this evil essence, so be prepared for a less than vital man. He is still quite strong, though."
"You didn't tell me he was ill!"
"It is not—exactly—illness. You will see. I'll fetch him." And with that, he left her standing there.
She stared at the books with a mixture of awe and apprehension, asalways, knowing that within those pages were the very Kauri defined and limited, and also up there, in some form or another, were the Rules for almost all that had happened to them over the year since she and Joe had first been brought here to battle the Dark Baron.
What a grand campaign it had been, too! For all the horrors and slipups and nasty surprises, it had been in many ways a remarkable experience, the kind few people got a crack at in their lifetimes.
She'd always promised herself that she'd learn the Husaquahrian written tongue and read those Rules someday, but she never had. Why not? She couldn't really say, but somehow it just hadn't seemed important for her to do so.
It hadn't seemed important to do much of anything, in fact.
That bothered her, although she was having trouble even determining why it should bother her.
In fact, until Ruddygore's summons had brought it all back, even those past exploits had faded into memories that she barely considered anymore. For the first year or so after the final showdown in the cold wastes she'd been pretty faithful in keeping in touch here, checking on Irving, dropping in to talk over old times with the likes of Poquah and Ruddygore, and even keeping in some sort of contact with Macore.
Over time, though, things hadn't so much stopped as faded out. The visits had become fewer and farther between; the conversations—when they did come—more basic, less substantial; and, finally, it had just stopped altogether. She couldn't remember the last time she'd even dreamed in English or thought much in that language. It wasn't that the old Marge wasn't there anymore, it was just that she had been, well, filed away somewhere under old times and rarely was brought out except for infrequent reunions.
Was that bad? She didn't really know. She was a Kauri, pretty well indistinguishable from all her sister Kauris and doing what Kauris did. Not only was that not going to change, she enjoyed it. Was the price, the loss of individuality, too great? She wasn't sure. It didn't seem so, yet something in her old prechangeling Texas upbringing said it should be.
Throckmorton P. Ruddygore always made an impressive appearance even when he was feeling off. A huge man, well over six feet in height and impossible to guess in girth, he always reminded Marge of Santa Claus living the good life in the off-season. His thick but carefully managed flowing white beard and long, snow-white hair only added to the impression, and even in the worst of times his eyes seemed to twinkle with the suggestion that he was enjoying some cosmic joke at everyone else's expense.
"Marge! How good it is to see you again!" the sorcerer exclaimed, sounding both sincere and delighted. "I'm very glad that you could come." He went over, took her hand, and, bending down, kissed it softly. It was a very nice gesture, but it also served asa reminder of just how huge a man he was compared to her or, frankly, almost anybody else.
"I'm glad to be back for a bit," she responded, smiling. "But let's face it, when you're the one calling, it's not like I'm going to ignore it!"
He grinned and pulled over a huge, high-backed padded chair and then sank into it. The chair, made of the hardest woods and of ancient lineage that had borne the weight of sorcerers and kings, nonetheless sagged and almost seemed ready to scream in protest.
"You'll pardon my manners," he said more softly. "I'm sure that Poquah has already told you that I'm well off my feed of late."
"You do look and sound unusually tired," Marge admitted to him. "This new pall seems to sap the very energy out
"You didn't tell me he was ill!"
"It is not—exactly—illness. You will see. I'll fetch him." And with that, he left her standing there.
She stared at the books with a mixture of awe and apprehension, asalways, knowing that within those pages were the very Kauri defined and limited, and also up there, in some form or another, were the Rules for almost all that had happened to them over the year since she and Joe had first been brought here to battle the Dark Baron.
What a grand campaign it had been, too! For all the horrors and slipups and nasty surprises, it had been in many ways a remarkable experience, the kind few people got a crack at in their lifetimes.
She'd always promised herself that she'd learn the Husaquahrian written tongue and read those Rules someday, but she never had. Why not? She couldn't really say, but somehow it just hadn't seemed important for her to do so.
It hadn't seemed important to do much of anything, in fact.
That bothered her, although she was having trouble even determining why it should bother her.
In fact, until Ruddygore's summons had brought it all back, even those past exploits had faded into memories that she barely considered anymore. For the first year or so after the final showdown in the cold wastes she'd been pretty faithful in keeping in touch here, checking on Irving, dropping in to talk over old times with the likes of Poquah and Ruddygore, and even keeping in some sort of contact with Macore.
Over time, though, things hadn't so much stopped as faded out. The visits had become fewer and farther between; the conversations—when they did come—more basic, less substantial; and, finally, it had just stopped altogether. She couldn't remember the last time she'd even dreamed in English or thought much in that language. It wasn't that the old Marge wasn't there anymore, it was just that she had been, well, filed away somewhere under old times and rarely was brought out except for infrequent reunions.
Was that bad? She didn't really know. She was a Kauri, pretty well indistinguishable from all her sister Kauris and doing what Kauris did. Not only was that not going to change, she enjoyed it. Was the price, the loss of individuality, too great? She wasn't sure. It didn't seem so, yet something in her old prechangeling Texas upbringing said it should be.
Throckmorton P. Ruddygore always made an impressive appearance even when he was feeling off. A huge man, well over six feet in height and impossible to guess in girth, he always reminded Marge of Santa Claus living the good life in the off-season. His thick but carefully managed flowing white beard and long, snow-white hair only added to the impression, and even in the worst of times his eyes seemed to twinkle with the suggestion that he was enjoying some cosmic joke at everyone else's expense.
"Marge! How good it is to see you again!" the sorcerer exclaimed, sounding both sincere and delighted. "I'm very glad that you could come." He went over, took her hand, and, bending down, kissed it softly. It was a very nice gesture, but it also served asa reminder of just how huge a man he was compared to her or, frankly, almost anybody else.
"I'm glad to be back for a bit," she responded, smiling. "But let's face it, when you're the one calling, it's not like I'm going to ignore it!"
He grinned and pulled over a huge, high-backed padded chair and then sank into it. The chair, made of the hardest woods and of ancient lineage that had borne the weight of sorcerers and kings, nonetheless sagged and almost seemed ready to scream in protest.
"You'll pardon my manners," he said more softly. "I'm sure that Poquah has already told you that I'm well off my feed of late."
"You do look and sound unusually tired," Marge admitted to him. "This new pall seems to sap the very energy out
Similar Books
