Heir Apparent (9 page)

I closed the mouth I had opened to ask for the ring. "If it's within his power," I repeated.

She nodded. "'If it's within his power.'"

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means: If he can do it." Feordina rolled her eyes despite her polite smile.

Oh, well, thank you very much for clarifying that particularly challenging question. Though I had come to get the ring, suddenly I wondered if the ring was my best option. "What sorts of wishes does he grant?" I asked. "And what sort doesn't he grant?"

"Well," she said, "I've never known him to turn down a request for facility at rhyming or meter, which I do have to point out are areas in which you seem to be particularly weak."

"Ahh," I said, suspecting that she wouldn't recognize sarcasm, "very useful to peasant girls who need to take on the royal court."

"Hmmm," she said as though maybe she
did
know sarcasm when she heard it. "Of course, Saint Bruce does tend to get cranky with greedy people who are granted one wish then ask for more."

"Cranky," I said. "As in..." I glanced at the upraised sword.

"Hmmm," Feordina agreed.

"So what do you suggest?" I asked.

She sighed audibly. "You came here looking for something in particular. Is your attention span so short that you've forgotten?"

"I came looking for my mother's ring," I said.

Feordina leaned close as though she was about to whisper something to me, but instead she shouted: "
Well, then, ask for it!
"

"I wish for my mother's ring," I said.

There was a slight
ping
as something metallic fell—I couldn't see from where on the statue—and hit the floor of the cave. I caught the glint of metal as the ring rolled to bounce off my right big toe.

"Oy!" Feordina smacked her palm against her forehead. "Was that so difficult?"

I picked up the ring. It was a pewter band with a design I recognized from the medieval paraphernalia catalogs as a Celtic knot. "Thank you," I said to Saint Bruce. All right, he was a statue, but what could politeness hurt? I asked Feordina, "Now do you believe I'm Janine de St. Jehan?"

Feordina sighed. Feordina was great at sighing. "I suppose."

"Then can you tell me about this ring?"

"If you give it to someone," Feordina said, "that person will do your bidding."

"You mean ... like..."—I shrugged—"...what?"

"I mean, like, your father put the ring on your mother's finger, and—even though she knew better—she was compelled to love him."

"Eww!" I said. "You mean she didn't want to, and had to because of the ring?" The king, who had never been high in my estimation, took an express elevator into the subbasement. "She shouldn't have accepted the ring," I proclaimed.

Feordina looked close to smacking her palm against my forehead, but she refrained. "You don't listen too well," she said. "You really should learn to listen.
Compelled.
Did you not hear me say
compelled,
or don't you know what the word means?"

"You said," I reminded her, "that once my father put the ring on my mother's finger, she was compelled to love him—and, yes, I know that
compelled
means she had to, whether she wanted to or not. You never said she was
compelled
to accept the ring."

She put her hands on her hips and stood on her toes to stick her face up into mine. "Well, I should think that was obvious."

I raised my voice to match hers. "Well, then, OK." But getting her mad wasn't going to help. Making an effort to sound pleasant, I said, "OK, thank you."

"Don't you take
that tone
with me," Feordina snapped, which made me wonder if her character might not be based on my grandmother, who can discern
a tone
at fifty paces.

"Sorry," I said meekly. "But, no, really, thank you. That is valuable information. You're saying that when I give the ring to someone, that person
has
to accept it, and then he or she
has
to do whatever I command."

Feordina nodded. "You can give the ring only once, and that person will do all your bidding, or die trying, for as long as he or she lives, never able to remove the ring, no matter what you bid, even if it's to jump off a castle battlement. Which—not that you asked, but I'll give my opinion, anyway—would be a wasteful thing for you to ask for, because even if your person dies within moments of getting the ring, you can't take it back. Well, you can, but it won't work for you again."

Seeing what looked like a flaw in her reasoning, I asked, "What if I bid the person to take the ring off?"

"What are you, a fledgling lawyer?" Feordina asked. "Can't be done."

"Just wondering."

She shook her head. "I really hate lawyers," she said. She turned to complain to the statue of Saint Bruce. "Who would have ever guessed that my little Janine would grow up to be a lawyer?" She waved me away. "Go on, go on," she said. "I have a sweater to finish knitting before the nights start getting chilly. Don't you have a kingdom to inherit or something?"

SUBJ: URGENT RESPONSE NEEDED—Repair Team
DATE: 5/25 03:50:13
P.M.
US eastern daylight time
FROM: Nigel Rasmussem
<
[email protected]
>
TO: dept. heads distribution list

The patch suggested by the Palo Alto group didn't work.

The gamer has only now broken through level 1 for the first time. We are concerned over her lack of progress, which makes it seem unlikely that she will finish the game in the short time she has left.

Note that we're already seeing degeneration of the bios, even earlier than forecast. We do have medical personnel present.

Options needed immediately for stabilization. Please respond ASAP.

So, tying the ring to the laces of my bodice, I said good-bye to Feordina the Knitter and the statue of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet, and I woke up Sir Deming, who'd fallen asleep on the stream bank, though he claimed he was just thinking with his eyes closed.

"Are you quite ready yet?" he asked as he helped me mount the horse. "Maybe we can go visit the seashore next, or perhaps you'd like to tour the great cathedrals of the midland provinces? I mean, it isn't as though there's any sort of rush or anything, with the old king dead and the new king not yet crowned."

What had he done—awakened on the wrong side of the stream?

"The new king," I said, "doesn't appreciate sarcasm."

I could give him the ring and order him to like me—or at least to be civil to me and protect me from others' rudeness—but I suspected that would be a frivolous waste.

Once we had been riding for a long silent while, he asked, "What did you ask for, back at the shrine?"

I'd had plenty of time to consider what I might answer should he ask that question—something clever, I'd calculated, and believable, and at the same time implying that I was not someone to be taken lightly or messed with: a deception he might pass on to the royal family so that they would have a healthy fear of me. But the best I'd come up with was, "That's for me to know."

Deming shrugged and didn't say anything else the whole ride to the castle.

S
I
R
D
E
M
I
N
G
O
N
C
E
again handed me over to Counselor Rawdon, and I once again decided to forgo the bath and change of clothes. After all, if this kingdom included people dressed like Feordina, whose fashion sense began and stopped at forest edibles, the royal family would just have to accept my sheepherder's garb.

Ah, my royal kin. What can I say? After a short interval of aristocratic abuse, punctuated by my polite little apologies (I'm sorry I smell, I'm sorry I was born, I'm sorry the king liked me better than he liked you), the audience was once again over.

"Wulfgar," I said to my eldest half brother, "may I please have a word with you?"

Queen Andreanna went off in a huff, sweeping Abas and Kenric away with her.

"I'm guessing," I told Wulfgar, "that I'm going to be needing a lot of help."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"I'm thinking it can't have been easy for you as the firstborn son, with a domineering mother and two brothers who, I suspect, have always been ready to betray you to advance their own causes."

Wulfgar didn't have to say anything—I could tell I was right by his expression.

"There's nothing I can do about our father passing you over to name me heir." It'd be a lot easier to just give him the ring and
force
him to help me than it would be to
convince
him, but I had to try it this way first, in case I needed the ring during the rest of the game. I said, "Fathers..." I tried to get rid of the mental image of me with my ear pressed to the wall, hearing my own father demand, "How can I even be sure she's mine?" "Fathers," I said, "can be a disappointment."

"'Disappointment,'" Wulfgar snorted.

"You don't have to be abandoned to be abandoned," I told him, and at that he looked thoughtful, and then nodded. I repeated, "There's nothing I can do about our father's decision. But I suspect you would have had competition for the throne even if I had never been born, even if King Cynric had officially named you his heir."

"Oh, I can imagine," Wulfgar agreed.

"If we work together," I said, "that's the power divided between two rather than among four."

Wulfgar looked at me appraisingly, then nodded. "All right," he said.

By then we had walked out into the courtyard, and I saw that same old pair of guards dragging the poacher boy toward us. Though he and his kin had murdered me once already, I couldn't stand by and let the guards execute him for being hungry. That was no way to start my kingship. Still, I remembered that Wulfgar hadn't reacted well to leniency. "What we need to do," I said hurriedly, "is call together a council: the old king's advisers, plus those in the kingdom who know magic. I'll leave
who
to you. And
when.
You make the arrangements. I'll handle this."

Wulfgar noted the approaching guards. He obviously dismissed the oncoming situation as within my abilities and turned to go back indoors.

One of the guards called out, "Prince Wulfgar!"

Wulfgar gave a vague wave and continued walking away.

I stepped into the path of the guard. "May I help you?" I asked. "I'm Princess Janine." I smiled sweetly.

The guard bobbed his head in what may have been a bow. "Princess Janine, this boy has been caught poaching deer. We were about to deliver the usual punishment."

"Indeed?" I said, trying to sound regal.

"I didn't do nothing," the boy sniveled. "I found 'im dead already. I was dressing 'im down so's the meat wouldn't go bad, but—"

"You didn't kill him, right?" I turned to the guards. "Were there witnesses to the actual killing?"

The two men shuffled their feet. "No," they admitted, and I was sure I saw disappointment on their faces.

"Then let the boy go," I said. "Prince Wulfgar and I discussed this." Well, only if you counted my saying, "I'll handle this," as discussion, but I remembered how the guards had killed me once before because they perceived me as weak. I couldn't very well give the magic ring to the entire barracks to make them love and respect me.

The guards saluted smartly and released the boy.

"I will not be so lenient again," I said, which was for everybody's benefit.

As though afraid I might change my mind, the boy dashed away—across the courtyard, over the drawbridge, and into the woods.

The guards walked away, shaking their heads and muttering'—which didn't look promising.

Surely,
I thought,
I'm not supposed to let them kill the boy—that couldn't be the right track to take?

I was so busy watching the guards, I wasn't aware of anyone approaching until someone laid a hand on my arm. For once I lucked out, for it was a gentle touch, and when I looked up, I saw an old woman. She was about four-and-a-half-feet tall by four-and-a-half-feet wide, and she was dressed in a simple brown gown decorated with feathers and bits of seashell and smooth, polished stones of various colors.
I wonder if she's related to Feordina?
I asked myself. Or was this just the kingdom of the fashion impaired?

The old woman said, "Blessed is the way of the One."

"The one what?" I asked.

"All is One," she answered cryptically.

So I retaliated with a smart-mouthed, "And one is all."

But the old woman didn't take my comment as sarcastic. "That is very profound," she told me, and—while I checked her expression to see if
she
was being sarcastic—she added, "I guessed you might be One."

I was going to ask, "One what?" but I suspected we'd start going in circles again. So instead I asked, "Are you Sister Mary Ursula?" because I wondered if maybe we were talking about religion.

Her face lit up. "Yes," she said, obviously unduly impressed by my perceptiveness, when it was really just a case of having gotten a hint from Nigel Rasmussem. "You are truly One with the world, aren't you? I surmised that, by how you treated that boy. You recognized his Oneness. Many would not have."

"Ah, well," I said vaguely. I took it she was complimenting me, but beyond that I was kind of lost.

"You are the answer to my prayers," she told me. Which is the kind of thing I'd always fantasized someone would say to me—I'd just never pictured that someone as a seventy-year-old nun.

"Uhm..." I said.

"Let us give thanks for our Oneness," Sister Mary Ursula said. She clasped my hands, closed her eyes, and hummed nasally. "I feel the world in my bones," she said. "The wind is in my veins; the spirit of the otter is in my liver."

"Are you..." I started. "I mean, you're not..." She opened her eyes and looked at me quizzically. "I'm guessing you aren't a Roman Catholic nun," I said. I go to Catholic school, so I would know.