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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 Amolde 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-and 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.”