Kingdoms of Light

THREE

Valkounin the Strong stood before a downcast Princess Petrine (who because of the all-pervading grayness looked more drawn than ever) and voiced what most who had assembled in the audience chamber of the castle already knew but preferred not to articulate.

"As of yesterday week, Gierash, Stenyau-by-the-Drover, the kingdoms of Roun and Rouel, Parbafan, and Grand Tecrelle have all made obeisance to the Horde." Valkounin ignored the despondent murmur that greeted his pronouncement. "We can count on no help from any of them."

"Even Grand Tecrelle!" someone muttered in disbelief. "They had the finest light cavalry in the far eastern Gowdlands."

Valkounin glanced back at the speaker. "Who can blame them for submitting? Not I. Of what use are cavalry against sorcery, lancers against incantations?" He gestured skyward, to where the formerly magnificent frescoes that adorned the high, vaulted ceiling now looked down on the assembly out of gray-gormed eyes that seemed to weep silently for their lost splendor.

"A sword cannot banish a spell. The most accurate archer cannot transfix a hex. Without necromantic help of the first order, we are lost." Turning slowly, he scanned as many faces as he could. Some were known personally to him: others were strangers who had fled to Malostranka in search of sanctuary, or allies—or hope. The first was temporary, the second useless, and the third—the third was scarcely present.

"If only Susnam Evyndd—" a captain of fallen Partiria began. Valkounin cut him off.

"Susnam Evyndd is dead! Stunned where he stood trying to defend Kyll-Bar-Bennid. He was the greatest wizard of the Gowdlands. All students and practitioners of the arcane arts acknowledged this. Yet now he is dead, as dead as any ordinary pikeman who fought to hold back the Horde at the terminus of the Salmisti Bridge. Understanding this, the lesser wizards have fled to more congenial climes or temporalities. Still, we must find sorceral help, somewhere…." His deep voice trailed away, into a silence devoid of suggestions.

Petrine was as beautiful as any princess could be expected to be, but she was also wise beyond her years. That, and her sharp tongue, had kept her unwed for far longer than was usual for marriageable royalty. Now she found herself, unintentionally and quite by accident of circumstance, in charge of the last pocket of resistance holding out against the cursed invaders in all the imposing length and breadth of the Gowdlands. It was a task she had not sought, but found herself unable to abandon. Besides, she no longer had any choice in the matter. The Khaxan Mundurucu knew who led the defense of fortress Malostranka, and everyone knew what they did to those who resisted their dominion. Better, she had long ago decided, to die fighting than squirming.

For the sake of those who had gathered together in this last outpost of goodness and civilization, she did her best to mask her emotions. It would have been a great help, she knew, if even a very inexperienced and inconsequential wizard had been present to stand at her side and offer sage advice. But there were none. The place reserved for one trained in such arts was as vacant as the stone that waited to uplift such a brave figure. Valkounin was right about the wizards of the Gowdlands: they were fled, all of them. The demise of Susnam Evyndd had cowed them into uselessness.

"At least," she ventured, for lack for anything more positive to offer, "we are able to give the learned Evyndd a farewell befitting his courage and skill—inadequate as they may have proven to be."

"Yes, majesty." Welworthen, her personal adviser, squinted through the gray air at the gray sky visible through a gray side window. "The burial party should be soon finished with their work."

"Good," grunted Valkounin, who from the time the intention had been declared had disapproved of the dangerous and, to him, entirely unnecessary distraction. "The sooner they dispose of the remains and get back here, the better. We can use every hand that can raise a sword."

Far from the inaccessible canyon that protected the ramparts of the besieged fortress Malostranka, farther still from the ravaging host that was the Horde, deep within the ancient forest of Fasna Wyzel, a small troop of heavily armed men and women was wending its way toward a river. No homes graced its sparkling shores, no neat gardens were set carefully back from its steeply sloping banks. The depths of the Fasna Wyzel were a place of mystery, of robust rumors and ancient tales twice told. People went in, and sometimes came out, but on no account did they linger. The forest was too dark, too dense, too full of hollows and hedges where eyes peeped out at intrepid passers-by and teeth flashed when the sun fell the wrong way.

No fear of the latter now, mused an introspective Captain Slale. Green as it was once, the forest, like the rest of the world, had descended into gloomy grayness thanks to the all-encompassing Mundurucu hex. The birds that still sang in its trees, albeit fitfully and without enthusiasm, were tiny sad balls of dingy fluff. The other creatures who called the Fasna Wyzel home were little better off. Only the squirrels, charcoal to light gray of color before the application of the spell, could now revel in their natural griminess, and they chose not to do so. Since the coming of the Horde, the world was no longer a happy place, and the forest no exception.

Even the normally clear river, where the line of glum-faced soldiers turned off the main trail and headed upstream, had been reduced to a rush and gurgle of irritating drabness. No lights flashed from the small cataracts in its midst. Even the cheerful frogs had been mortified into silence by the persisting dearth of color.

In the absence of trail, Slale relied on the instructions he had received at Malostranka from the dejected minor wizard who had been one of those who had spirited the deceased Evyndd's body out of Kyll-Bar-Bennid ahead of the triumphant Horde. If these were correct, they should be very close now to their intended destination. Not that it mattered to him if they missed their goal. Nothing mattered anymore except killing as many of the enemy as possible. While serving in the defense of Kyll-Bar-Bennid, his own homeland had been overrun by the outriders of the Horde, the fine home that had been in his family for centuries had been burned to the ground, and his family, his wife and two sons…

He concentrated on finding a path through the trees. They grew close together here, so near the nourishing river. Moss hung from branches and sprouted like gray fur from the trunks of seasoned boles. Invigorated by the absence of normal light, monstrous mushrooms and toadstools and liverworts clambered wildly over fallen logs and old stumps. Except for the unquenchable rumble of the river, the forest was unnaturally silent, as if its inhabitants had been massively overdosed with some powerful tranquilizing agent. Slale wished for some such medicine himself. It might help him not to think so much. Thinking was dangerous, as it led inexorably to remembrance.

"There it is, sir." A weary, perspiring sergeant-of-arms rose partway in his saddle and pointed. Slale could see the house, too, peeping through the trees. He was quietly relieved. They would, it seemed, be able to do what they had come for, deliver the contents of the silver box to the domicile that lay just ahead, and return by the secret way to Malostranka. He imagined the Princess Petrine would be pleased. He hoped so. Very little pleased her these days. Even as small and insignificant a success as this would be welcomed. In that respect, he supposed, the troop's long journey was not a waste, even if he continued personally to think otherwise.

The house in the forest was surprisingly large, and of unusual design. But that was to be expected. The rear half appeared to have been hewn from the solid rock of an immense pile of boulders, while the front rose as high as three stories beneath the many-gabled thatched roof. Mullioned windows of stained glass greatly diminished by grayness gazed out across river and woods. The forest had been cleared away in front, and a small yard filled with diverse flowers would normally have greeted visitors with a carpet of color. Now their manifold petals hung low, drowned by the all-encompassing grayness.

As they approached the entrance, a dog ran out to greet them. He was of medium size, a wirehaired male who was nothing less than an energetic mass of textbook muttness. There wasn't a straight hair on his body, his tail curled back up over his rear end, and the tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth was splotched with black. Dark, lively eyes gazed inquiringly up at the tired visitors, and his whole countenance bespoke a nature that was ever sunny and alert. It raised the spirits of several of the disillusioned soldiers just to look upon this four-legged bundle of homey cheer. As the troop continued toward the house, the dog uttered a few desultory warning barks, but his heart was clearly not in it. The soldiers sensed this, and smiled. They, too, had often spent long hours on guard, with nothing to show for their efforts.

"Easy there, boy. What's the matter—you hungry?" From the heights of his saddle it was too far for Slale to reach down and pet the animal. Instead, he smiled and spoke softly, and was rewarded with toothy grin and wagging tail. The captain did not feel sorry for the abandoned dog. The life it led was doubtless better than his own.

"Dessevia," he ordered a soldier, "as soon as we're inside, see if you can find this poor friendly mongrel something to eat." It was the least they could do, he reflected, for a loyal animal whose master the visitors were bringing home in a box.

Once inside the rustic outer gate, they dismounted. Leaving half his troop to keep an eye on the horses and the forest, Slale and his remaining soldiers warily approached the house of Susnam Evyndd. The dog trotted alongside, long tongue lolling loose from the side of its mouth, spittle flecking the paving stones, eyes intent on these strange new visitors. With the silent abode looming before him, the good captain wished for the presence and advice of even a lowly wizardly apprentice, but it had been felt that none could be spared from Malostranka. The idea of entering the house of a powerful sorcerer, even a compassionate dead one, had not appealed to him from the start.

Yet there was nothing to be done but to do it, and if crossing the threshold uninvited caused him to be turned instantly into a newt, then at least he would be spared forevermore the unforgettable images of his ravaged home and defiled family that had been seared into his brain.

As his soldiers crowded tentatively close behind him he tried the front door, only slightly unnerved by the strange shapes that seemed to be swirling within the stained glass that flanked the entry. It opened at his touch, and he stepped inside. Nothing happened, except that the dog ran past him to vanish into the depths of the house. He and his troops were not blasted from the face of the earth, or transmogrified into vermin. He sighed, not entirely with relief.

"Come on," he ordered simply. "We might as well follow the dog." Clutching their weapons tightly and keeping close together, wary men and women followed in a tight knot close behind their captain.

Slale was not surprised when the animal led him straight to the kitchen. He did start slightly when he felt something rubbing up against his leg. Glancing down, he was relieved to see that it was only a very muscular black cat of average size. She had white spots on her muzzle and feet, and did not appear to be in any immediate danger of starvation.

"Must be plenty of rats and mice in a forest house like this, kitty. I expect you're better off than the dog." Reaching down, he stroked her absently, and she purred forth a grateful response. "Dessevia, Koscka; see if you can find something for these unfortunate creatures to eat." The two soldiers obediently began to poke through the multitude of cabinets, only too grateful for the duty. While the cupboards through which they were now searching might indeed contain food, they might also hold precious objects small enough for a sharp-eyed soldier to slip into a pocket.

Disappointed, they found only moldering food, utensils fashioned of base metals, and eventually, a bin marked "food for animals." The dog was almost hysterically grateful for the feed they gave it, and though they appeared well enough, the three cats who had one by one emerged from the hidden depths of the house readily joined in the feast.

The canary in the elaborate cage that hung near a far window was in more desperate need of sustenance, which the grumbling soldiers also provided. Unexpectedly, one let out a yell and nearly knocked his companion down in his sudden haste to escape the farthest corner of the kitchen, where a large wired crate sat upon a sturdy shelf among pots and bins. Instantly, weapons were drawn to deal with this new threat.

Sword in hand, the terrified soldier hovered halfway between his captain and whatever it was he had espied in the farthest reaches of the kitchen.

"What is it, Dessevia?" Slale asked tersely. Staring in the direction from which the shout had originated, he saw nothing.

"A serpent, sir! A bleeding great hideous nasty serpent!"

"It is said that wizards often keep dangerous familiars close about them," someone whispered from near the back of the invaded kitchen.

"True enough, but such sorceral servants are usually drawn from the ranks of cats and sometimes dogs, which creatures we have found here in plenty." An amateur scholar of some knowledge, Slale was proud of his book learning. "A sorcerer might keep a serpent to utilize in other ways."

Cautiously, the point of his own sword preceding him, he advanced in the direction of the cage. Oblivious to the slow approach of the uneasy soldiery, the canary had begun to sing as it cracked and swallowed the seed they had placed in its cage.

It was a snake of a type Slale recognized: impressive in appearance, it was as long as a man was tall, and of substantial girth. It lay coiled peacefully within a tightly lidded cage of glass, eyeing them out of small dark red eyes, its tongue flicking continuously in their direction.

Relieved, the captain put up his sword. "Be at ease, gentlemen and ladies. The creature is secured within its pen, and cannot get out. Furthermore, it is one of those serpents that kills by embracing its prey, and not with poison."

"You be certain of that, Captain?" The tremulous query originated with a trooper named Taree, a simple but brave swordswoman who had managed to escape the havoc that had befallen Kyll-Bar-Bennid.

"Yes. I recognize the kind." Slale stood a little straighter, his voice taking on a tone of self-importance. "I have seen such creatures depicted in a book."

The soldiers murmured softly, those who were not inherently terrified of serpents or books crowding closer for a better look. It was indeed a handsome snake, with large diamondlike patterns running down the length of its back and sides. What its natural colors might be they could only imagine: the Mundurucu hex had reduced its scaly coloration to the same sad state of washed-out gray as now dominated the rest of the world.

"I wonder if it's as hungry as these others?" the trooper commented, immediately regretting giving voice to his curiosity. His comrades were not hesitant in responding.

"Why don't you try feeding it and find out?" The suggestion from the back of the crowded kitchen sparked a minor but much needed outburst of laughter.

"Snakes of this kind need to be fed only rarely." Turning away from the cage and its inquisitive but slow-moving occupant, Slale surveyed the rest of the kitchen. "This is as good a place as any to do what we came for, I suppose. Bring forth the box."

The soldiers who had been charged with transporting the silver crate promptly wrestled it forward and set it down in front of the basin that was used for the washing and cleaning of food. Being forced to look after it all the way from Malostranka had left them with a less than sanguine opinion of its bulk, not to mention its contents.

Approaching the crate, Slale bent to unfasten the straps that secured it. Removing the lid, he gestured to his soldiers. From the midst of thick horsehair packing, they removed a smaller container. Simply fashioned of silver inlaid with an assortment of attractive but in no wise remarkable semiprecious stones, they set it gently on the sturdy wooden table that dominated the center of the room. It lay there waist-high, the silver shining dully in the muted, cursed gray light as if relieved to be free of its prison. In unblighted sunlight the carnelians and agates, amethysts and citrines that decorated its sides would have twinkled brightly. But there was no such liveliness in them now. They were as subdued as the rest of the world, reduced to lackluster lumps of rock that, like everything else, had been smothered by the Mundurucu hex.

Using his thumbs, Slale carefully pushed the two heavy latches in opposite directions and then lifted the hinged lid to reveal an inner nest of plush satin. In natural light this would have been a bright, regal red. Now it was only a wan pillowed mush. A double handful of dust reposed in a covered crystal bowl—all that remained of the venerable sorcerer Susnam Evyndd.

In accordance with wizardly tradition, the sorrowful mages who had spirited his corpse safely out of Kyll-Bar-Bennid had cremated his body upon reaching the safety of the fortress Malostranka. The remains, much reduced in volume from the original, had been preserved in the silver box. There it had been decided, by the most knowledgeable among the scholars of wizardry present, that the ashes ought properly and in the absence of any other instructions for their disposal to be returned to their owner's last known place of habitation, there to be scattered among his possessions. This also was in keeping with sorceral tradition.

Why this need be done, a number of the soldiers had grumbled on more than one occasion during the long march through the Fasna Wyzel, they could not imagine. Theirs was not to understand, however, but to do. At least they had been given the command of a rational, perceptive officer. Slale was no pompous ass, no rich noble's ambitious progeny, drunk on decorations and ribbons, but a real soldier: one the men and women under him could identify with.

"What now, Captain?" Sergeant Hyboos looked on impatiently, anxious to be away from the daunting house of magic and back to the fighting. Every hand was needed in the defense of the fortress, and they were most certainly wasting their time here. Meowing hopefully, a long-haired blond cat was rubbing up against his ankle. He ignored it until, meowing rather more forcefully, it began to dig its claws into his lower leg. He pushed it away with his other foot, ignoring it when it hissed at him softly. No one had time to comfort or caress him. People were suffering, and he had no time for animals.

"I'm not sure, Hyboos. The scholar Popelkas gave no detailed instructions. 'Scatter the ashes in the house' was all I was told." Glancing at the sergeant, seeing the anxious, expectant faces of the rest of the troop, the good captain shrugged, picked up the bowl, removed the cut crystal lid, pursed his lips, and blew.

A cloud of gray ash erupted from the interior of the gleaming bowl to swirl and dissipate throughout the gray-toned kitchen. It was very fine ash, the cremators having done their task efficiently (as well they ought, having lately had all too many opportunities to practice their craft). It seemed to hang briefly in the still air of the high-ceilinged room, scattered only by the vigor of the captain's forceful exhalation. Then it began to sift down, until drifting particles of dead sorcerer could no longer be distinguished from the omnipresent accumulated dust of household inattention.

Slale waited hopefully, as did his troops, gazing anxiously at their surroundings. The lusterless sun continued to pour through the tall kitchen windows. The scruffy dog continued to crunch single-mindedly at his refilled food bowl. Cats moved silently, or claimed for their temporary territory muted patches of gray daylight. A single querulous meow ruffled the stillness. In its cage the canary chirped once from its perch and was still.

Among the silent, assembled troops, someone finally made a rude noise. The ensuing sniggers reflected only a moderate degree of discouragement. No one had really expected anything to happen.

"Let's get out of here." Frustrated and disappointed, Slale turned and directed the soldiers to pick up the valuable box and bowl. These he consigned to the care of those unlucky ones who had escorted it all the way from Malostranka. Grateful to be at last on their way, the soldiers thus charged offered no fresh objection to this duty. Who knew what might happen between house and fortress? One or two of the gemstones set in the sides of the box might inadvertently manage to work their way free of their restraining bezels.

Peaceful though it was in the dwelling's vicinity, none of the soldiers desired to linger. In more cheerful times they might have felt differently. Trapped as they were in the gloom of the hex, with the threat of final conquest by the Horde looming over all of them, they wished only to return to Malostranka to participate in the defense of the fortress. There was no time to lie by the side of the singing stream, luxuriating in its enforced drabness, on grass drained as gray and lifeless as the ashes they had just scattered inside the house.

The clog saw them off, his whiskery terrier countenance giving him the aspect of a sorrowful beggar afflicted with a mustache too big for his face. For a moment, Slale thought the animal might follow. Another time, he might have encouraged the friendly mongrel to do so. Not now. At Malostranka there was food enough only for those able to fight. A last look back, when the residence was nearly out of sight, showed that the dog had gone back inside. He hoped they had left it food enough until some friend or relative of the dead wizard thought to pay a visit to the house. Twisting in his saddle, he turned his gaze and his thoughts firmly to the path ahead. They were done with this honorable but frivolous mission, and he was anxious to be out of these endless woods and back to the fortress.

The house of Susnam Evyndd fell behind, until it was lost to sight among the trees. Despondent birds flitted between the massive boles, too dejected by their dismal surroundings to sing. Forest animals crept listlessly from den to food. In the slow eddies of the river, even the fish swam with manifest despair, barely able to muster enough enthusiasm to chase tadpoles or water bugs. A pair of dun-colored unicorns cropped absently at a purpleberry bush, their actions motivated more by instinct than actual hunger. Melancholy suffused the wood like fog and dripped from the eyes of its manifold denizens like tears.

But within the gabled house of one dead wizard, something was stirring.

It caught the attention of Oskar the dog, who had recently bid an uncomprehending farewell to the strange humans who had paid an all too fleeting visit to the humanless home. Closely resembling an ambulatory mass of dirty steel wool, the inquisitive mutt found himself sniffing curiously at a corner of the kitchen where a small pile of dust had accumulated. To his slightly addled canine mind, it smelled oh so very faintly of the intimately familiar. Atop the kitchen work-table, a slightly built calico cat caught in the process of cleaning its paws paused to watch.

The perplexed Oskar sniffed again, more deeply this time. What his doggy mind decided could not be known, but his reaction was easily deciphered. Some of the dust went up his nose, whereupon he let out an impressive and reverberant sneeze that echoed throughout the otherwise silent house.

At which point he unexpectedly found himself gazing at the world from a significantly different vantage point.

He still stood on all fours, but very different fours they were. He was more naked than even when his master had taken to shaving him in anticipation of the hottest months of the summer. Gray-tinged bare flesh met his startled gaze. Sitting back, he found his head and upper body rising of their own accord, until he was standing, yes standing, on his two hind legs. His eyes looked down at the world from a height considerably greater than before. Stunned quite beyond anything in his open, good-natured experience, he let out a howl of surprise.

"By the mother of all litters that ever peed in their sleeping box, I never—!"

He broke off the howl halfway, eyes wide, one paw snapping back to cover his shocked mouth. Except it wasn't a paw. It was a hand. A hand not unlike that of his master Evyndd, only younger and smoother of skin. And his muzzle, the very same muzzle he used to locate deliciously dead animals and putrefying old bones—his muzzle had been squashed flat. It, too, was naked like most of the rest of him, except for the thick, drooping mustache that grew beneath his nose. His nose…

His nose was warm and dry when it ought to be cold and wet. Even so, he did not feel sick.

Slowly, fearful of falling over, he turned to examine his surroundings. They, at least, had not changed. There were the familiar cleaning basins and the spigot from which cool, fresh water flowed at the touch of a lever. There the shelves, with their dishes and utensils. There the main food preparation table, atop which the cat Cocoa liked to sprawl and clean herself. She was sitting there as he stared now, licking herself between the toes of her right forepaw, her tongue carefully moving up and down in brisk, efficient cleaning movements. She glanced up at him out of bright, alert eyes that were forest green when everything wasn't gray.

"Meowrrr—are you ugly! You look—"

Breaking off abruptly at the sound of her own voice, she looked down at herself. In place of the mottled, multicolored cat, a very beautiful and wholly human young woman sat cross-legged atop the worktable. Like Oskar, she was mostly hairless and entirely naked.

"I look what?" Adopting a slightly twisted grin, he put his forepaws (no; his hands, he corrected himself) on his hips and regarded his formerly feline companion expectantly. His joints bent in all the wrong directions.

Stunned, she slid awkwardly off the worktable to land perfectly on all fours. Hesitantly she stood up, imitating his posture, and slowly began to examine herself. She was manifestly not pleased with her initial discoveries.

"Where," she declared in outraged bewilderment, "is my fur?"

"Gone the way of much that is cat," declared a strong, somber, and surprisingly deep voice.

"Does this mean that from now on we exchange kisses instead of hisses?" added a second.

As one, Oskar and Cocoa looked in the direction of the doorway that led to the inner rooms of the house. Two more humans were standing there, also naked. Oskar sniffed. His nostrils seemed not to be working quite right, as if a cloth had been laid over his face. But he could still recognize a familiar body odor when he encountered one, even from across the room. Though entirely human, he knew both of those who had spoken.

The strong, deep voice belonged to Mamakitty. Though senior among the wizard's cats, she was deceptively sleek of flank. From frequent friendly tussles, Oskar knew she was fashioned of the cat equivalent of corded steel. Standing there in the doorway, black as always and with the same white patches ornamenting her muzzle, feet, and hands, her nude form reflected both her maturity and her remarkable physical condition.

Next to her, experimenting with his human arms and hands by taking great silly swings at the empty air, was Cezer. His hair was as proportionately long and blond as it had been when he had walked on four paws, though now it was by and large restricted to the top of his head. Delighting in the utterly unexpected transformation, he began leaping about, letting out occasional shouts of delight as he reveled in his bipedal vantage point and prehensile fingers.

"Look!" he shouted gleefully as he picked up first a soup ladle, then a mixing bowl, "I can hold things! No more just pushing them around—I can pick them up! And throw them!" Demonstrating, he heaved the ladle in Oskar's direction. The dog-man ducked, leaving the ladle to bang noisily off the back wall of the kitchen.

"That's not all I can grab." Taking a step toward the work-table, Cezer raised both human hands.

A familiar warning hiss emerged from the throat of the transformed Cocoa. "Keep away from me, you lecherous freak! I'm in no mood to play."

"This isn't about play." Striding with her usual innate majesty into the kitchen, Mamakitty cuffed the ebullient Cezer sharply on the side of his head. Though he was bigger than she, and stronger despite her size and condition, he did not hit back. He had too much respect for her. They all did, Oskar included.

When a very different kind of hiss sounded from the far corner of the kitchen, they realized with uneasy certainty that whatever unknown incantation had transfigured them had not yet finished with its transforming work.

The naked man who rose slowly and unsteadily but with increasing assurance from a low crouch was massively built, and far taller than anyone else in the room. His face was as chiseled as the rest of his body, and unlike the rest of them, he was absolutely hairless, even to the eyebrows. The newly rendered humans did not identify him immediately. This was not surprising, since in their previous embodiments they had had very little contact with him even though he had lived always in their midst.

Realization struck Oskar first. After all, only one denizen of the wizard Evyndd's menagerie had been both hairless and fashioned of solid muscle.

"Great offal—it's Samm!"

"I never would have guessed." The beguiling Cocoa was eyeing the naked mass of muscle admiringly, much to the well-formed but far smaller Cezer's evident irritation.

Not knowing what else to do, and wishing from the very beginning to preserve harmony in their altered states among all, Oskar approached the man-serpent. Imitating a gesture he had observed the Master exchanging with his guests, he tentatively extended an open hand.

"Samm the snake. How strange that after all these years we should only now truly be able to communicate."

Bending low to avoid banging his bald head on the ceiling, the giant's expression reflected serious confusion. Oskar immediately found himself sympathizing.

"It's all right. I think all of us who have been transformed by the Master's magic are capable of speech. Try it."

"Wasn't worried about speaking," the giant grumbled. "Just not sure yet how to use these." He held out both huge hands, gazing at them as if he had suddenly sprouted cactus spines instead of fingers. Which he might as well have, Oskar reflected. To a formerly limbless creature arms and legs, hands and feet, would be more of a novelty than even human speech.

Reaching out, he took one of Samm's hands in his own and squeezed gently. Emulating the gesture, the giant squeezed gently back, his grip completely enveloping Oskar's. The dog-man winced at the pressure but held on long enough to shake the other's hand. He was relieved to have his own back in one piece.

"What has happened to us? What is this?" Like the serpent he had been, Samm was a creature of few words.

"The work of the Master. It has to be." Mamakitty strode farther into the room, scanning shelves and starting to poke into cabinets. "There must be reason behind all of this, or it would not have happened."

"Where is the old tomcat, anyway?" Leaning back against the worktable, Cezer struggled to scratch under his chin with his rear leg. While he could manage the feat, he found it much easier to use one of his new hands. "If he's making magic, he should be here."

"He is here." Oskar eyed the younger man somberly. "I know—I smelled him. Inhaled some of him, actually."

Cezer frowned and stood away from the table. "What are you talking about? That dust—?" Oskar nodded slowly. "But that would mean—?"

"The Master is dead." Clawing open a bottom drawer, Mamakitty found it contained only onions. "He would not have caused this to happen to us without a reason. Somewhere in the house there must be an explanation for what has happened to us. When we find it, we will know what to do next."

Placing a firm hand on the back of Cocoa's neck, Cezer smiled invitingly. "I know what I'd like to do next. This shape offers all sorts of interesting new possibilities."

Whirling, she slapped his hand away. "For once in your lives be serious, Cezer! This thing that has happened is a bigger thing than any of us!" Under her breath she added, "Master Evyndd should have had you fixed last year, when he was thinking about it."

"I heard that!" Cezer replied accusingly.

"Both of you!" Mamakitty growled commandingly, "stop fighting and start looking."

"Looking for what?" Spreading his hands in an unconsciously perfect human gesture, Cezer eyed her questioningly. "Even if we found something, how would we know what we were looking at? Cats can't read."

"I have this inescapable feeling that we can now, just as we can speak." The older woman tossed a sealed jar in his direction.

Catching it effortlessly in one hand, Cezer glanced at the handwritten label. "Sweet pickles. I hate pickles." His eyes widened as he realized what he had just done. "Fssst, you're right! We can read!" He examined the warm, familiar kitchen anew. To the usual sights and smells, little had been removed while much had been added. "I wonder what else we can do?"

"Besides babble inanely?" Cocoa was helping Mamakitty with her search. "Why don't you help us and find out? There must be something the Master left behind that will tell us what to do next." In a cheerful daze, the long-haired young man proceeded to join in the search for they knew not what.

Leaving Samm to cope by himself for the moment with the complicated and somewhat daunting business of learning how to use hands and feet, Oskar started to join the others, only to be stopped by a plaintive voice from overhead.

"Hey—what about me?"

Despite the human words, there was no mistaking the golden, mellifluous tone. Glancing up, Oskar saw a very slim, very pale blond young man clinging rather desperately to the highest rafters of the kitchen.

"Hello, Taj, and welcome to the world of human form. Come down and be with the rest of us."

"Come down—how?" Extending a slender arm, the former songbird fluttered fingers with extreme rapidity and to absolutely no effect. "My wings are gone! In their place I have these—these finger things. Good for picking up seed but useless, I fear, for flying."

"It's only a short drop. Just let go and land on your feet."

"Easy for a dog to say," the former canary grumbled. "If I come down, you promise to keep the cats from attacking me?"

Oskar shook his head resignedly. That gesture, at least, felt wholly familiar. "As you can see, everything's different now, Taj. You're as big as any of the cats-that-were." This human speech, he reflected, was much more efficient for purposes of communication than barking. The only response barking at Taj, for example, had ever provoked was a squirt of something from the high-hanging cage that was not especially eloquent.

"Yes, but not as strong, I fear."

"Well, you can't stay up there." Mindful of Mamakitty's directions, the dog-man bent and began rummaging through the lower kitchen cabinets.

Taj waited another couple of minutes before hanging momentarily from his hands and then dropping to the floor. He landed without difficulty on his bare feet. "Say, that wasn't so bad."

"I didn't think it would he. Master Evyndd caused us to be changed, not helpless." Oskar looked back from where he was searching. "Now, help the rest of us look."

"What are we looking for?" Taj ambled close to peer over the other man's broad shoulder.

"Something to tell us what we're supposed to do next."

"What makes you think we're supposed to do anything next?"

"Because…" Oskar hesitated. It was not an unreasonable question, and it took him a moment to come up with an answer. "Because Master Evyndd wouldn't have caused this to happen to us without there being an important reason behind it. I don't recall him ever doing anything without a reason."

"Then maybe we're looking in the wrong place." For a mere bird, Oskar felt, Taj had often demonstrated exceptional intelligence. "Shouldn't we be searching the study?"

The study. Oskar tried to twitch his tail at the thought of it. The absence of a tail was disconcerting. Still, he mused, there were other appendages he would have missed more. Be grateful for what you have, he told himself. While Evyndd's pets had been allowed in that sanctum sanctorum, it was only when the Master was present. Woe unto any animal who was caught there without permission! Mamakitty relieved him of the need to contrive a response.

"Taj is right. The study is where Master Evyndd kept all of his most important things. We should look there." Turning, she gestured with a hand as fluidly as if she had been doing so all her life. "Everyone follow me."

Oskar was more than willing to let the senior cat go first. As they stood confronting the open portal, ingrained training warning them to stay back, he observed that Cezer was standing very close to the equally tall but much less muscular Taj.

The former songster finally noticed the other man's intense, unwavering stare. "Is there something on your mind, cat-man?"

"Yesst. I have this overpowering urge to rip your throat out and gnaw on your brains."

"Repress it." Oskar felt no compunction at intervening. "If we're going to survive what's happened to us, we're going to have to rely on each other's help."

"Besides," declared Taj boldly, "I'm big enough now to fight back."

Eyeing the other male, Cezer let out a disdainful snort. "Maybe."

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Looking up and back, Cezer's eyes widened to take in all of Samm, who had come up quietly behind him. Even in his new, massive man-form, the former snake moved with uncanny silence.

"Leave him alone," the giant hissed threateningly. "Remember—if given a chance, I would also kill and eat cats."

"All right, take it easy, musclehead!" Shrugging off the oversize hand, the irritated Cezer stepped aside.

"Quiet, all of you!" Cocoa's attention was focused on the interior of the sacrosanct chamber. Crowding close together in the doorway, they stared in silence as Mamakitty tentatively but with increasing assurance moved into the study.

The manifold shelves that lined the chamber were crammed to overflowing with books and beakers, fragments of unknown creatures dried and jars of organic matter preserved. In the center stood a table of polished dark walnut. Boxes of strange powders jostled for space with bound bundles of desiccated plants and twigs. High overhead, a single stained-glass dome of singular design allowed wan sunlight to penetrate. It was as gray as everywhere else, and the magnificent stained-glass segments were likewise utterly devoid of color.

Finally, Mamakitty rested both hands on the back of the high, thickly upholstered chair. "I think it's safe. It looks safe. It smells safe. Everyone, come and help search."

They filed into the room, still uneasy at the thought of rummaging through the Master's belongings. Only Taj seemed at ease. But then, Oskar remembered, the Master had often taken the canary into his study to entertain him with song. For that reason, Taj was probably more familiar with the study and its contents than any of them. As they hunted and the floor did not fall away beneath them, their confidence grew. But loose papers yielded no immediately useful information, and none of the hundreds of books and scrolls glowed with revelation.

"There has to be something." Mamakitty wiped a forearm across her face. The advent of perspiration was another new, and unpleasant, consequence of their recent transformation. Wherever her much less flexible neck would permit it, she licked the salty droplets from her bare skin.

"If I have to look through one more moldy old book, I think I'll throw up." Cocoa took a deep breath. "This room stinks of age. Besides, all this work is making me hungry. The bookshelves are full of wonderful mouse smells."

"I'm hungry, too." Oskar brightened. "Wait a minute. If I remember right…" Walking back to the Master's desk, he started pawing at the drawers on the right side before he remembered to use his fingers.

"I've gone through those already." Mamakitty made the comment idly. "There's nothing in there."

"No? What about this?" Triumphantly, he held up the opaque glass jar of tasty snacks from which their smiling master had so often dispensed special treats. Grinning, he started to bite the top. Remembering how the Master had done it, he carefully unscrewed the lid. "Couldn't do this with just paws." Reaching inside, he grabbed a couple of favorite pieces and popped them in his mouth. As he chewed, his expression faltered.

"They don't taste the same, somehow."

"Dogs! Can't think beyond food. Don't hog everything for yourself." Stepping forward, Cezer staked a claim on the jar. As he reached for it, Oskar tried to pull away. Caught between their efforts to establish possession, the jar was pulled loose. Falling to the floor, it bounced once and began rolling across the carpet, spilling treats as it tumbled.

"Now look what you've done!" Oskar barked.

Suddenly, Mamakitty was striding forward, but not to recover edibles. Bending, she reached into the jar and pulled out a half-revealed piece of paper. It was neither large nor lengthy, but it was enough. It was what they had been looking for.

"What better place to leave instructions for one's animals than in their treat jar?" Carefully she unfolded the single sheet, using both fingers and tongue. "What more likely place for spying intruders to ignore?" In the silence that ensued, she read hungrily, her green eyes focusing on the paper's contents as intently as if they were rat tracks.

Unable to stand the ensuing silence for more than a minute, Cocoa moved to stand alongside the older woman and read with her.

"What does it say?" Taj asked finally. "I remember seeing that paper, but never thought to look at it." He sniffed. "There are no canary treats in that old jar."

Mamakitty looked up, her expression solemn and serious as always. "Many things, minstrel. It says many things. But you won't believe what it expects us to do."