Columbo Queen
As far as I was concerned, nothing that occurred in court could compare to the moment when, imprisoned and awaiting judgment, Nerian and Minesa learned the truth about my deception. "What was that about my having to abdicate?" I asked as Westin's spell melted away before their eyes. I basked in the warmth of my old, familiar shape; but the co-conspirators flushed almost purple.
The trial itself was almost boring, since the jury had already accessed my testimony. The only drama came when the real Queen, leaning on a cane but thankfully upright, gave the would-be assassins their choice of sentence. Nerian, not surprisingly, chose the gentler option. From his point, it must have been almost enjoyable to swallow another dose of his lover's will-purge and submit to Analendra's reprogramming. I believe he half hoped she'd turn him into some kind of love-slave; but the Queen was a better woman than that. Instead, she simply took away his homicidal urges and lust for power, and replaced them with a genuine concern for the welfare of his constituents.
His accomplice, on the other hand, chose death; and with Analendra's permission, I carried out the execution myself. Only the Queen and Westin were in attendance, and Minesa saw the Fury before she died.
"Wait a minute!" Enric exclaimed as I wrapped up my story. "You still didn't explain about Gandalf!"
"Oh, him! " A laugh spoiled my feigned indifference. "Well, you must have guessed by now how it was that I saw him."
"That first memory orb, right?"
"Right. I swapped my usual adventurer's fee for a chance to see Gandalf. Westin was glad enough to save the kingdom some money, and I was glad enough to get some real compensation for what I'd gone through in impersonating Analendra. I swear, Enric, I'll never take on an adventure like that again. There's nothing worse than trying to pretend to be someone you're not."
"Sure, sure," the werewolf agreed impatiently. "So what about Gandalf?"
"All right," I sighed, "if you must know..."
"Very well, then," the wizard said, peering sharply up at me from under his bushy brows, "this is how you make a memory globe."
The "me" in the memory -- it was Westin's father, actually -- nodded eagerly as the wizard continued. Gandalf's talk was all of technical matters: the magical properties of orb stone, the precise alignment of the fields of force, and so on. But none of that concerned the real me. Whenever I turned back to this memory, artificially created but as real as anything I'd experienced on my own, it was Gandalf the man who commanded my attention.
Silver hair receded from a high, straight forehead and almost matched the gray of his robe. His eyes, bright beneath the bushy brows of legend, gleamed with intelligence and an unexpected humor. A proud English nose hooked over his flowing beard, and in his hand he held an intricately carved pipe on which he sucked continually. Smoke rings stacked themselves over his hatless head like pancakes.
"Got that?" Gandalf asked when he'd finished his lecture.
"I believe so," the memory-me responded.
"Excellent! In that case, we shall test your knowledge by creating an orb of these instructions." The wizard drew prodigiously on the pipe. "I rather like the idea of leaving my own print on a memory orb; you never know who may want to see me one day."
He winked, and the memory ended.
