The Tangle Box

“Why do you think it sent us to see the King?” Biggar asked suddenly, as if reading his mind. They passed up the hillside and into a meadow fronting the edges of the forest trees.

Horris exhaled wearily. “How would I know? It told me to go make this pitch to Holiday, so I did. It said to do it, so I did it. You think I was going to argue?”

Biggar didn’t have anything to say to that, which was just as well since Horris Kew’s temper was already on edge from the events of the past twenty-four hours. This was all Biggar’s fault anyway, he was thinking. The channeling scheme, the concoction of Skat Mandu (Skat Mandu, what a joke!), the releasing of that thing, and the return to Landover. Horris didn’t know what game it was they were playing, but he knew it was a dangerous one, coming back to the very last place in the universe they should have come, a place where they were anything but welcome. Except, of course, that the old King was dead and this new one, Holiday, at least seemed willing to consider his petition. No matter. What were they doing here? Sure, this was his homeland and all, but it was not a place that held fond memories. It was a place in which he had been born (luck of the draw, that), had grown up, had gotten himself in considerable trouble, been declared persona non grata, and left under duress. He had been perfectly happy in his new world, in the land of milk and honey and believers of Skat Mandu ready to pay him money for a wisp of smoke and a shimmer of light. He had been well settled, content with himself, his surroundings, and his prospects.

Now what did he have? Nothing. And it was all Biggar’s fault.

Except, of course, it really wasn’t. It was as much his fault as Biggar’s, and that made him even madder.

What was going to happen to him now? What did good old Skat Mandu have planned?

“I really don’t like that dog,” Biggar repeated, and finally lapsed into silence.

They journeyed on through the morning, and as midday passed they reached the Heart. The Heart was sacred ground, the wellspring of Landover’s magic and the touch Stone of her life. It was here that all of Landover’s Kings, including Ben Holiday, had been crowned. It appeared as a clearing amid a forest of giant broad-leaved trees, its perimeter encircled by Bonnie Blues, its floor a mix of green, gold and crimson grasses. A dais stood centermost, formed of gleaming white oak timbers and anchored by polished silver stanchions in which massive white candles had been set. Standards ringed the dais, and from their tips flew the flags of the Kings of Landover in a sea of bright colors. Holiday’s was the newest, a set of balanced scales held forth against a field of green, a nod back to his years as a lawyer in the old life. All about the dais and across the remainder of the clearing were rows of white velvet kneeling pads and rests.

All of it was clean and perfectly kept, as if in anticipation of the next coronation.

Horris Kew entered the Heart and looked around solemnly. A country’s history winked back at him from every polished timber and post. “Take off your hat, Biggar,” he intoned. “We’re in church.”

Biggar looked about doubtfully, sharp eyes gleaming. “Who in the world takes care of this place?”

Horris stared at him and sighed. “What a philistine you are.”

Biggar flew off his shoulder and settled down on one of the velvet rests. “So now you’re resorting to name calling, are you, Horris? That’s really pathetic.”

And very deliberately he relieved himself on the white cushion.

Horris went rigid for a moment, and then his lanky frame uncoiled as if part serpent and his long limbs worked this way and that, like sticks pinned to a rag doll. “I’ve had about all I’m going to take from you, Biggar. How would you like me to wring your worthless neck?’

“How would you like me to peck out your eyes, Horris?”

“You imbecilic jackdaw!”

“You moronic baboon!”

They glared at each other, Horris with his fingers hooked into claws, Biggar with his feathers ruffled and spread. The rage swept through them, then dissipated, evaporating like water on stone in the midday sun. The tension eased from their bodies and was replaced by wonder and a vague sense of uneasiness over the spontaneity of their embarrassing behavior.

“That thing is responsible for this foolishness,” Horris announced quietly. “Good old Skat Mandu.”

“He’s not what I expected, I admit,” Biggar declared solemnly.

“He’s not even ahe . He’s anit .”

“A maggot.”

“A serpent.”

Biggar closed his eyes. “Horris,” he said, a note of wistfulness creeping into his bird voice. “What are we doing here? Wait, don’t say anything until you’ve heard me out. I know how we got here. I understand the mechanics. We let that thing out of the Tangle Box where it was locked away in that patch of fairy mist, and it used the fairy mist to open a door into Landover. I got that part. But what are we doing here? Really, what? Just think about it a moment. This is a dangerous place for us.”