It was too much.
Lionheart leapt forward. He swung his amphora, and it struck one of the guards on the side of the face; then he swung back and hit another. Wine sloshed across the scene, spattering like red blood. Then Lionheart dropped his pitcher and wrested one of the iron bars from the first man. He was trained in swordplay, as these thugs apparently were not. He parried a blow, then jabbed his elbow deep into a man’s stomach before striking another on top of the head. The duke shouted in the background, but Lionheart heard nothing in the frenzy of the moment.
He turned to the Fool, who was curled up in a ball of pain on the floor. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Lionheart knelt down and unsnapped the iron ring from about his neck.
What happened next was like a dream.
Suddenly there was no albino curled up on the floor . . . there was a towering giant, white and billowy, with streaming hair and eyes and fingers as long as zephyrs. It roared a great booming laugh and swept its horrible gaze across the screaming assembly. Its eyes locked with the duke’s, and for a moment the white wind turned red.
The moment passed.
Two arms encircled Lionheart. He could not scream; he could not think. He was borne away through the door in a thunderous gale, his arms wrapped about his head and his eyes squeezed shut. This must be a nightmare; it could not be real!
He dared not open his eyes until the rush of wind and the pounding in his head stopped. He seemed to be standing on solid ground, so he carefully opened first one eye, then the other.
The eastern docks of Capaneus City spread about him. Nearby, sailors and dock crews were busily loading and unloading merchandise and readying sails and tack for lengthy voyages, but this portion of the quayside was quiet. Lionheart turned his head to gaze across the Chiara Bay. Haze lined the horizon where the mountains of Southlands should be visible. It was as though his kingdom had fallen off the edge of the world.
“I am free.”
Lionheart turned back to stare at the one who had spoken. It was difficult to see that strange, fey creature, simultaneously visible and invisible, but huge no matter what.
“You set me free.”
Its voice was that of the duke’s Fool, yet also that of a rolling wind.
“Um,” said Lionheart. “You’re welcome.”
“I will grant you a wish, if I may.”
It was a sylph; the realization hit Lionheart like a thunderclap. A sylph—one of those airy creatures of which he’d heard stories as a child but had believed only existed in the metaphysical sense . . . like dragons. He swallowed, trying to maintain eye contact with the wafting thing so like and so different from the Fool bound by the duke.
“You are in danger now,” said the sylph. “The duke will not forget what you have done in liberating me. Do you wish for safety?”
“Well,” Lionheart said, struggling to speak, “I don’t think so. I mean, I can manage the duke.”
“So you believe.”
“I’ll leave Capaneus somehow. I’ll get work. As a sailor.”
“There is something you long for,” said the sylph. “Something you seek. Tell me. Perhaps I may help you.” Its voice, like gusting breezes, sounded impatient. Lionheart hated to keep it waiting. He thought of what he had seen just now across the Chiara Bay. The wall of smoke where his kingdom once lay.
“I need to know how to kill a dragon,” he said.
The sylph’s wafting face looked sad. “I must remain in your debt,” it said. “That knowledge I may not impart to you.”
Suddenly Lionheart found his arms full of brilliantly colored jester’s motley, and a bell-covered hat plopped on his head. “Iubdan’s beard!” he exclaimed. “What—”
“You said you longed for freedom,” said the sylph. Its voice was more distant now, its face less visible. “This wish I cannot grant either. But perhaps these will help. You closely observed my work as Fool; you have a bright eye and a loud spirit. Take these, the symbols of my enslavement, and may they become the symbols of your freedom.”
Gentle fingers brushed Lionheart’s cheeks, like a summer breeze. “Flee the duke. Do not allow him to see you again. He is a powerful man, more powerful than you think. It is not every mortal who can bind one such as I.”
Another breath of wind, this time like a kiss on Lionheart’s forehead. “Go to Lunthea Maly and seek out the Hidden Temple of Ay-Ibunda. The oracle there . . . she will tell you what you wish to know.”
The sylph was gone. Perhaps it had never existed.
Lionheart stood on the quayside of Capaneus, wondering how long he had been there. He looked down at the armload of bright fabrics and touched the hat on his head.
“Freedom,” he whispered. “Why must it be so elusive?”
He started off at a trot down the docks.
2
THE NETHERWORLD