text: In midday, weary but hopeful, they reached Castle Ocna. This was less imposing than Castle Onesti, but still formidable. The outer wall was far too high for them to scale. "Me bash to trash," Smash offered confidently.
  
  "No," Dor said. "That would alert the whole castle and bring a hundred arrows down on us." He glanced at Arnolde, who seemed to be doing all right; no infection was in evidence. But they wanted no more arrows! "We'll wait until night and operate quietly. They'll be expecting our attack, but won't know exactly what form it will take. If we can bring the magic aisle to cover King Trent, he'll be able to take it from there."
  
  "But we don't know where in the castle he is," Irene protested anxiously.
  
  "That's my job," Grundy said. "I'll sneak in and scout about and let you know by nightfall. Then we'll wrap this up without trouble."
  
  It seemed like a good idea. The others settled themselves for a meal and a rest, while the golem insinuated his way into the castle. Arnolde, perhaps more greatly weakened by his injury than he showed, slept. Smash always conked out when he had nothing physical to do. Dor and Irene were awake and alone again.
  
  It occurred to Dor that bringing the magic aisle to bear on King Trent might not necessarily solve the problem. King Trent could change the jailor to a slug—but the cell would still be locked. Queen Iris might make a griffin seem to appear—but that would not unlock the cells. More thinking needed to be done.
  
  They lay on the slope, in the concealment of one of the huge ancestral oaks, and the world was deceptively peaceful. "Do you really think it will work?" Irene asked worriedly. "The closer I get, the more I fear something dreadful will happen."
  
  Dor decided he couldn't afford to agree with her. "We have fought our way here," he said. "It can't go for nothing."
  
  "We have had no omens of success—" She paused. "Or have we? Omen—King Omen—can he have anything to do with it?"
  
  "Anything is possible with magic. And we have brought magic to this Kingdom."
  
  She shook her head. "I swing back and forth, full of hope and doubt. You just keep going on, never suffering the pangs of uncertainty, and you do generally get there. We'll make a good match."
  
  No uncertainty? He was made of uncertainty! But again, he didn't want to undermine what little confidence Irene was grasping for. "We have to succeed. Otherwise I would be King. You wouldn't want that."
  
  She rolled over, fetching up next to him, shedding leaves and grass. She grabbed him by the ears and kissed him. "I'd settle for that, Dor."
  
  He looked at her, startled. She was disheveled and lovely. She had always been the aggressor in their relationship, first in quarreling, more recently in romance. Did he really want it that way?
  
  He grabbed her and pulled her back down to him, kissing her savagely. At first she was rigid with surprise; then she melted. She returned his kiss and his embrace, becoming something very special and exciting.
  
  It would have been easy to go on from there. But a note of caution sounded in Dor's mind. In the course of assorted adventures he had come to appreciate the value of timing, and this was not the proper time for what offered. "First we rescue your father," he murmured in her ear.
  
  That brought her up short. "Yes, of course. So nice of you to remind me."
  
  Dor suspected he had misplayed it, but as usual, all he could do was bull on. "Now we can sleep, so as to be ready for tonight."
  
  "Whatever you say," she agreed. But she did not release him. "Dear."
  
  Dor considered, and realized he was comfortable as he was. A strand of Irene's green-tinted hair fell across his face, smelling pleasantly of girl. Her breathing was soft against him. He felt that he could not ask for a better mode of relaxation.
  
  But she was waiting for something. Finally he decided what it was. "Dear," he said.
  
  She nodded, and closed her eyes. Yes, he was learning! He lay still, and soon he slept.
  
  "Now aren't we cozy!" Grundy remarked.
  
  Dor and Irene woke with a joint start. "We were just sleeping together," she said.
  
  "And you admit it!" the golem exclaimed.
  
  "Well, we are engaged, you know. We can do what we like together."
  
  Dor realized that she was teasing the golem, so he stayed out of it. What did it matter what other people thought? What passed between himself and the girl he loved was their own business.
  
  "I'll have to tell your father," Grundy said, nettled.
  
  Suddenly Dor had pause to reconsider. This was the daughter of the King!
  
  "I'll tell him myself, you wad of string and clay!" Irene snapped. "Did you find him?"
  
  "Maybe I shouldn't tell a bad girl like you."
  
  "Maybe I should grow a large flytrap plant and feed you to it," Irene replied.
  
  That fazed the golem. "I found them all. In three cells, the way the three of you were, one in each cell. Queen Iris, King Trent, and King Omen."
  
  Irene sat up abruptly, disengaging from Dor. "Are they all right?"
  
  Grundy frowned. "The men are. They have been through privation before. The Queen is not pleased with her situation."
  
  "She wouldn't be," Irene agreed. "But are they all right physically? They haven't been starved, or anything?"
  
  "Well, they were a bit closemouthed about that," the golem said. "But the Queen seems to have lost weight. She was getting fat anyway, so that's all right, but I guess she hasn't been fed much. And I saw a crust of bread she left. It was moldy. The flies are pretty thick in there, too; must be a lot of maggots around."
  
  Irene got angry. "They have no right to treat royalty like that!"
  
  "Something else I picked up," Grundy said. "The guard who feeds them—it seems he eats what he wants first, and gives them the leavings. Sometimes he spits on it, or rubs dirt in it, just to aggravate them. They have to eat the stuff anyway or starve. Once he even urinated in their drinking water, right where they could see him, to be sure they knew what they were drinking. He doesn't speak, he just shows his contempt by his actions."
  
  "I have heard of this technique," Arnolde said. "It is the process of degradation. If you can destroy a person's pride, you can do with him what you will. Pride is the backbone of the spirit. Probably King Oary is trying to get King Omen to sign a document of abdication, just in case there is ever any challenge to King Oary's legitimacy."
  
  "Why is he keeping the others alive, then?" Dor asked, appalled by both the method and the rationale. Mundanes played politics in an ugly fashion.
  
  "Well, we have seen how he operates. If he lets the three spend time together and become friends, then he can use the others as leverage against King Omen. Remember how you told me he was going to torture Irene to make you talk?"
  
  "He's going to torture my parents?" Irene demanded, aghast.
  
  "I dislike formulating this notion, but it is a prospect."
  
  Irene was silent, smoldering. Dor decided, regretfully, to tackle the problem of freeing the prisoners. "I hoped King Trent could use his power to break out, but I'm not sure how transformation of people can unlock doors. If we can figure out a way—"
  
  "Elementary," Arnolde said. "The King can transform the Queen to a mouse. She runs out through a crevice. Then he transforms her back, and she opens the cells from the outside. If there are guards, he can transform her to a deadly monster to dispatch them."
  
  So simple! Why hadn't he, Dor, thought of that?
  
  Irene shifted gears, in the manner of her sex, becoming instantly practical. "Who is in the cell closet to the wall?"
  
  "The Queen." The golem frowned. "You know, I think she's the only one the magic aisle can reach. The wall's pretty thick in that region."
  
  "So my father probably can't transform anyone," Irene said.
  
  Trouble! Dor considered, trying to come up with an alternate suggestion. "The Queen does have powerful magic. It should be possible for her to free them by means of illusion. She can make them see the cells as empty, or containing dead prisoners, so that the guards open the gates. Then she can generate a monster to scare them away."
  
  "There are problems," Arnolde said. "The aisle, as you know, is narrow. The illusion will not operate outside it. Since two cells are beyond—"
  
  "The Queen's illusion will have very limited play," Dor concluded. "We had better warn her about that. She should be able to manage, if she has time to prepare."
  
  "I'm on my way," Grundy said. "I don't know how this expedition would function without me!"
  
  "There isn't one of us we can do without," Dor said. "We've already seen that. When we get separated, we're all in trouble."
  
  As the night closed, they moved to the castle, trying to reach the spot nearest the Queen's cell as described by the golem. Again there was no moat, just a glacis, so that they had to mount a kind of stone hill leading up to the wall. Dor could appreciate how thick that wall might be, set on a base this massive.
  
  Castle Ocna was alert, fearing the invasion of the Khazars; torches flickered in the turrets and along the walls. But Dor's party was not using the established paths and remained unobserved. People who lived in castles tended to be insulated from events outside, and to forget the potential importance of the exterior environment. It occurred to Dor that this also applied to the whole land of Xanth; few of its inhabitants knew anything about Mundania, or cared to learn. Trade between the realms, hitherto a matter of erratic chance, should be established, if only to facilitate a more cosmopolitan awareness. King Oary was evidently not much interested in trade, to the detriment of his Kingdom; he regarded the Xanth visitors as a threat to his throne. As indeed they were—since he was a usurper.
  
  "Now we can't plan exactly how this will work," Dor said in a final review. "I hope the Queen will be able to make an illusion that will cause the guards to release her, and then she can free the others."
  
  "She'd love to vamp a guard," Irene said. "She'll make herself look like the winsomest wench in all Mundania. Then when he comes close, she'll turn into a dragon and scare him to death. Serve him right."
  
  Dor chuckled. "I think I know how that works."
  
  She whirled on him in mock fury. "You haven't begun to see how it works!" But she couldn't hold her frown. She kissed him instead.
  
  "The lady appears to have given fair warning," Arnolde remarked. "You won't see the dragon until you are securely married."
  
  "He knows that," Irene said smugly. "But men never learn. Each one thinks he's different."
  
  Arnolde set himself against the wall, changing his orientation by small degrees so that the aisle swung through the castle. "Grundy will have to report whether we intercept the Queen," he said. "I can not perceive the use of the aisle."
  
  "If anything goes wrong," Irene said, "Smash will have to go into action, and I'll grow some plant to mess them up."
  
  They waited. The centaur completed a sweep through the castle without event. He swept back, still accomplishing nothing. "I begin to fear we are, after all, beyond range," he said.
  
  Smash put one cauliflower ear to the wall. "Go down for crown."
  
  "Of course!" Dor agreed. "They are in the dungeon! Below ground level. Aim down."
  
  With difficulty, Arnolde bent his forelegs, leaving his hindlegs extended, tilting his body down. He commenced another sweep. This was quite awkward for him, because of the position and his injury. Smash joined him, lifting him up and setting him down at a new angle, making the sweep easier.
  
  "But if they are too far inside for the aisle to reach—" Irene murmured tensely.
  
  "Grundy will let us know," Dor said, trying to prevent her from becoming hysterically nervous. He knew this was the most trying time for her— this period when they would either make contact or fail. "We may catch Queen Iris, then sweep on past, and it will take a while for the golem to relay the news."
  
  "That could be it," she agreed, moving into the circle of his arm. He turned to kiss her and found her lips eager to meet his own. Once she had declared her love, she made absolutely no secret of it. Dor realized that even if their mission failed, even if they perished here in Mundania, it was privately worth it for him in this sense. He had discovered love, and it was a universe whose reaches, pitfalls, and potential rewards were more vast than all of Mundania. He held the kiss for a long time.
  
  "Is this how you behave when unchaperoned?" a woman's voice demanded sharply.
  
  Dor and Irene broke with a start. There beside them stood the Queen. "Mother!" Irene cried, half in relief, half in chagrin.
  
  "Shamefully embracing in public!" Queen Iris continued, frowning. She had always been the guardian of other people's morals. "This must come to the attention of—"
  
  The Queen vanished. Arnolde, turning as well as he could to face her image, had thereby shifted the magic aisle away from Iris' cell, so that the Queen's magic was interrupted. She could no longer project her illusion-image.
  
  "Beg pardon," the centaur said. He shifted back.
  
  Queen Iris reappeared. Before she could speak again, Irene did so. "That's nothing, Mother. This afternoon Dor and I slept together."
  
  "You disreputable girl!" Iris exclaimed, aghast.
  
  Dor bit his tongue. He had never really liked Queen Iris and could hardly have thought of a better way to prick her bubble.
  
  The centaur tried to reassure her. "Your Majesty, we all slept. It—"
  
  "You, too?" Iris demanded, her gaze surveying them with an amazing chill. "And the ogre?"
  
  "We're a very close group," Irene said. "I love them all."
  
  This was going too far. "You misunderstand," Dor said. "We only—"
  
  Irene tromped his toe, cutting him off. She wanted to continue baiting her mother. But Queen Iris, no fool, had caught on. "They only saw up your skirt, of course. How many times have I cautioned you about that? You have absolutely no sense of—"
  
  "We bring the King?" Smash inquired.
  
  "The King!" Iris exclaimed. "By all means! You must march in and free us all."
  
  "But the noise—" Dor protested. "If we alert the soldiers—"
  
  "You forget my power," Queen Iris informed him. "I can give your party the illusion of absence. No one will hear you or see you, no matter what you do."
  
  Such a simple solution! The Queen's illusion would be more than enough to free them all. "Break in the wall, Smash," Dor called. "We can rescue King Trent ourselves!"
  
  With a grunt of glee, the ogre advanced on the wall. Then he disappeared. So did the centaur. Dor found himself embracing nothing. He could neither see nor feel Irene, and heard nothing either—but there was resistance where he knew her to be. Experimentally he shoved.
  
  Something shoved him back. It was like the force of inertia when he swung around a corner at a run, a force with no seeming origin. Irene was there, all right! This spell differed from the one the centaur had used; it made the people within it undetectable to each other as well as to outsiders. He hoped that didn't lead to trouble.
  
  A gap appeared in the wall. Chunks of stone fell out, silently. The ogre was at work.
  
  Dor kept his arm around the nothingness beside him, and it moved with him. Curious about the extent of the illusion, he moved his hand. Portions of the nothingness were more resilient than others. Then he found himself stumbling; a less resilient portion had given him another shove. Then something helped steady him; the nothingness was evidently sorry. He wrapped his arms about it and drew it in close for a kiss, but it didn't feel right. He concluded he was kissing the back of her head. He grabbed a hank of nothingness and gave it a friendly tug.
  
  Then Irene appeared, laughing. "Oh, am I going to get even for that!" Then she realized she could perceive him in the moonlight. She wrapped the jacket about her torso—it had fallen open during their invisible encounter—and drew him forward. "We're getting left be—" She vanished and silenced.
  
  They had re-entered the aisle. Dor kept hold of her nothing-hand and followed the other nothings into the hole in the wall.
  
  For a moment they all became visible. Arnolde was ahead, negotiating a pile of rubble; Smash had broken through to the lower level, but the path he made was hardly smooth. The centaur, realizing that the aisle had shifted away from the Queen, hastily corrected his orientation. They all vanished again.
  
  Castle personnel appeared, gaping at the rubble, unable to fathom its cause. One stepped into the passage—and vanished. That created another stir. As yet the Mundanes did not seem to associate this oddity with an invasion.
  
  The ogre's tunnel progressed apace. Soon enough it broke into the Queen's cell, then into King Trent's and finally King Omen's. At that point the parties became visible again. There was ambient light, courtesy of the Queen's illusion. Dor was uncertain at what point illusion became reality, since light was light however it was generated, but he had learned not to worry unduly about such distinctions.
  
  Irene lurched forward and flung herself into King Trent's arms. "Oh, daddy!" she cried with tears of joy.
  
  Now Dor experienced what he knew to be his most unreasonable surge of jealousy yet. After all, why should she not love her father? He glanced about—and saw Queen Iris watching her husband and daughter with what appeared to be identical emotion. She, too, was jealous—and unable to express it.
  
  For the first time in his life, Dor felt complete sympathy with the Queen. This was one shame he shared with her.
  
  The King set Irene down and looked about. Suddenly it was incumbent on Dor to make introductions and explanations. He hurried up. "Uh, we've come to rescue you, King Trent. This is Arnolde the Centaur—he's the one who made the magic aisle—that's his talent—and this is Smash the Ogre, and Irene—"
  
  King Trent looked regal even in rags. "I believe I know that last," he said gravely.
  
  "Uh, yes," Dor agreed, flustered, knowing he was really fouling it up. "I—uh—"
  
  "Do you know what he did, father?" Irene asked King Trent, indicating Dor.
  
  "I did not!" Dor exclaimed. Teasing the Queen was one thing; teasing the King was another.
  
  "Anyway, Dor and I are—" Irene's voice broke off as she spied the third prisoner.
  
  He was a stunningly handsome young man who radiated charisma, though he, too, was dressed in rags. "King Omen," King Trent said with his customary gravity. "My daughter Irene."
  
  For the first time Dor saw Irene girlishly flustered. King Omen strode forward, picked up her limp hand, and brought it to his lips. "Ravishing," he murmured.
  
  Irene tittered. Dor felt a new surge of jealousy. Obviously the girl, so ardent toward Dor a moment ago, was now smitten by the handsome Mundane King. She was, after all, fifteen years old; constancy was not her nature. Yet it hurt to be so suddenly forgotten.
  
  Dor turned his eyes away—end met the gaze of the Queen. Again there was a flash of understanding.
  
  "Now we have business to accomplish," King Trent said. "My friend King Omen must be restored to his throne. To make that secure, we must separate the loyal citizens of Onesti from the disloyal."
  
  Dor forced his mind to focus on this problem. "How can anyone in this castle be loyal? They kept their King prisoner in the dungeon."
  
  "By no means," King Omen said resonantly. "Few were aware of my presence. We were brought in manacled and hooded, and the only one who sees us is a mute eunuch who is absolutely loyal to Oary the Usurper. No doubt the castle personnel were told we were Khazar prisoners of war."
  
  "So only the mute knew your identity?" Dor asked, remembering Grundy's description of the man's activities. But the golem sometimes exaggerated for effect. "At least he brought you food."
  
  "Food!" the Queen cried. "That slop! Irene, grow us a pie tree! We haven't had a decent meal since this happened."
  
  Irene wrenched her eyes off King Omen long enough to dig out and sprout a seed. Quickly the plant grew, leafing out in the illusion of daylight and developing big circular buds that burst into assorted fruit pies.
  
  King Omen was amazed. "It's magic!" he exclaimed. "What an ability!"
  
  Irene flushed, pleased. "It's my talent. Everyone in Xanth does magic."
  
  "But I understood no magic would work here in the real world. How is it possible now?"
  
  Evidently Dor's introduction of Arnolde had not been sufficient for one who was completely unused to magic. "That's the centaur's talent," he explained. "He's a full Magician. He brings magic with him in an aisle. In that aisle, everyone's talent works. That's why we were able to come here."
  
  King Omen faced King Trent as they bit into their pies. "I apologize, sir, for my nagging doubt about your abilities. I have never believed in magic, despite the considerable lore of our superstitious peasants. Now I have seen the proof. Your lovely wife and lovely daughter have marvelous talents."
  
  Irene flushed again, inordinately thrilled.
  
  "King Omen is really a fine young man," Queen Iris remarked to no one in general.
  
  Dor felt cold. The Queen's favor was not lightly gained; she had extremely strict and selfish notions of propriety, and these were focused largely on her daughter. Queen Iris had evidently concluded that King Omen was a suitable match for Irene. Of course the final opinion was King Trent's; if he decided on King Omen, Dor was lost. But King Trent had always supported Dor before.
  
  Suddenly a huge fat man burst upon them. His eyes rounded with amazement as he spied the visitors in the dungeon and the pie tree. Then he drew his sword. He charged upon King Omen.
  
  Irene screamed as the man passed near her father. Then the Mundane turned into a purple toad, his sword clattering to the floor. King Trent had transformed him.
  
  "Who was that?" Dor asked, his startlement subsiding raggedly.
  
  "The mute eunuch guard," King Omen said, picking up the fallen sword. "We bear him no love." He considered the toad speculatively. It was covered with green warts. "Yes, your magic is impressive! Will he remain that way?"
  
  "Until I transform him again," King Trent said. "Or until he leaves the region of magic. Then, I believe, he will slowly revert to his normal state. But that process may take months and be uncomfortable and awkward, if someone does not take him for a monster and kill him before it is complete."
  
  "A fitting punishment," King Omen said. "Let him begin it." He urged the toad on out of the magic aisle by pricking it with the point of the sword.
  
  "Now let's consider prospects," King Trent said. "We have achieved a significant breakthrough here, regaining our magic. But very soon the usurper's picked private troops, comprised largely of Avar mercenaries, will lay siege to us here, and we have no magic that will stop a flight of arrows. We are certain that the general populace will rally gladly to King Omen, once they realize he is alive; but most of the people are outside the castles, and we are in danger of being wiped out before that realization prevails. We must plan our strategy carefully."
  
  "I must advise you that the magic associated with me is in a fairly narrow aisle," Arnolde said. "It extends perhaps fifteen paces forward, and half that distance back, but only two to either side. Therefore the Queen's illusion will be limited to that ambience, and any person outside it will be immune."
  
  "But a lot can be done within the aisle," Dor said. "When Irene and I lagged outside the aisle, we reappeared—but the rest of you remained invisible to us. We weren't immune to the illusion, just outside it. So the Queen can keep us all from the perception of the Mundanes. That's a considerable asset."
  
  "True," the centaur agreed. "But now that they know about our magic, we can not prevent them from firing their arrows into this region in a saturation pattern that is bound to wipe us out. I have already had experience with this tactic." He rubbed his flank ruefully. The healing had continued nicely, but he still walked slightly stiffly.
  
  "We must take cover, of course," King Trent agreed. "There is now plenty of rubble to shield us from arrows. But we can not afford to remain confined here. The problem will be the elimination of the enemy forces."
  
  "Maybe we can lure them in here and ambush them," King Omen suggested. "We now have two swords, and I am impressed with the ogre's strength."
  
  "No good," Grundy said. He had reappeared during their feast on the pies and now took a small pie for himself. "The Avar commander is a tough, experienced son of a buzzard who knows you have magic. He is heating a cauldron of oil. Soon he'll pour it down the dungeon steps. Anyone hiding here, with or without magic, will be fried in oil."
  
  "Impossible to fill this chamber with oil," Queen Iris said. "It would all leak out."
  
  "But it will cover the whole floor first," Grundy said. "You'll all get hot-feet."
  
  Dor looked down at his sandals nervously. He did not like the notion of splashing through a puddle of boiling oil.
  
  Trent considered. "And an ambush waits outside the dungeon?"
  
  "Sure thing," Grundy agreed. "You don't think they let you sit here and gorge on pies just because they like you, do you?"
  
  "Turn us all into birds, father," Irene suggested. "We'll fly out before they know it."
  
  "Two problems, daughter," King Trent said. "You will have trouble when you fly outside the magic aisle. I'm not sure how you will function, but probably poorly, as you won't be able to change back, yet the magic will be gone. Also, I can not transform myself."
  
  "Oh—I forgot." She was chagrined, since the rescue of her father had been her whole purpose.
  
  "We have to get you safely out of here, sir," Dor said. "The Land of Xanth needs you."
  
  "I have every present intention of returning," King Trent said with a smile. "I am now merely pondering mechanisms. I can deal with the Avars readily enough, provided I can get close enough to them with my magic power intact. That means I shall have to remain with Magician Arnolde."
  
  "And with me," Queen Iris said. "To keep you invisible. And the ogre, to open doors."
  
  "And me," Irene said loyally.
  
  "You I want safely out of the way," her father said.
  
  There was a bubbling noise. "The oil!" Grundy cried. "We've got to move!"
  
  Smash went into action. He started bashing out a new channel.
  
  They became invisible. But Dor had a mental picture of where each person was; King Trent, Arnolde, and the Queen were near the ogre, ready to follow in his new tunnel and avoid the spilling oil. But Irene and the golem were on the far side of the chamber. The oil was already flowing between them and the ogre. They would be trapped—and as the centaur moved away, they would become visible and vulnerable, even if they avoided the oil.
  
  Dor ran across to pick up a fragment of rubble. He tossed it into the flowing oil. He grabbed more chunks and tossed them, forming a dam. But it wasn't enough; he wasn't sure Irene could make it through.
  
  Then the pieces started flying into place at double the rate he was throwing them. Someone else was helping. Dor could not tell who, or communicate directly; he simply continued tossing stones, damming off the hot oil. Soon it formed a reluctant pool. Dor filled in the crevices of the dam with sand, and the way was clear. The oil ploy had been abated, and Irene could cross to safety.
  
  Now a troop of guards charged down the steps, swords drawn. They wore heavy boots, evidently to protect them from the oil they thought would be distracting their quarry. It should have been a neat double trap. They didn't know the quarry had departed.
  
  Still, the Avars could use their bows to fire arrows up the new tunnel, doing much harm. Dor leaped across to guard the tunnel entrance, trusting that the others had by now safely passed through it. An invisible guardian could hold them off long enough, perhaps.
  
  Then he saw his own arms. The magic aisle had left him vulnerable!
  
  The soldiers spied him in the torchlight. They whirled to attack him.
  
  Another sword flashed beside him. King Omen! He was the other person who had helped dam the hot oil!
  
  No words were exchanged. They both knew what had to be done; they had to guard this entrance from intrusion by the enemy until King Trent could handle his task.
  
  The ogre's new passage was too narrow to allow them to fight effectively while standing inside, and the dungeon chamber was too broad; soldiers could stand against the far wall, out of sword range, and fire their arrows down the length of the tunnel. So Dor and Omen moved out into the chamber, standing back to back near the wilting pie tree, and dominated the entire chamber with their two swords. Dor hoped King Omen knew how to use his weapon.
  
  The Avars, no cowards, came at them enthusiastically. They were of a wild Turk nomad tribe, according to Arnolde's secondhand information, dissatisfied with their more settled recent ways, and these mercenaries were the wildest of the bunch. Their swords were long, single-edged, and curved, made for vigorous slashing, in contrast with Dor's straight double-edged sword. Here in the somewhat confined region of the dungeon, the advantage lay with the defenders. Omen cut great arcs with his curved blade, keeping the ruffians at bay, and Dor stabbed and cut, severing an Avar's hand before the soldiers learned respect. Dor's sword was not magic now; he had to do it all himself. But he had been taught the rudiments of swordplay, and these now served him well.
  
  Several bats shot out of the tunnel and flew over the heads of the Avars, who mostly ignored them. One bat, as if resentful of this neglect, hovered in the face of the Avar leader, who sliced at it with his sword. The bat gave up and angled out of the chamber.
  
  But swordplay was tiring business, and Dor was not in shape for it. His arm soon felt leaden. Omen, too, was in a poor way, because of his long imprisonment. The Avars, aware of this, pressed in harder; they knew they would soon have the victory.
  
  One charged Dor, blade swinging down irresistibly. Dor tried to step aside and counter, but slipped on blood or oil and lost his footing; the blade sliced into his left hip. Dor fell helplessly headlong. "Omen!" he cried. "Flee into the tunnel! I can no longer guard your back!"
  
  "Xnt zqd gtqs!" Omen exclaimed, whirling.
  
  The Avars, seeing their chance, charged. Omen's blade flashed in another circle, for the moment daunting them, while Dor fought off the pain of his wound and floundered for his lost sword. His questing fingers only encountered something mushy; a spoiled chocolate pie from the dead pie tree.
  
  Two Avars stepped in, one countering King Omen while the other ducked low to slice at Omen's legs. Dor hefted the pie and smashed it into the Avar's face. It was a perfect shot; the man dropped to his knees, pawing at his mud-filled eyes, while the stink of rotten pie filled the chamber.
  
  King Omen, granted this reprieve, dispatched the remaining Avar. But already another was charging, and Dor had no other pie within reach. Omen hurled his sword at the bold enemy, skewering him, then bent to take hold of Dor and haul him back to the tunnel.
  
  "This is crazy!" Dor cried. Despite the peril of their situation, he noticed that Omen, too, had been wounded; a slash on his left shoulder was dripping bright blood, and it was mixing with the gore from Dor's own wound. "Save yourself!"
  
  Then the Avars were closing for the final assault, knowing they faced two unarmed and injured men, taking time to aim their cuts. Even if Omen got them to the tunnel, he would be doomed. He had been a fool to try to save Dor—but Dor found himself rather liking the man.
  
  Suddenly a dragon shot out of the tunnel, wings unfurling as it entered the dungeon chamber. It snorted fire and hovered in the air, raising gleaming talons, seeking prey. The Avars fell back, amazed and terrified. One made a desperate slash at the monster—and the sword passed right through the dragon's wing without resistance or damage.
  
  Illusion, of course! The magic had returned, and now the Queen was fighting in her spectacular fashion. But the moment the Avars realized that the dragon had no substance—
  
  It worked the opposite way. The Avar, discovering that he could not even touch the dragon, screamed and fled the chamber. He was far more afraid of a spiritual menace than of a physical one.
  
  King Omen, too, stared at the dragon. "Where did that come from?" he demanded. "I don't believe in dragons!"
  
  Dor smiled. "It's an illusion," he explained. They were able to converse again, because of the ambience of magic. "Queen Iris is quite an artist in her fashion; she can generate completely credible images, with smell and sound and sometimes touch. No one in all the history of Xanth has ever been able to do it better."
  
  The dragon spun to face them. "Why, thank you, Dor," it said, dissolving into a wash of color that drifted after the departing Avars.
  
  Now Irene appeared, as the Avars scrambled to escape the dragon. "Oh, you're hurt!" she cried. Dor wasn't sure whether she was addressing him or Omen.
  
  "King Omen saved my life," he said.
  
  "You were the only one with sense enough to dam off the oil to save the girl," Omen replied. "Could I do less than help?"
  
  "Thanks," Dor said, finding himself liking this bold young King more than ever. Rival he might be, but he was a good man.
  
  They shook hands. Dor didn't know whether this was a Mundane custom, but King Trent had evidently explained Xanth ways. "Now our blood has mingled; we are blood brothers," Omen said gravely.
  
  Irene and Iris were tearing up lengths of cloth from somewhere, fashioning bandages. Irene got to Omen first, leaving Dor for her mother. "I suspect I underestimated you, Dor," the Queen murmured as she worked efficiently on his wound, cleaning and bandaging it after applying some of the plant healing extract. "But then, I also underestimated your father."
  
  "My father?" Dor asked, bewildered.
  
  "That was a long time ago, before I met Trent," she said. "None of your business now. But he did have mettle in the crunch, and so do you."
  
  Dor appreciated her compliment, but regretted that her modification of attitude had come too late. Irene had focused on King Omen. He tried to stop himself from glancing across to where Irene was working on the Mundane King, but could not kelp himself.
  
  The Queen caught the glance. "You love her," she said. "You did not before, but you do now. That's nice."
  
  Was she taunting him? "But you endorse King Omen," Dor said, his emotion warring within himself.
  
  "No. Omen is a fine young man, but not right for Irene, nor she for him. I support your suit, Dor; I always did."
  
  "But you said—"
  
  She smiled sadly. "Never in her life did my daughter do what I wished her to. Sometimes subtlety is necessary."
  
  Dor stared at her. He tried to speak, but the thoughts stumbled over themselves before reaching his tongue. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
  
  "Let's get you on your feet," the Queen said, helping him up. Dor found that he could stand, though he felt dizzy; the wound was not as critical as it had seemed, and already was magically healing.
  
  King Trent appeared. "You did good work, men. Thanks to your diversion, I was able to get close to the majority of the Avar soldiers. I turned them into bats."
  
  So that was the origin of the bats Dor had seen! One bat had tried to warn the remaining Avars, without success.
  
  "But the Avars are not the only enemies," King Omen said. "We need to weed out the other collaborators, lest assassins remain among us."
  
  "Magic will help there," King Trent said. "Iris and Dor will see to it."
  
  "We will?" Dor asked, surprised.
  
  "Of course," the Queen said. "Can you walk?"
  
  "I don't know," Dor said. His feelings about Irene's mother had just been severely shaken up, and it would take some time for them to settle into a new pattern. He stepped forward experimentally, and she gripped his arm and steadied him. He half wished it were Irene lending him support.
  
  The Avars, however, had discovered that the dragon did not follow beyond the dungeon. They were not yet aware that their backup contingent had been eliminated. Now they charged back into the chamber.
  
  "They're catching on to the illusion," Grundy said. "We'd better get out of here."
  
  True enough. The Avars were stopping just outside the magic aisle and nocking arrows to strings. They had found the way to fight magic.
  
  Smash went back into action. He ripped a boulder out of the foundation and hurled it at the Avars. His strength existed only within the aisle, but the boulder, once hurled, was just as effective beyond it as the arrows were within it. The troops dived out of the way.
  
  The party moved back up the tunnel, Dor limping. Dragons flew ahead and behind, a ferocious honor guard.
  
  In due course they reached the main hall of Castle Ocna. A number of the castle personnel were there, huddled nervously at one end. The Avars had spread out and used other routes, and now were ranged all around the hall. The castle staff were afraid of the Avars, and did not yet know King Omen lived. Thus the castle remained in King Oary's power despite King Omen's release.
  
  "The ogre and I will guard King Omen," King Trent said. "Irene, grow a cherry tree; you and the golem will be in charge of defensive artillery. Magician Centaur, if you please, stand in the center of the hall and turn rapidly in place several times as soon as I give the signal. Iris and Dor, your powers reach farther than mine; you will rout out the lurking Avars."
  
  "You see, I know how my husband's mind works," Queen Iris murmured. "He's a genius at tactics."
  
  "But the Avars are beyond the magic aisle!" Dor protested. "And they know about your illusions. They're pretty smart, in their fashion. We can't fool them much longer."
  
  "We don't need to," Iris said. "All you have to do is have any stones in the magic aisle call out the position of any lurking Avars. The test of us will take it from there."
  
  "Ready, Irene?" Trent inquired.
  
  Irene's tree had grown rapidly, and now had a number of bright red cherries ripening. "Ready, father," she said grimly.
  
  Dor was glad King Trent was a good tactician, for he, Dor, had only the haziest notion what was developing. When Arnolde turned, it might bring some Avars within the magic aisle, but most would remain outside. How could those others be nullified before they used their bows?
  
  "Now it gets nervy," King Trent said. "Be ready, ogre. King Omen, it's your show."
  
  King Omen mounted a dais in the center of the hall. He was pale from loss of blood, and carried his left arm awkwardly, but still radiated an aura of Kingliness. Irene picked several of the ripe cherries, giving some to Grundy, who stood beside a pile of them. Smash lifted a solid wooden post to his shoulder.
  
  Arnolde, in response to Trent's signal, began turning himself about in place. Dor concentrated, willing the stones in the hall to cry out if any Avars were hiding near them. Queen Iris fashioned an illusion of extraordinary grandeur; the dais became a solid gold pedestal, and King Omen was clothed in splended royal robes, with a halo of light about his body.
  
  "Hearken to me, minions of Castle Ocna and loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti," the King declaimed, and his voice resonated throughout the chamber. "I am King Omen, your rightful monarch, betrayed and imprisoned by the usurper Oary. Now my friends from the magic Land of Xanth have freed me, and I call upon you to renounce Oary and resume your rightful homage to me."
  
  "Mknn jko!" the Avar leader cried in his own language. "Ujqqv jko fqyp!"
  
  An arrow flew toward King Omen. Smash batted it out of the air with his stake. "Oww!" the arrow complained. Dor's talent was operating too effectively. "I was only doing my duty."
  
  As Arnolde turned, the magic aisle rotated, reaching to the farthest extent of the hall. "Here's an Avar!" a stone cried as the magic engaged it. "He shot that arrow!"
  
  "Shut up, you invisible tattletale!" the Avar snapped, striking at what he assumed was there.
  
  Now a winged dragon launched toward the Avar, belching forth fire. "You, too, you fake monster!" the man cried. He drew his sword and slashed at the dragon.
  
  Irene threw a cherry. It struck the floor at the Avar's feet and exploded. The man was knocked back against the wall, stunned and soaked with red cherry juice.
  
  Arnolde had hesitated, facing the action. Now he resumed his turning. Another stone cried out: "There's one behind me!" The dragon, flying in the moving aisle, sent out another column of flame, rich and red. This time Irene timed her throw to coincide, and the cherry bomb detonated as the dragon's apparent flame struck. That made the dragon seem real, Dor realized.
  
  "All of you—shoot your cttqyu!" the Avar leader called as the magic aisle passed by him. "Vjg oqpuvgtu ctg lwuv knnwukqpu!" But his men hesitated, for two of their number had been stunned by something that was more than illusion. The cherry bombs did indeed detonate outside the ambience of magic; maybe there were, after all, such things in Mundania.
  
  Arnolde continued to turn, and the stones continued to betray the Avars. The lofted cherries commanded respect among the Avars that King Omen did not. The ogre's bat prevented their arrows from scoring, and the Queen's illusions kept them confused. For the flying dragon became a giant armored man with a flashing sword, and the man became a pouncing sphinx, and the sphinx became a swarm of green wasps. Thunder sounded about the dais, the illusion of sound, punctuating King Omen's speech. Soon all the remaining Avars had been cowed or nullified.
  
  "Now the enemy troops are gone," King Omen said, his size increased subtly by illusion. "Loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti need have no fear. Come before me; renew your allegiance." Stars and streamers floated down around him.
  
  Hesitantly, the castle personnel came forward. "They're afraid of the images," Grundy said.
  
  The Queen nodded. Abruptly the monsters vanished, and the hall became a region of pastel lighting and gentle music—at least within the rotating aisle. Heartened, the people stepped up more boldly. "Is it really you, Your Majesty Good Omen?" an old retainer asked. "We thought you dead, and when the monsters came—"
  
  "Hold!" a strident voice called from the archway nearest the castle's main entrance.
  
  All turned. There stood King Oary, just within the aisle. Dor realized the man must have ridden to Castle Ocna by another route, avoiding the path with the bridge out. Oary had figured out where Dor's party was heading, had known it meant trouble, and hastened to deal with the situation before it got out of control. Oary had cunning and courage.
  
  "There is the usurper!" King Omen cried. "Take him captive!"
  
  But Oary was backed by another contingent of Avar mercenaries, brought with him from the other castle. The ordinary servitors could not readily approach him. He stood just at the fringe of the magic aisle, so that his words were translated; he had ascertained its limit. He could step out of it at any moment.
  
  "Fools!" Oary cried, his voice resounding throughout the hall. "You are being deluded by illusion. Throng to me and destroy these alien intruders."
  
  "Alien intruders!" King Omen cried, outraged. The stars exploded around him, and gloriously indignant music swelled in the background.
  
  "You, who drugged me and threw me into the dungeon and usurped my throne—you dare call me this?"
  
  The people of the castle hesitated, looking from one King to another, uncertain where their loyalty should lie. Each King was imposing; Oary had taken time to garb himself in full regalia, his royal cloak, crown, and sword rendering his fat body elegant. King Omen was enhanced by Queen Iris' magic to similar splendor. It was obviously hard for the ordinary people to choose between them, on the basis of appearance.
  
  "I call you nothing," Oary roared, with the sincerity of conviction that only a total scoundral could generate. "You do not even exist. You died at the hands of Khazar assassins. You—"
  
  The stars around Omen became blinding, and now they hissed, sputtered, and roared with the sound of the firmament being torn asunder. The noise drowned out Oary's words.
  
  "Nay, let the villain speak," King Omen said. "It was ever our way to let each person present his case."
  
  "He'll destroy you," Queen Iris warned. "I don't trust him. Don't give him a chance."
  
  "It is Omen's choice," King Trent said gently.
  
  With that, the illusion stopped. Not in the slightest way did Queen Iris ever oppose her will to King Trent's—at least in public. There was only the Mundane court, silent and drab, with its huddled servants facing the knot of Avars.
  
  "You are no more than an illusion," Oary continued boldly, grasping his opportunity. "We have seen how the aliens can fashion monsters and voices from nothing; who doubts they can fashion the likeness of our revered former King?"
  
  Queen Iris looked pained. "Master stroke!" she breathed. "I knew we shouldn't have let that cockatrice talk!"
  
  Indeed, the castle personnel were swayed. They stared at King Omen as if trying to fathom the illusion. The very facility of Queen Iris' illusions now worked against King Omen. Who could tell reality from image?
  
  "If King Omen somehow returned from the dead," King Oary continued, "I would be the first to welcome him home. But woe betide us all if we proffer loyalty to a false image!"
  
  King Omen stood stunned by the very audacity of Oary's ploy. In their contest of words, the usurper had plainly scored a critical point.
  
  "Destroy the impersonator!" Oary cried, seizing the moment. The people started toward King Omen.
  
  Now King Omen found his voice. "How can you destroy an illusion? he demanded. "If I am but a construct of air, I will laugh at your efforts."
  
  The people paused, confused again. But once more Oary rushed into the gap. "Of course there's a man there! He merely looks like King Omen. He's an imposter, sent here to incite you to rebellion against your real King. Then the ogre can rule in my stead."
  
  The people shuddered. They did not want to be ruled by an ogre.
  
  "Imposter?" King Omen exclaimed. "Dor, lend me your sword!" For in the confusion Dor had recovered his sword, while King Omen had lost his.
  
  "That will settle nothing," King Trent said. "The better swordsman is not necessarily the rightful King."
  
  "Oh, yes, he is!" Omen cried. "Only the royalty of Onesti are trained to fine expertise with the sword. No peasant imposter could match Oary. But I am a better swordsman than the usurper, so can prove myself no imposter."
  
  "Not so," Oary protested. "Well I know that is an enchanted sword your henchman has given you. No one can beat that, for it makes any duffer skilled."
  
  The man had learned a lot in a hurry! It had never occurred to Dor that King Oary would be so agile in debate. Evidently his head was not filled with pudding.
  
  Omen glanced at the sword, startled. "Dor did not evince any particular skill with it," he said with unconscious disparagement of Dor's technique.
  
  "It is nevertheless true," King Trent said. "Dor was outside the magic aisle when he used it."
  
  '"That's right," Dor agreed reluctantly. "In the aisle, with that sword, anyone could beat anyone. Also, the Queen's illusion could make King Trent look like you, King Omen—and he is probably a better swordsman than you are." Dor wondered just after he said it whether he had made that comparison because he smarted from Omen's disparagement of his own skill. Yet King Trent was the finest swordsman in Xanth, so his point was valid.
  
  "You fools!" Queen Iris expostulated. "Victory in your grasp, and you squander it away on technicalities!"
  
  "It's a matter of honesty," Dor said. "O N E S T I."
  
  King Omen laughed, able to grasp the spelling pun within the centaur's range. "Yes, I understand. Well, I will fight Oary outside the magic aisle."
  
  "Where your wound will weaken you, and you will have the disadvantage of using a straight sword when you are trained to a curved one," Queen Iris said. "If those aren't enough, the imposter's Avars will put an arrow in your back. Don't be even more of a fool than you need to be. Oary's trying to maneuver you into a position where his treachery can prevail. I tell you, I know the type."
  
  Dor was silent. The Queen knew the type because she was the type. That made her a good adviser in a situation like this.
  
  "But how can I prove my identity?" King Omen asked somewhat plaintively.
  
  "Let the castle personnel come to you and touch you and talk with you," King Trent suggested. "Surely many of them know you well. They will be able to tell whether you are an imposter."
  
  Oary tried to protest, but the suggestion made too much sense to the castle personnel. King Trent's ability to maneuver had foiled Oary's stratagems. Non-Avar guards appeared, reaching for their weapons, and they were more numerous than the Avars. It seemed that news of this confrontation had spread, and the true Onesti loyalists were converging.
  
  Seeing himself losing position, Oary grudgingly agreed. "I will join the line myself!" he declared. "After all, I should be the first to welcome King Omen back, should he actually return, since it is in his stead I hold the throne of Onesti."
  
  Queen Iris scowled, but King Trent gestured her to silence. It was as if this were a game of moves and counter-moves, with limiting rules. Oary was now going along with King Trent's move, and had to be accommodated until he made an open break. Dor noted the process; at such time as he himself had to be King for keeps, this might guide him.
  
  "Come, King," King Trent said, taking Omen by the arm. "Let us all set aside our weapons and form a receiving line." Gently he took the magic sword and passed it over to Queen Iris, who set it carefully on the floor.
  
  Oary had to divest himself of his own weapon, honoring this new move. His Avars grumbled but stayed back. Smash the Ogre moved nearer them, retaining his post. This encouraged them to keep the peace.
  
  The line formed, the palace personnel coming eagerly forward to verify the person of King Omen. The first was an old man, slow to move but given the lead because of the respect of the others.
  
  "Hello, Borywog!" King Omen said, grasping the man's frail arm. "Remember what a torment I was when a child, and you my tutor? Worse than my father was! You thought you'd never teach me to spell! Remember when I wrote the name of our Kingdom as HONESTY?"
  
  "My Lord, my Lord!" the old man cried, falling to his knees. "Never did I tell that abomination to a soul! It has to be you, Your Majesty!"
  
  The others proceeded through the line. King Omen knew them all. The case was becoming conclusive. King Trent stood behind him, smiling benignly.
  
  Suddenly one of the men in the line drew a dagger and lunged at Omen. But before the treacherous strike scored, the man became a large brown rat, who scurried away, terrified. A palace cat bounded eagerly after it. "I promised to stand bodyguard," King Trent said mildly. "I have had a certain experience in such matters."
  
  Then Oary was at the head of the line. "Why, it is Omen!" he exclaimed in seeming amazement. "Avars, sheathe your weapons; our proper King has returned from the dead. What a miracle!"
  
  King Omen, expecting another act of treachery, stood open-mouthed. Again King Trent stepped in. "So nice to have your confirmation, King Oary. We always knew you had the best interests of the Kingdom of Onesti at heart. It is best to resolve these things with the appearance of amicability, if possible. Dor, why don't you conduct King Oary to a more private place and work out the details?"
  
  Now Dor was amazed. He stood unspeaking. Grundy appeared, tapping Dor on the leg. "Take him into an anteroom," the golem whispered. "I'll get the others."
  
  Dor composed himself. "Of course," he said with superficial equilibrium. "King Oary, shall we adjourn to an anteroom for a private discussion?"
  
  "By all means," Oary said, the soul of amicability. He seemed to understand the rules of this game better than Dor did.
  
  They walked sedately to the anteroom, while King Omen continued to greet old friends and the Avars fidgeted in their isolated mass. Without Oary to command them, the Avars were ineffective; they didn't even speak the local language.
  
  Dor's thoughts were spinning. Why had Oary welcomed Omen, after trying to deny him and have him assassinated? Why did he pretend not to know where Omen had been? And why did King Trent, himself a victim of Oary's treachery and cruelty, go along with this? Why, finally, had King Trent turned the matter over to Dor, who was incompetent to understand the situation, let alone deal with it?
  
  Irene, Smash, and Arnolde joined them in the anteroom. Oary seemed unperturbed. "Shall we speak plainly?" the Mundane inquired.
  
  "Sure," Irene retorted, drawing her jacket close about her. "I think you stink!"
  
  "Do you folk comprehend the situation?" Oary asked blithely.
  
  "No," Dor said. "I don't know why King Trent didn't turn you into a worm and step on you."
  
  "King Trent is an experienced monarch," Oary said. "He deals with realities, rather than emotions. He goes for the most profitable combination, rather than simple vengeance. Here is reality: I have one troop of Avars here who could certainly create trouble. I have more at the other castle. It would take a minor civil war to dislodge those mercenaries, whose captains are loyal to me—and that would weaken the Kingdom of Onesti at a time when the Khazar menace is growing. It would be much better to avoid that nuisance and keep the Kingdom strong. Therefore King Omen must seek accommodation with me—for the good of Onesti."
  
  "Why not just—" Irene started, but broke off.
  
  "You are unable to say it," Oary said. "That is the symptom of your weakness, which you will have to eliminate if you hope to make as effective a Queen as your mother. Why not just kill me and be done with it? Because your kind lacks the gumption to do what is necessary."
  
  "Yeah?" Grundy demanded. "Why didn't you kill King Omen, then?"
  
  Oary sighed. "I should have, I suppose. I really should have. But I liked the young fool. No one's perfect."
  
  "But you tried to have him killed just now," Dor said.
  
  "A desperate measure," Oary said. "I can't say I'm really sorry it failed. The move came too late; it should have been done at the outset, so that Omen never had opportunity to give proof of his identity. Then the game would have been mine. But that is the measure of my own inadequacy. I didn't want to retain my crown enough."
  
  Dor's emotions were mixing. He knew Oary to be an unscrupulous rascal, but the man's candor and cleverness and admission of civilized weakness made it hard to dislike him totally. "And now we have to deal with you," Dor said. "But I don't see how we can trust you."
  
  "Of course you can't trust me!" Oary agreed. "Had I the option, I would have you right back in the dungeon, and your horse-man would be touring the Avar empire as a circus freak."
  
  "Now see here!" Arnolde said.
  
  "If we can't kill him, and can't trust him, what can we do with him?" Dor asked the others.
  
  "Throw him in the same cell he threw King Omen," Irene said. "Have a sadistic mute eunuch feed him."
  
  "Smash destroyed those cells," Grundy reminded her. "Anyway, they aren't safe. One of his secret henchmen might let him out."
  
  "But we've got to come up with a solution for King Omen!" Dor said. "I don't know why this was put in my hands, but—"
  
  "Because you will one day be King of Xanth," Oary said. "You must learn to make the hard decisions, right or wrong. Had I had more experience before attaining power, I would have acted to avoid my present predicament. Had Omen had it, he would never have lost his throne. You have to learn by doing. Your King Trent is one competent individual; it was my misfortune to misjudge him, since I thought his talk about magic indicated a deranged mind. Usually only ignorant peasants really believe in sorcery. By the time you are King, you will know how to handle the office."
  
  This made brutal sense. "I wish I could trust you," Dor said. "You'd make an excellent practical tutor in the realities of governing."
  
  "This is your practical tutoring," Oary said.
  
  "There are two customary solutions, historically," Arnolde said. "One is mutilation—the criminal is blinded or deprived of his extremities, so he can do no further harm—"
  
  "No!" Dor said, and Irene agreed. "We are not barbarians." "You are not professional either," Oary said. "Still you balk at expedient methods."
  
  "The other is banishment," the centaur continued. "People of your species without magical talents used to be banished from Xanth, just as people of my species with such talents are banished. It is a fairly effective device."
  
  "But he could gather an army and come back," Dor protested. "King Trent did, way back when he was banished—"
  
  "But he did not conquer Xanth. The situation had changed, and he was invited back. Perhaps in twenty years the situation will be changed in Onesti, and Oary will be needed again. At any rate, there are precautions. A selective, restricted banishment should prevent betrayal while keeping him out of local mischief. It would be advisable not to call it banishment, of course. That would suggest there was something untoward about the transfer of power, instead of an amicable return of a temporarily lost King. He could be assigned as envoy or ambassador to some strategic territory—" "The Khazars!" Grundy cried.
  
  "Hey, I don't want to go there!" Oary protested. "Those are rough people! It would take all my wit just to survive."
  
  "Precisely," the centaur said. "Oary would be something of a circus freak in that society, tolerated but hardly taken seriously. It would be his difficult job to maintain liaison and improve relations with that empire, and of course to advise Onesti when any invasion was contemplated. If he did a good enough job for a long enough period, he might at length be pardoned and allowed to retire in Onesti. If not—"
  
  "But the Khazars are bound to invade Onesti sooner or later," Oary said. "How could I prevent—"
  
  "I seem to remember that at this period the Nordic Magyars were nominally part of the Khazar empire," Arnolde said. "They remained, however, a discrete culture. Oary might be sent to the Magyar court—"
  
  "Where he would probably foment rebellion against the Khazars!" Dor said. "Just to keep the action away from Onesti. It would take constant cunning and vigilance—"
  
  "What a dastardly deed!" Irene exclaimed gleefully. Surprised, they all exchanged glances. "A dastardly deed . . ." Dor repeated.
  
  "We were cursed to do it," Irene said. "Before the moon got full—and it's very nearly full now. Let's go tell the others how Ambassador Oary is going to the Magyars."
  
  "Purely in the interest of serving the Kingdom I love so well, to promote the interests of my good friend and restored liege, King Omen," Oary said philosophically. "It could have been worse. I thought you'd flay me and turn me loose to beg naked in the village."
  
  "Or feed you to the ogre," Grundy said. "But we're softheaded, and you're too clever to waste."
  
  They trooped out. "Oary has graciously consented to be your ambassador to the Magyar court of the Khazar empire," Dor told King Omen, who had finally completed the receiving line. "He wants only what is best for the Kingdom of Onesti."
  
  "Excellent," King Omen said. He had evidently been briefed in the interim. "And who will be Xanth's ambassador to Onesti?"
  
  "Arnolde Centaur," King Trent said promptly. "We realize that his enforced absence from his home in Centaur Isle is a personal sacrifice for him, but it is evident we need a certain amount of magic here, and he is uniquely qualified. He can escort specially talented Xanth citizens, such as my daughter, when trade missions occur."
  
  Arnold nodded, and Dor saw how King Trent was facilitating things for the centaur, too. Arnolde had no future at Centaur Isle anyway; this put a different and far more positive face on it. Naturally Arnolde would not spend all his time here; he would have time to visit his friend Ichabod in the other aspect of Mundania, too. In fact, he would be able to do all the research he craved. There was indeed an art to governance, and King Trent was demonstrating it.
  
  "Ah, your daughter," King Omen said. "You told me about her, during our long days of confinement, but I took it for the fond imaginings of a parent. Now I think it would be proper to seal the alliance of our two Kingdoms by a symbolic personal merger."
  
  Dor's heart sank. King Omen certainly wasn't reticent! He moved boldly to obtain what he wanted—as a King should. Dor doubted that he himself would ever be that type of person. The irony was that he could not oppose King Omen in this; he liked the man and owed him his life, and Irene liked him, too, and was probably thrilled at the notion. The alliance did seem to make sense, politically and personally. If there were benefits to being in line for the Kingship, there were also liabilities; Dor had to give way to what was best. But he hated this.
  
  King Trent turned to Irene. "How do you feel about it? You do understand the significance."
  
  "Oh, I understand," Irene agreed, flushing becomingly. "It makes a lot of sense. And I'm flattered. But there are two or three little points. I'm young—"
  
  "Time takes care of that," King Omen said. It was evident that her youth did not repel him, any more than the youthfulness of the doxy had repelled King Oary. "In fact, women age so quickly, here in Onesti, that it is best to catch them as young as possible, while they remain attractive."
  
  Irene paused, as if tracking down an implication. In Xanth, women remained attractive a long time, with the aid of minor magic. "And I would have trouble adjusting to a life with no magic—" she continued after a moment.
  
  "A Queen does not need magic!" King Omen said persuasively. "She has power. She has authority over the entire kitchen staff."
  
  Irene paused again. "That much," she murmured. It was evident that men dominated the society of Onesti, while in Xanth the sexes were fairly even, except for the rule about who could be King.
  
  Dor thought of living the rest of his life in Mundania, unable to utilize his own magic or participate in the magic of others. The notion appalled him. He doubted Irene could stand it long either.
  
  "And I'm in love with another man," Irene finished.
  
  "But the girl's love has nothing to do with it!" King Omen protested. "This is a matter of state." His eyes traveled along the length of her legs.
  
  King Trent considered. "We conduct such matters differently in Xanth, but of course compromise is essential in international relations. If you really desire my daughter—"
  
  "Father!" Irene said warningly.
  
  "Now don't embarrass your father," Queen Iris said. Irene reacted with a rebellious frown that she quickly concealed. It was the old syndrome; if her mother pushed something, Irene did the opposite. Dor's secret ally had struck again. Bless the Queen!
  
  King Trent's gaze passed across them all, finishing with the Queen, who made the slightest nod. "However," he continued, "I understand that in some societies there is a certain premium on the, shall we say, pristine state—"
  
  "Virginity," Irene said clearly.
  
  "But we never—" Dor started, just before she stomped on his toe."
  
  King Omen had caught the motion. "Ah, I did not realize it was you she loved, blood brother! You came all the way here at great personal risk to help restore my throne; I can not—"
  
  "Yet a liaison would certainly be appropriate," King Trent mused.
  
  "Father!" Irene repeated sharply. Queen Iris smiled somewhat smugly in her daughter's direction. It was strange, Dor reflected, how the very mannerisms that had annoyed him in the past now pleased him. Irene would never go with King Omen now.
  
  "Yet there is that matter of pristinity," King Omen said. "A Queen must be above—"
  
  "Do you by chance have a sister, King Omen?" King Trent inquired. Dor recognized the tone; Trent already knew the answer to his question. "Dor might—"
  
  "What?" Irene screeched.
  
  "No, no sister," Omen said, evidently disgruntled.
  
  "Unfortunate. Perhaps, then, a symbolic gesture," King Trent said. "If Prince Dor, here, is taking something of value to King Omen, or perhaps has already compromised the value—"
  
  "Yes," Irene said.
  
  "Shame!" Queen Iris said, glaring at Dor with only the tiniest quirk of humor twitching at one lip.
  
  "But—" Dor said, unwilling to confess falsely.
  
  "Then some token of recompense might be in order," King Trent concluded. "We might call it a gift, to preserve appearance—"
  
  "The midnight sunstone!" Dor exclaimed. After all, it was just about midnight now. Without waiting for King Trent to take the matter further, Dor drew it from his pocket. "King Omen, as a sincere token of amity between the Kingdom of Xanth and the Kingdom of Onesti and of my appreciation for the manner you saved my life, allow me to present you with this rarest of gems. Note that it shines in the presence of magic—but turns dull in the absence of magic. Thus you will always know when magic is near." He gave the gem to King Omen, who stepped out of the magic aisle, then back in, fascinated by the manner the gem faded and flashed again.
  
  "Oh, yes," King Omen agreed. "I shall have this set in my crown, the most precious of all my treasures!"
  
  But now Irene was angry. "I will not be bought for a gem!" she exclaimed.
  
  "But—" Dor said helplessly, stepping toward her. Right when he thought things had fallen into place, they were falling out again.
  
  "Stay away from me, you slaver!" she flared, retreating.
  
  "I think I am well off," King Omen murmured, smiling.
  
  Dor did not want to chase her. It was undignified and hardly suited to the occasion. Also, he could not move rapidly; his fresh wound inhibited him. Yet he was in a sense on stage; he could not let her walk out on him now.
  
  Then he remembered the dime. He had a use for it after all! He clutched it out of his pocket and threw it at her moving feet.
  
  Irene came to an abrupt stop, windmilling her arms and almost falling. "What—" she demanded.
  
  Then Dor caught up to her and took her in his arms.
  
  "The dime!" she expostulated. "You made me stop on a dime! That's cheating!"
  
  Dor kissed her—and found an amazingly warm response.
  
  But even amidst the kiss, he realized that Arnolde was facing in another direction. Irene had been outside the magic aisle when she stalled on the dime. "But—" he began, his knees feeling weak.
  
  She bit lightly on his ear. "Did the Gorgon let go of Magician Humfrey?" she asked.
  
  Dor laughed, somewhat nervously. "Never."
  
  "Another dastardly deed performed in the light of the midnight sunstone," Grundy said. And Dor had to hold Irene delightfully tight to prevent her from kicking the golem.