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“I call you nothing,” Oary roared, with the sincerity of conviction that only a total scoundrel 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 exclaimed. “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.