlands will flock to join us."
Princess Petrine, who was wise beyond her youth and beauty, rubbed her fine, pale chin with one delicate finger. "What if this is a trick of the Mundurucu, to draw us out of the castle so they can destroy us?"
Terwell Dhradvin of the Barony of Umbersaar stepped forward to stand alongside Valkounin. "Reports are already flooding in to those few masters of magic who have survived among us, Your Highness. Everywhere throughout the Gowdlands, the curse is broken. If this is simply a ruse meant to draw us forth, why risk rebellion throughout the civilized countries by lifting the curse everywhere? Why not simply do it here, since we are the only fighters left who need be deceived?"
From behind the two general officers, a rejuvenated Captain Slale spoke up. For the first time in a very long while, he had something to live for. Why he spoke out of turn, and out of rank, he later could not say—only that his outburst seemed to have been prompted by memories of a silver box, and a handful of dust.
"Your Highness, I have looked through far-seeing glasses from atop the fortress walls. The enemy's confusion is too widespread to be faked. Some of them can even be seen to be deserting in the direction of distant Kyll-Bar-Bennid."
Muscles taut, Valkounin took a step forward. "Strike now, your Highness! Before they have a chance to regroup. Before the Khaxan Mundurucu themselves arrive to take charge of the siege and endeavor to resuscitate their hex."
Princess Petrine rose slowly, her pale embroidered robes, to which full brilliance had been restored, trailing about her. "Take charge of the brave fighters who still stand, and drive the heinous besiegers from our walls, bold warriors of the Gowdlands. I grant permission—on one condition."
Valkounin the Strong eyed the princess uncertainly. "Your Highness?"
Eyes glistening, she extended her right hand. "My backside is sore and blistered from doing nothing but sitting on this damned unyielding throne. Find me a sword!"
Within the crenellated tower rooms that occupied the highest point of the fabled castle Burgoylod, atop the central hill that dominates the great trading city of Kyll-Bar-Bennid, the Khaxan Mundurucu were taking their detestable ease when pint-size Klegl came running in from outside, his expression all wheeze and spittle.
"Brethren, my brethren! Kobkale and Kmeliog, Kwort and Kmotho—all of you, come quick, quick come!"
Displeased by the manic interruption, no less so because it came from one of his own, Kobbod rose from the backs of the whimpering young human children on whose ribs he had been composing a musical interlude and followed the squat, distraught Klegl outside. Kobkale and the others of the Clan who were present joined him, muttering various and inventive calumnies under their collective fetid breath. Their intention to pummel the obstreperous Klegl severely was forgotten as soon as they saw what had so unsettled him.
Approaching from the southeast, a veritable tsunami of roiling, coruscating color was rushing in all directions—including straight toward the castle. The fantastical phenomenon filled the sky, transfiguring the gray clouds as it embraced them, washing over and transforming any birds or treetops in its path. His heavy lower jaw dropping, Kobkale stared in disbelief as the onrushing chromatic juggernaut came screaming toward him. At the last instant he threw up his thick, short arms to protect his face. Around him, other clan members gasped or squealed in alarm.
The spectral surge passed over the castle with a great sigh and continued on its way toward the most distant reaches of the Gowdlands. When Kobkale lowered his arms and opened his eyes, he saw to his shock that the massive stone fortifications once more glittered with colorful crystalline inclusions. Color had returned to the pennants that hung limply from staffs, to the noisome liquids that stained the harsh stone underfoot, to the wood that framed certain of the windows—even to his own clothing.