The palace loomed before him, every window and balcony aglow with light. Among the lords of the city there was feasting and revelry. If Prince Kandive were flushed with drink and unwary, reflected Turjan, the task should not be too difficult. Yet, entering boldly, he might be recognized, for he was known to many in Kaiin. So, uttering Phandaal’s Mantle of Stealth, he faded from the sight of all men.
Through the arcade he slipped, into the grand salon, where the lords of Kaiin made merry like the throngs of the street. Turjan threaded the rainbow of silk, velour, sateen, watching the play with amusement. On a terrace some stood looking into a sunken pool where a pair of captured Deodands, their skins like oiled jet, paddled and glared; others tossed darts at the spread-eagled body of a young Cobalt Mountain witch. In alcoves beflowered girls offered synthetic love to wheezing old men, and elsewhere others lay stupefied by dream-powders. Nowhere did Turjan find Prince Kandive. Through the palace he wandered, room after room, until at last in an upper chamber he came upon the tall golden-bearded prince, lolling on a couch with a masked girl-child who had green eyes and hair dyed pale green.
Some intuition or perhaps a charm warned Kandive when Turjan slipped through the purple hangings. Kandive leapt to his feet.
“Go!” he ordered the girl. “Out of the room quickly! Mischief moves somewhere near and I must blast it with magic!”
The girl ran hastily from the chamber. Kandive’s hand stole to his throat and pulled forth the hidden amulet. But Turjan shielded his gaze with his hand.
Kandive uttered a powerful charm which loosened space free of all warp. So Turjan’s spell was void and he became visible.
“Turjan of Miir skulks through my palace!” snarled Kandive.
“With ready death on my lips,” spoke Turjan. “Turn your back, Kandive, or I speak a spell and run you through with my sword.”
Kandive made as if to obey, but instead shouted the syllables bringing the Omnipotent Sphere about him.
“Now I call my guards, Turjan,” announced Kandive contemptuously, “and you shall be cast to the Deodands in the tank.”
Kandive did not know the engraved band Turjan wore on his wrist, a most powerful rune, maintaining a field solvent of all magic. Still guarding his vision against the amulet, Turjan stepped through the Sphere. Kandive’s great blue eyes bulged.
“Call the guards,” said Turjan. “They will find your body riddled by lines of fire.”
“Your body, Turjan!” cried the Prince, babbling the spell. Instantly the blazing wires of the Excellent Prismatic Spray lashed from all directions at Turjan. Kandive watched the furious rain with a wolfish grin, but his expression changed quickly to consternation. A finger’s breadth from Turjan’s skin the fire-darts dissolved into a thousand gray puffs of smoke.
“Turn your back, Kandive,” Turjan ordered. “Your magic is useless against Laccodel’s Rune.” But Kandive took a step toward a spring in the wall.
“Halt!” cried Turjan. “One more step and the Spray splits you thousandfold!”
Kandive stopped short. In helpless rage he turned his back and Turjan, stepping forward quickly, reached over Kandive’s neck, seized the amulet and raised it free. It crawled in his hand and through the fingers there passed a glimpse of blue. A daze shook his brain, and for an instant he heard a murmur of avid voices … His vision cleared. He backed away from Kandive, stuffing the amulet in his pouch. Kandive asked, “May I now turn about in safety?”
“When you wish,” responded Turjan, clasping his pouch. Kandive, seeing Turjan occupied, negligently stepped to the wall and placed his hand on a spring.
“Turjan,” he said, “you are lost. Before you may utter a syllable, I will open the floor and drop you a great dark distance. Can your charms avail against this?”
Turjan halted in mid-motion, fixed his eyes upon Kandive’s red and gold face. Then he dropped his eyes sheepishly. “Ah, Kandive,” he fretted, “you have outwitted me. If I return you the amulet, may I go free?”
“Toss the amulet at my feet,” said Kandive, gloating. “Also Laccodel’s Rune. Then I shall decide what mercy to grant you.”
“Even the Rune?” Turjan asked, forcing a piteous note to his voice.
“Or your life.”
Turjan reached into his pouch and grasped the crystal Pandelume had given him. He pulled it forth and held it against the pommel of his sword.
“Ho, Kandive,” he said, “I have discerned your trick. You merely wish to frighten me into surrender. I defy you!”
Kandive shrugged. “Die then.” He pushed the spring. The floor jerked open, and Turjan disappeared into the gulf. But when Kandive raced below to claim Turjan’s body, he found no trace, and he spent the rest of the night in temper, brooding over wine.
Turjan found himself in the circular room of Pandelume’s manse. Embelyon’s many-colored lights streamed through the sky-windows upon his shoulder — sapphire blue, the yellow of marigolds, blood red. There was silence through the house. Turjan moved away from the rune in the floor, glancing uneasily to the door, fearful lest Pandelume, unaware of his presence, enter the room.
“Pandelume!” he called. “I have returned!”
There was no response. Deep quiet held the house. Turjan wished he were in the open air where the odor of sorcery was less strong. He looked at the doors; one led to the entrance hall, the other he knew not where. The door on the right hand must lead outside; he laid his hand on the latch to pull it open. But he paused. Suppose he were mistaken, and Pandelume’s form were revealed? Would it be wiser to wait here?
A solution occurred to him. His back to the door, he swung it open.
“Pandelume!” he called.
A soft intermittent sound came to his ears from behind, and he seemed to hear a labored breath. Suddenly frightened, Turjan stepped back into the circular room and closed the door.
He resigned himself to patience and sat on the floor.
A gasping cry came from the next room. Turjan leapt to his feet.
“Turjan? You are there?”
“Yes; I have returned with the amulet.”
“Do this quickly,” panted the voice. “Guarding your sight, hang the amulet over your neck and enter.”
Turjan, spurred by the urgency of the voice, closed his eyes and arranged the amulet on his chest. He groped to the door and flung it wide.
Silence of a shocked intensity held an instant; then came an appalling screech, so wild and demoniac that Turjan’s brain sang. Mighty pinions buffeted the air, there was a hiss and the scrape of metal. Then, amidst muffled roaring, an icy wind bit Turjan’s face. Another hiss — and all was quiet.
“My gratitude is yours,” said the calm voice of Pandelume. “Few times have I experienced such dire stress, and without your aid might not have repulsed that creature of hell.”
