Chapter 17: The Prison Without Bars

No one tried to stop Bram Forest until he reached the very gates of the amphitheater. But there a guard with drawn whip-sword barred the way and demanded: “You don’t look Nadian to me. What delegation are you with, man?”

Bram Forest had no time to parry words with words. He tried to push his way past the guard who, too surprised to thrust with his weapon, used his free hand to grab Bram Forest by the shoulder and spin him around. Bram Forest drove his left fist into the guard’s belly and heard the whoosh of air escaping from his lungs.

That was the last thing he heard for some time. A second guard crept up quietly behind him and struck expertly with the hilt of his whip-sword just behind the left ear. Bram Forest fell as if the ground dropped out from under him.

“By all the fiery gods of Tarth, will you look at that!” the first guard exclaimed.

The second guard could only gawk, not comprehending.

The unconscious man was growing tenuous.

The first guard in confused alarm, lashed down with the whip-sword. But its point passed through Bram Forest’s now transparent body without meeting any resistance.

“Right through him! Right through him!” cried the guard.

And, by the time he said it, and coiled his sword again, Bram Forest had vanished.

When an urgent message had come for Retoc, the Princess Volna, alone in the royal box, had decided to investigate the matter herself. She had to hurry, though. In not many minutes, Retoc and Bontarc would find themselves face to face on the sands of the amphitheater. Wouldn’t Bontarc be surprised! Too proud to flee, not swordsman enough to match the mighty Retoc...

“Yes, yes, what is it?” she snapped irritably when she entered the dungeon-like ready-room below the amphitheater sands. She was in a hurry to return to her box, lest she miss the duel between Bontarc and Retoc. Alone in the ready-room was a soldier in the uniform of Abaria.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” said the soldier. “My message is for Retoc of Abaria.”

“And I tell you Retoc of Abaria is not here to receive it.” Volna clapped her hands and two of her own guards appeared. “I am the Princess Volna. Well?”

Pirum looked at her, at the armed guards flanking her on either side, at the door through which she had entered, at the ready-room’s second door. “Very well,” he said at last, and opened the second door, beckoning.

Volna went to the doorway and looked. She gasped involuntarily, hardly able to believe her eyes. There on the stone floor of a smaller ready-room, only now regaining consciousness, was the Virgin Wayfarer of Ofrid, she who had seen Retoc slay Jlomec, she who had been sent by Volna herself to sure death on the Journey of No Return. Terror gripped her.

“What does this mean?” Volna cried. “Where did you find her? Where, man? Speak!”

“On the river, ladyship.”

“On the river? Returning from the Place of the Dead?”

“No, ladyship. Heading toward the Place of the Dead.”

Volna went to the girl and stood over her. “You! What’s your name?”

“Ylia,” the girl said.

“What were you trying to do, Ylia?”

The girl said nothing.

Volna called to Pirum, who came at once. “Hit her,” Volna said.

Grasping Ylia by her hair, Pirum struck her face with his open hand. Her head snapped back. The mark of his fingers was on her face. She said nothing.

“Hit her again,” Volna said.

Pirum struck Ylia a second time. The girl whimpered, but held her tongue. “Where is your friend, that giant of a man?” Volna asked.

Again Pirum hit Ylia when she would say nothing. Finally Volna shrugged. “She’ll talk, given enough of that. What’s your name, man?”

“Pirum, ladyship.”

“Very well, Pirum. My guards and I are returning to our seats. There is a duel I wouldn’t want to miss. All Tarth will reap its consequences. Meanwhile, stay with this girl and do what you must do to make her talk. It might be important.”

Pirum bowed. “Yes, ladyship,” he said, and watched the others depart. Then, when they were alone, Ylia surprised him by flying at him, nails bared, like a wildcat. He fought off her attack and struck her a savage open-handed blow, and she fell back. At least this, Pirum thought advancing on her, might be an interesting assignment.

“ ... hit by that cab, mac.”

“You all right?”

“He’s getting up, ain’t he?”

“Jeez, I swear,” the sweating taxi driver said to the crowd which had gathered about the prostrate man, “he popped up outa nowhere. One second I’m driving along, looking for a fare, the next, he’s standing right in front of me. I almost pushed the brake through the floor, honest, but--”

“Ylia,” the stricken man said.

“Hey now, take it easy.”

“What he say, anyhow?”

“ ... be going to a costume ball or something. Lookit that outfit he’s wearing, willya? What’s he supposed to be, a man from Mars or something? I read in the papers where Mars was pretty close a while back. My kid thinks there are...”

“Aw, shudap about your kid.”

“Need any help, mister?”

“No. No, thank you. I’m all right.”

“ ... got a nasty crack on his head, is all. See? See the blood?”

“He’s getting up.”

“ ... a cop. When you don’t want ‘em, they’re around. Now you need them, where in heck are they, that’s what I wanna know.”

“The bracelet!” the stricken man said in sudden alarm. He stared at his own right arm in confusion, then his left. His arms were bare.

“You wasn’t wearing no bracelet, mac,” someone said.

“No bracelet,” he said. “No bracelet.” His eyes looked vague, confused.

After a while a policeman came and took in the situation at a glance. “All right, all right,” he bawled. “Step back and givemair, givemair, will you?”

The crowd dispersed slowly, and the policeman talked for a while with the taxi-driver, then with the stricken man.

“My name?” the stricken man said in answer to a question. “Bram Forest. Yes, Bram Forest. But I don’t have the bracelet. The bracelet is gone, forever. Without the bracelet I can’t...” his voice trailed off.

“He drunk?” the policeman asked the cab driver.

“Search me.”

“‘A prison without bars, ‘“ the man recited. “Earth is my prison, forever. Ylia. Ylia!”

The driver made a circular motion with his forefinger, in the general vicinity of his temple.

“You both better come down the station house with me,” the policeman said.

“Aw, officer, I’ll lose some fares.”

“Anyhow. The guy talks batty, but he don’t look drunk. We got to figure this here out.”

“Ylia,” the man said, almost as if the sound were a name and he was crying out to the owner of that name across an unthinkable abyss.

Bontarc, King of Nadia, felt as good as could be expected under the circumstances. Now that the first shock of bereavement had passed, he knew no mourning would bring back his dead brother Jlomec. And the sun of Tarth was hot on the amphitheater sands as Bontarc stood awaiting his as yet unknown adversary. He flexed and uncoiled his whip-sword, smiling in expectancy. He was a competent swordsman, among the dozen or so best in Nadia. The duel-to-first-blood would be just what he needed. Win or lose, he’d feel a lot better afterwards. And meanwhile, he was a king, wasn’t he? The adulation of the crowd swept down all around him, lifting his spirits. The corpse of Prince Jlomec, treacherously slain, seemed very far away--as, indeed, it was...

A roar of expectancy went up from a hundred thousand throats as Bontarc’s adversary appeared at the other end of the arena. The sun was dazzling. At first Bontarc saw the swordsman only as a dot across the gleaming sands. But now the roar of expectancy had turned to a groan of dismay, which was followed by a silence, as of death, then an eager whispered buzzing. Why should this be? Why...

The figure came closer on the burning sands. Bontarc squinted. Was it possible? He felt a tremor go through his body.

It was Retoc of Abaria!

“To the death, Bontarc,” Retoc said softly, savagely, as they approached.

Bontarc shook his head imperceptibly. He was no coward, but knew he was no match for Retoc and didn’t see why he should lay down his life on the amphitheater sands. “I’ll not fight you to the death, Retoc of Abaria,” he said.

Retoc shrugged as if it weren’t very important. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you don’t want to kill the slayer of your brother...”

Bontarc charged.

Laughing, Retoc was ready for him.

“ ... Please ... please ... you’re just wasting your time. I ... won’t ... tell you.”

“No?” Pirum said, panting. He saw the girl through a haze of anger, frustration, and desire. She was naked, her lips were bloody, but her eyes still flashed defiance. Pirum, like most Abarians, was something of a sadist.

“Oh, you’ll talk,” he said. “You’ll talk.”

“ ... never...”

He dug his strong finger cruelly into her tender body.

“Bram Forest...” she cried.

The policeman behind the desk was saying things. Bram Forest heard the droning voice, but not the words. Ylia, he thought. Ylia. A moment before, he actually believed he heard her cry out to him in pain. But that couldn’t be. Besides, what could he do about it? He was trapped forever on Earth, without the bracelet which could send him, almost on the wings of thought, back to Tarth, to Ylia, to his destiny.

I love you, girl of Tarth, he thought. I love you, Ylia, more than words and more than worlds.

Something whisperingly cold plucked at him, and for an instant his heart was stilled.

Ylia!

Could his love for the girl of Tarth draw him across the unthinkable abyss?

“ ... immodestly attired and...” the desk sergeant was saying.

Ylia, Ylia, call me! Draw me to you, girl of Tarth.

... bramforesthelp...

Ylia! I hear you! I hear you!

“What the heck’s he doing? Praying?” the patrolman asked.

For Bram Forest was staring devoutly at nothing, staring at the air in front of his face there in the mundane precinct room as if it held a radiant vision.