The Princess of Cortova (16 page)

28

Tell Me What to Do

SIGRID? I NEED YOU!
Right now,
please
!

I’m here, Molly. I’ve been here all along.

That’s good, because any minute now they’re going to kill me.

No. I don’t think so.

Really? Well, they’ve locked me up in a hot, dark room with guards outside and just one little window with bars on it, so high on the wall not even Tobias could reach it; and I’m accused of—

I know all that. Remember? I’ve been here all along.

Then tell me what to do.

Molly, I want you to pay close attention to what I’m about to say. You won’t like it, but it’s the truth. And your life depends upon it.

I’m listening.

I don’t have the answers. I’m limited in my powers and my knowledge of the world. I’m nothing compared to you. And every time you turn to me for help, you turn away from your own incredible powers. It’s up to you to save yourself.

But I don’t know how.

Of course you do. You’re the Great Seer of Harrowsgode; you possess the Gift of King Magnus. Just be what you are.

Oh, Sigrid!

I’m shutting the door now, precious child. You’re on your own.

That was hard. It was so hard that Molly curled up like a wood louse and lay there for a very long time. She didn’t think at all; she just
felt
, and all her feelings were sad and hopeless.

She might have lain like that a good deal longer if she hadn’t needed to use the chamber pot. Gradually her mind became aware of this, and the delicate question arose as to whether she should just go ahead and wet herself—and that certainly
was
tempting—or get up and make use of the vessel they’d given her for that purpose. And the more she considered this, the clearer it became how absolutely pathetic she was, lying there feeling sorry for herself and not even
trying
to do anything about it.

So she got up and found the pot, and used it. Then she sat on the floor with her back to the wall and stared at the small patch of sunlight on the floor, focusing her concentration. When she shut her eyes, the patch of light was still there, hovering in the darkness.

Soon the familiar floating sensation began. It was as if she were underwater, weightless and warm. The light had faded now, and there was only darkness. She waited for whatever would come. Her spirit knew what she needed. Molly just had to be patient.

There was no time anymore. It was just now, and more now, and still more now.

Finally, out of the nothingness that spread around her in every direction, there came a sound—more a feeling than a sound, really, just the vibration of it—and at the same time a soft glow of light.

Still she waited.

Here was the cat now,
her
cat, poking around in the ruin of the princess’s rooms. As always, he moved daintily for such a large animal, stepping over broken beams, weaving through the wreckage. Here was the cup, the Loving Cup, or what remained of it—crushed and half melted now. Leondas inspected it, then gazed out at Molly. Or that’s how it seemed anyway; he was looking out, and she was looking in.

Next he found the chessboard, or rather a corner of it, and a few scattered pieces. All of them were black now. Leondas selected one of them and touched it with his nose. Molly saw that it was a queen. The vision began to fade, and then it was gone.

Dark.

Quiet.

She was floating.

Her mind grew restless; her feelings rose up. She wanted to say, “What bloody use is any of this to me?”
But she fought against it. Her spirit would tell her what she needed to know when she needed to know it. Sigrid had said so.

Hard as it was, she must be patient.

She waited.

She heard footsteps outside. They approached, then gradually receded into the distance. Then there was the sound of a door closing and a faraway voice.

But Molly was no longer listening. She was back inside her spirit-self, where it was dark and quiet. After a while a new vision began to emerge from the shadows, and with it came the thunder of hooves on hard-packed ground. Once again she saw Leondas, but now he was in a forest, just off the path, where weeds and scrub grew in a rich carpet of leaf mulch. He was stalking, as cats do, but his prey was neither field mouse nor bird; he was creeping up on a man.

It was the assassin. Molly didn’t know him by face, but she recognized the caped hood of forest green he wore. This was one of Gonzalo’s huntsmen. She watched him wait, carefully hidden behind a hawthorn bush, his bow and arrow at the ready. Now Alaric came riding into view. The huntsman drew his bowstring with a strong arm and practiced grace and let the arrow fly. It soared through the air, perfectly aimed, sure to hit its mark—but then, quite unaccountably, the shaft began to bend into the shape of a sickle. . . .

It all happened as it had in real life. Nothing was changed or new—except that she had seen the archer. That was the reason her spirit had sent her this particular vision. That was the thing she needed to know: that it had not been Reynard’s man, but Gonzalo’s.

Fiercely as she tried to keep her concentration, she gasped at this revelation and couldn’t help asking herself why King Gonzalo, of all people, should want Alaric dead. Wouldn’t that spoil his little game of playing one cousin against the other?

No, she suddenly realized; it would make things even better. Reynard would inherit Alaric’s kingdom, making him twice as rich, with twice as much land and a most formidable army. Gonzalo needn’t choose between Westria and Austlind—he could have them both in the form of a single, stronger ally unencumbered by threat of invasion by its neighbor.

And if Reynard thought he could walk away from the alliance with Cortova, then a little blackmail would quickly change his mind—for the world would accept whatever version of Alaric’s death Gonzalo chose to tell. So if they came to an agreement on Gonzalo’s terms—the very ones to which Reynard had already signed his name—then the king of Cortova would swear it had been an accident.

Molly had entirely lost her focus now, but she knew she could find it again. And she was just about to begin when she heard a clank, then a rattle, as the door to her cell was unbolted and unlocked. When it swung open, there was such a press of soldiers filling the doorway that she could see nothing else but the sky above their heads. Terror passed over her, and then it was gone, replaced by determination. She leaped to her feet, poised and ready to fight.

But fighting wasn’t called for, it seemed. The man in front simply leaned down and set a small wooden bowl on the floor. Then he stepped back, shut the door again, and shot the bolt.

It pleased her enormously that they considered her such a threat that they’d brought a whole pack of soldiers just to deliver her bowl of bread—or slops, or porridge, or whatever it was she had no intention of eating. She smiled and sent a loving message of thanks to Sigrid—who was listening, Molly had no doubt—then she sat against the wall again and prepared herself for more.

It was easier this time. She slid almost effortlessly into the trancelike state, and her next vision came quickly.

For once the cat was not in evidence. Molly didn’t allow herself to wonder why. Nor did she react when she recognized the setting: the long terrace that ran behind the former barracks where she’d been seized by Gonzalo’s soldiers. She fought to keep her concentration, to hold the vision, as Alaric and Tobias came out of the villa and stood together, talking.

She heard every syllable of every word they spoke and followed them, step by painful step, as they moved toward their grim conclusion. And it was devastating, not because they said aloud the things she already knew: that she would die, probably soon, and there was no way they could save her. No, the devastating part was watching the two people she most loved in the world—so close, so lifelike, yet beyond her reach—and knowing she would never see them again.

That was, by far, the hardest thing of all. Beheading (or hanging, or burning at the stake, or however it was they executed criminals in Cortova) would hurt for a moment and then it would hurt no more. But to leave Alaric and Tobias forever was simply past bearing.

This terrible knowledge should have drowned her in another wave of grief, breaking her concentration and sending her back to her former state of hopeless despair. But it didn’t. Molly and her spirit were as one now.

All these years, she’d stood in the doorway of the place where her power and wisdom dwelt, taking the occasional cautious step across the threshold, grabbing something, then stepping back and running away. Now she’d entered the room and closed the door behind her—and once inside she was forever changed. She could grieve and watch at the same time; she was patient yet ready to pounce. All would work itself out according to the fates, and if her own death was written in the stars—she
had
been warned!—then she was prepared to accept it. But there was still something that had to be done, and her spirit would guide her. When that mission was clear, she would summon everything burning within her and accomplish this final task.

She sat, unmoving, hardly breathing, as if she’d been carved from a block of stone. Her thoughts and emotions floated above her; she could practically reach up and touch them. But they did not distract her. She was keeping watch, all her senses primed, for what her spirit would show her next.

“One of the slaves might get inside,” Tobias was saying. “Maybe we could send a message—”

“To whom? Who inside the walls would help us?”

“The princess. She can’t possibly believe Molly is guilty. They were friends. And she of all people has the power to make Gonzalo see reason.”

“That’s good, Tobias. A very real possibility. But the princess was badly injured in the fire. She might not be well enough to help.”

Behind them, the door from the common room opened—so quietly that any sound it made was swallowed by the wind—and a man slipped out, closing the door again behind him. He was dressed as a slave, but he wasn’t there to toss out slops. He was the perfect assassin: powerful, skilled, and as graceful as a dancer, not a single movement wasted or ill considered. A good actor, too, for he had fooled the king’s knights. Now he crept forward, as silent as a cat, his sword raised and ready to strike.

Tobias saw him first and cried warning; Alaric wheeled around and ducked under the slashing blade. Molly could hear the singing of steel against air. She saw Alaric lose his balance and fall. She watched as the man raised his arm to strike again.

But Tobias, large though he was, had always been quick. Now he threw himself between the killer and his prey. And as the sword came down, he caught the underside of the assassin’s arm, unbalancing him and spoiling his swing.

Alaric scrambled to his feet and drew his dagger. But Tobias and the assassin were now locked in a brutal embrace, spinning and stumbling, so that it was impossible to strike the one without risking the other.

And something else. The swing Tobias had interrupted had struck him on the shoulder instead. Now his blood was pulsing out in great, sharp jets, splattering the walls and pooling on the stone floor, which soon became slippery with gore. And strong though he was, Tobias couldn’t go on much longer.

“Run!” he kept shouting to Alaric. “Go!”

But the king remained, dancing around them with his dagger, trying to catch the assassin as he swung by without doing any more harm to Tobias. Once or twice he succeeded, but never to much effect.

Tobias’s movements were becoming erratic now. He was losing his grip on the man’s arms, and time was running out. He knew his wound was mortal; and once he collapsed, Alaric (who
wouldn’t
save himself, the bloody, stubborn fool!) would be the next to die.

But there was one thing he could still do, and it wouldn’t take three seconds. Tobias was a full two stones heavier than the nimble assassin; the weight of his body was his one remaining weapon.

And so—still holding on with the rag-ends of his strength, still skidding on the slick, wet stone—Tobias spun around so that he faced the sea. Then he fell, and the man fell with him—over the marble railing, onto the grassy verge, then over the cliff and down, down, down the sickening drop to the rocks and the sea far below.

29

Leondas

FROM A SMALL, LOCKED
cubicle within the palace grounds and, beyond the wall, from a terrace that overlooked the sea, two voices joined in a single cry of unspeakable pain. Alaric was on his knees in a pool of blood, his face distorted with rage. And Molly, still frozen, still held within the secret chamber of her spirit, screamed not with her voice, but with her soul.

And still her spirit wouldn’t release her, because it wasn’t over yet.

Molly watched as the king remained as he was: kneeling alone on the terrace, staring accusingly at the sky, his dagger lying useless on the ground, so heartsick and angry that he’d lost all caution or care for his own safety. She heard from within the villa, as Alaric apparently did not, a riot of clashing swords and grunting men, the thud of bodies falling, and the crash as furniture and crockery were overturned in the melee. Gonzalo’s men had overwhelmed Alaric’s guard. And the terrace, which had seemed a safe refuge, had become a trap.

The dark foreboding of loss and death that had hovered over her these past weeks now all but swallowed her up. But she struggled against it—not because she really thought she could save the king, but because she was so
very angry
that the fates should be that cruel and because there was something inside her that was growing and boiling till she thought she would burst apart.

It was then that Leondas came into her vision. He was running along the grassy verge at the edge of the cliff, then he darted between the columns of the railing and went to Alaric’s side. The cat rose on his hind legs, pawing the king’s chest, trying to get his attention but only succeeding in spotting his doublet with Tobias’s blood. He let out a plaintive cat-yowl, loud and insistent. The fur rose up on his back with fright. He yowled again.

Molly felt his fear and cried his cries. She touched Alaric with her cat’s paws.

Now they were streaming through the door, others coming up a ladder and over the far wall—three men, five, seven, ten, then more than she could count. In the space of three heartbeats, it would be over. There would be no escape except the one Tobias had already taken.

Molly felt a charge coursing through her body then, as if she’d been struck by lightning. And for a moment it filled her with its fire so that her skin was alive with the heat of it and every hair on her body rose up in alarm. The floor beneath her began to tremble. Her scream became the howl of tempest-winds as she felt all that power flowing back out of her, like some unstoppable force of nature. And in her vision Leondas began to grow and change. He was taller than a man, then taller than the building, and still he grew. His teeth were long and sharp like daggers, his vicious claws bared, and his eyes blazed red with menace: he had become the form of Molly’s rage, a monster of retribution.

Gonzalo’s soldiers froze—those who hadn’t the power or the wit to run away—as Leondas cupped them with his blood-soaked paws and flung them, two or three at a time, over the edge of the cliff. Then he took the king of Westria gently in his mouth, as mother cats carry their kittens, and bore him over the wall to safety.

He stepped carefully over the bodies of Alaric’s fallen men. Molly saw Lord Brochton lying among them and forgave him in passing, thanking him for dying in the service of his king. On Leondas went, away from the bloody barracks in the direction of Alaric’s villa.

Those of Alaric’s men who hadn’t been assigned to guard the villa had been roused by the sounds of battle. Now they were racing toward the terrace, unaware that it was already too late. Then they saw Leondas with Alaric in his mouth, and they actually dared to challenge him. They had to know that such a monster could not be slain with swords, but these were men whom Alaric had chosen for their loyalty and their courage—and like Tobias and Heptor Brochton, they would die trying to save him.

But to their astonishment, Leondas laid the king gently down and turned away. As they watched, stunned, he seemed to grow even more enormous, his graceful cat-steps causing the ground to tremble as he went: through the trees toward the inner curtain wall—built a thousand years before and reinforced many times since—and pulled it down with the swipe of a single paw.

Leondas knew where he was going. He made his way judiciously, not wishing to do unwarranted harm—past screaming people, stepping easily over buildings—until he’d reached the council chamber. There he crouched, and with his nose he pushed in the door and broke away a section of the wall and the roof above it.

Gonzalo had heard the screaming outside and had retreated to the far side of the room, his guards massed in front to protect him. But the cat pushed them aside. They were nothing to him, just soldiers doing their duty. It was Gonzalo he wanted.

Leondas took the king of Cortova in his claws, then squeezed him hard as he pulled him, screaming, out of the council chamber—where he’d played his ugly little games and hatched his evil plans, which had taken the lives of so many valiant men—and popped him into his mouth and bit down hard.

Then he swallowed.

And it was over.

Molly’s rage was spent. She felt it go, and it was as if a cool breeze was blowing across her. She opened her eyes and saw the dust motes dancing in the small ray of light that streamed in from the high, barred window. She looked down at her hands, touching the left with the right, turning the gold ring on her finger and thinking of Tobias. Then she did something quite ordinary and natural.

She wept.