Thornspell (11 page)

The same power crackled in the air now, and Sigismund could see the fine red and white enamelwork around the guard and the dragon that rippled down the length of the blade. He wondered who the knight was and what would happen if he took the sword for his own. It had been his in the dream, and he needed a weapon now, but he didn’t want to rob the dead.

“Please,” he whispered. “I need a sword badly right now, even a borrowed one.” He extended his hand and grapsed the hilt. “I promise that I’ll return it, if it isn’t meant for me.”

Shock jarred Sigismund’s arm to the elbow, but the hilt felt made for his hand and he lifted the sword clear of the tomb. A quick sighting showed him that the blade was true and he turned it this way and that, assessing weight and balance. It was a superb weapon. “The work of a master,” Sigismund murmured, and wondered again who the knight had been, to bear such a sword.

There was a scabbard set into the tomb beneath the blade, with a broad sword belt wound around it. The belt was plain, but the scabbard was of crimson leather with a pattern of fine gold wires and white enamel flowers across its surface—and another dragon, cunningly entwined amongst the thorns and flowers. The scabbard was as fine in its way as the craftsmanship of the sword, like the richly worked casket that houses a priceless jewel.

Sigismund buckled the sword belt on. “Thank you,” he whispered to the diamond tomb.

There was no answer but the feel of the sword in his hand, no reply but the way the belt curled around his waist and the scabbard sat on his hip as though born to it. Sigismund felt sure now that he had been meant to find this sword, despite the circumstances that had led him to the tomb.

There was a soft thud from the larger cave and a grunt, as if someone had jumped down onto the same pile of dirt that had cushioned Sigismund’s fall. It was followed almost immediately by a whisper of cold air and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Sigismund crept back to the opening, peering through. The cave was filled with a chill light that showed him Flor sidestepping down the dirt mound, the black-clad faie floating at his side. They still held their bone and glass weapons ready, but unlike Flor, who remained corporeal, their forms had begun to fray. They were only half substance now, half crackling energy and shadow, like the dancers in the Faerie hall. Their eyes, as they searched the cavern, were cold licks of flame.

Flor kicked at something with his foot. “Well, he can’t be far away. He was carrying these saddlebags in the belvedere.”

“Perhaps we should have remained there.” The voice was cold as the light that filled the cavern, but Sigismund could not tell which of the faie warriors had spoken. “It was not wise to leave while the intruder remained undefeated, and we could have caught this princeling later. No human can elude us for long on this plane.”

“My grandmother will deal with the intruder.” Flor kicked the saddlebags aside. “And she wants this human caught and subdued, so that she can bind him to her will.”

“Dead is safer.” The faie voice was little more than a whisper.

Flor shrugged. “Will you explain a dead body to my grandmother when she wants him alive?” He grinned at the silence that greeted these words, but without mirth. “Spread out and search the cave, and look for ways out.”

A way out, thought Sigismund, looking around for one as he retreated from the narrow opening. He could see no physical escape from the smaller cave and frowned, one hand on the sword’s hilt as his ears strained toward the outer cavern. A shadow stirred in the corner of the room and he turned, knowing that time was running out. A voice called sharply from the main cave and the shadow became a hand, beckoning. Sigismund could make out a dim form behind it and he took a step forward, drawing the red and white sword in case of treachery.

Light blazed from the blade and the shadow figure stepped away. Sigismund followed, the light from the sword showing him a line of energy curving through stone and earth: there were nodes of power strung along it, like planets or stepping-stones. Sigismund could see the shadow ahead of him leaping from one to the other, and there was a shout from behind as he sprang to follow.

It was like being caught in a flood, with currents of light and substance streaming past, and Sigismund was swept along like a leaf. Only the nodes were solid, islands in the main channel of the river, and he could feel the sword pulling him from one to the other, following a thread of mortal earth. The shadow figure darted ahead, but with every node they passed the shadow became a little more definite, until Sigismund could make out bare feet and a ragged skirt. Rue, it seemed, had found him again.

How did she do it this time? he wondered, before a roar from behind drove everything else from his mind. He saw Rue’s head turn, saw her look of horror although she made no sound, and looked back himself. He could see earth and energy streaming away behind them, with layers of substance and shadow overlapping each other. The house in Thorn forest lay on top of the Faerie hall where elemental beings with firefly eyes had danced, and he could see the cupola of the belvedere as well, overlying trees that were tossing in a great wind. But the most substantial layer was the cavern tomb they had just fled and the thickening darkness within it.

There was something enormous moving in that darkness, heaving itself out of rock and dirt to pursue them. Sigismund could make out a flat head rising on an immense sinuous neck, then plunging down again as a first, huge loop of body uncurled from the earth behind it. It was a serpent, Sigismund realized, too shocked to move, except that its scales were of rippling stone, its eyes rock. The sword in his hand blazed brighter as he tried to lift it, but his body was frozen, disconnected from his will by the serpent’s stare.

A hand closed over his left wrist from behind and jerked him off balance, breaking the contact with the serpent’s eye and whirling him back into the torrent of power. Rue was no shadow this time; Sigismund could feel the warmth and substance of her grip as he regained his balance and ran. She was terrified, he could feel that too as the earth serpent roared again. The energy river began to slow and Rue’s hand tugged again, pulling him forward—but the flow beneath their feet was already sluggish, the serpent gaining on them.

Rue pointed ahead, to a break that had appeared in the energy pattern. Scarlet and gold flames circled the opening, shifting into a pattern of dragons flying on the wind. Sigismund blinked but followed the pull of Rue’s hand toward the opening. Moving forward was hard work now, like wading through mud, and he felt sure that at any moment the current would reverse completely, dragging them back toward their pursuer.

Sigismund pulled his wrist out of Rue’s grasp and stopped, turning to face the serpent. He made himself ignore how close it was now, and the looming immensity of its stone maw. Instead he concentrated on the sword in his hand and a memory of Balisan’s voice, naming the heavenly conjunctions that opened the paths between different realms of existence—except that what Sigismund intended now was to close them.

He raised the sword and felt his own power answer as he turned his face away from the serpent’s mesmerizing stare and cut into the energy current between them. As he cut, Sigismund named the last of the necessary conjunctions that Balisan had taught him, the one that would normally complete an invocation of opening—only the cut he made was against the flow of power. He did not look to see what effect it had on the serpent, he just raised the sword and cut again, continuing to name the conjunction of planets and powers in their reverse order. At the fourth cut he felt the node beneath his feet shudder, and the flow of energy back toward the earth serpent began to slow. Soon it was their pursuer that was struggling, fighting to make its way through disintegrating layers of reality.

Sigismund stepped back when his reverse chant was finally completed, breathing hard and looking round for Rue, who clapped her hands before pointing again to the fiery opening. Sigismund nodded and saw that the serpent was being pushed further back now, receding into whatever dimension of earth and stone had brought it forth. He shuddered, avoiding the baleful stare, and felt the pull of the flames from Rue’s opening, reaching out to engulf him.

Rue must have already gone through, for she was nowhere to be seen as he turned and stepped toward the fire. He snatched another quick glance back, in case he had missed her, and stopped short as a huge red and golden dragon soared out of the twisting streams of energy and reality. Sigismund stared, sure he must be delirious—or really dreaming now—and then the dragon and everything else disappeared as fire roared around him. He stumbled forward into a warm, tapestry-hung chamber where two men were standing on either side of a large fireplace. Their somber, weary expressions were replaced by astonishment as Sigismund burst into the room, but it was the more familiar of the two who stepped forward.

“Sigismund!” exclaimed Master Griff, while the other man frowned at his shoulder. “How on earth did you get here?”

The Dream

S
igismund stared around the room, blinking at the rich colorful tapestries and the inlay of dragons above the door. They were worked in gold and bronze metal, inset with scarlet enamel, but Sigismund could not recall seeing either these particular dragons or the room before. He guessed that he must be in the Royal Palace and he looked hard at Master Griff’s companion, who was still watching him from beneath frowning brows. This man’s expression was grim, with lines carved deep into the bridge of his nose and around his mouth, and there was calculation in his eyes, as though he was accustomed to weighing men and their motives. The lines went deeper than in the portraits, and there was more gray than gold in the hair and beard, but Sigismund recognized his father’s face.

The King looked past him into the corner of the room. “I take it,” he said, “that despite his somewhat unexpected appearance, this is my son?”

Sigismund turned and saw Balisan standing in the shadows, although he was sure that the master-at-arms had not been there when he first plunged into the room. It was a moment later again before he recognized his own saddlebags slung across Balisan’s shoulder. “So it
was
your voice I heard,” he said, “in the belvedere. It must have been you they meant when they talked about an intruder.”

“It was,” said Balisan. There was a hint of a smile in his expression. “But you didn’t seem to need much help, so I collected these and followed you here.” His eyes gleamed as they rested on the red and white sword, but he said nothing more, just stepped forward and dropped the saddlebags onto the table.

Sigismund looked down at the sword in his hand and remembered the court etiquette that forbade anyone to come armed into the presence of the King. Reaction to the night’s events, together with the shock of coming face to face with his father so unexpectedly, was starting to set in and his hands shook a little as he sheathed the sword and then unbuckled the belt, propping the weapon against the table. He shot a quick, covert glance at his father as he did so, wondering whether he should offer to embrace him, as father to son, or bow, as prince to king. The King’s forbidding expression had not changed and he made no gesture of welcome, so Sigismund chose the safest option. He bowed low.

“I apologize, Sire,” he said, “both for my unexpected arrival and for bringing a sword into your presence.”

The King’s answering nod was curt, his eyes narrow on Sigismund’s face. “So,” he said, but still offered no word or gesture of welcome. His eyes flicked back to Balisan again. “Is this really Sigismund?”

“It is,” said Balisan. “But he would not know that an interloper, wearing the illusion of his face, came back to us from the forest of Thorn.”

“An imposter,” said Sigismund, remembering what the Margravine had said to Flor in the Faerie hall. “Let me guess—Ban Valensar?”

The King nodded. “It was a strong illusion, but fortunately Balisan saw through it.” He shut his mouth hard on the last word, plainly reluctant to say more, and made no move away from the fire, just continued to watch Sigismund, the frown heavy on his face. The pause extended, becoming awkward, and was filled by Master Griff.

“It helped,” he said, “that we had already become suspicious. Balisan found the body of your intended fencing master, buried in the lane between the herb garden and the old palace.”

Sigismund looked from one to the other. “The one who never turned up, the day I met Flor?” He whistled softly. “They went that far, having him murdered so Flor had an excuse to draw me into his circle?” He frowned at Balisan. “But you were already suspicious. Wat said so just before he died.”

Sigismund didn’t ask why Balisan had let him go, if that was the case, but the master-at-arms seemed to understand the unspoken question. He shrugged, a very slight movement of his shoulders.

“We agreed, did we not, that you must live in the world? I knew the Margravine would move against you sooner or later, but not how soon—or where. I could not be sure that she would use the Thorn hunt, and if I had held you back, or accompanied you myself, she would only have found another opportunity. But once I found the body in the lane, I knew that she was moving.”

“Besides,” said the King, his voice still harsh, “who would respect or follow a prince who never stepped outside the Royal Palace, or needed a nursemaid when he did?”

It was not, Sigismund thought, a question that required an answer. He frowned again through his weariness. “And you suspected Flor?” he said to Balisan.

All three men nodded. “Although it seemed hard to believe,” said Master Griff. “The Langrafon family has an unimpeachable record.”

The King’s laugh was short and hard. “No one is unimpeachable,” he said. “The incentive has to be right, that’s all.”

“And the Margravine
zu
Malvolin,” said Balisan, his tone meditative, “is a skilled purveyor of incentives.”

“Flor called the Margravine his grandmother,” said Sigismund. The firelight was blurring before his eyes and he found it hard to stand without swaying. He tried to focus on what Master Griff was saying, which seemed to be that he knew of no link between the
zu
Malvolin and Langrafon families. Besides, Balisan added, they only had the boy’s own word that he was a Langrafon, given that all his kin were in the southeast. A Langrafon scion had been expected at court and a lad had turned up with a retinue, claiming that name and place, but who would even think of asking him to prove his identity? Balisan shrugged, leaving them to draw their own conclusions.

“Unfortunately,” the King said heavily, “the Valensar whelp couldn’t throw much light on the matter. All he knows is that Flor Langrafon asked him to masquerade in your place, pretending it was a jest that the two of you had planned together. And Langrafon, of course, disappeared after the hunt.”

Sigismund forced himself to concentrate. “But that’s what I don’t understand,” he said, looking to Balisan. “How can you know any of this, when the hunt was only yesterday? How could you possibly have discovered Ban’s deception so soon, or known to come after me?”

He caught his father’s headshake from the corner of his eye, but it was Master Griff who answered, his voice quiet. “Not yesterday, Sigismund. It’s been almost two years now since the hunt of Thorn and your disappearance. Balisan has been gone nearly as long, searching for you.”

Sigismund put out a hand, touching the reassuring firmness of stone and wall. After a moment he slumped into a high-backed settle. “Two years?” he whispered. “How is that possible?”

Balisan sank onto his heels beside the settle, so that their eyes were level. “The house in the forest was built where the mortal realm and Faerie overlap, and you were taken into a Faerie hill. Time does not move at the same speed on both planes, which is why two years could pass here in what seemed less than a day to you. But,” he added quietly, “it could equally well have been twenty years, or two hundred.”

Sigismund closed his eyes. “So I was lucky then.”

“No,” said Balisan, “you made your own luck. You resisted the Margravine’s spells and fought your way clear. The way the realms function, that would tend to make the overlap work in your favor.”

“Oh,” said Sigismund. His bones felt like lead and he wondered if he could sit there forever and not move. Probably not, he decided, and opened his eyes again, focusing on Master Griff. “But you don’t believe in magic,” he said.

The King snorted, but both the other men smiled. “After the business with Ban Valensar,” the tutor answered, his smile becoming a little wry, “I found I had to rethink my views—and then your father was so good as to take me more fully into his confidence.” He made a little bow toward the King.

The King’s smile looked as if it did not get much use. “Only because I had to,” he said in his abrupt way, “to try and prevent more rumors of a curse at work. We gave it out,” he added, with a quick glance that didn’t quite meet Sigismund’s eyes, “that you had gone on a tour to meet those who would be your fellow monarchs one day.”

“And their eligible female relatives,” murmured Balisan.

Master Griff cast him a repressive look. “So meanwhile,” he said, “I have been shut up in the West Castle again with Ban Valensar, who I might add has no aptitude for scholarship at all.” He shook his head. “But after two years we knew it was time to formulate another plan, and so your father called me here in secret.”

Sigismund was sure that he was still taking in the sense of what was being said, but their words were starting to sough around him like wind along the boundaries of the Wood. There was something missing, though, he thought, something that was being overlooked. He sat up a little straighter and peered around the room. “Where’s Rue?” he said.

They all looked at him strangely. “I didn’t escape on my own,” he explained. “Rue showed me the way here and then went through the opening ahead of me. So why isn’t she here now?”

“Who is this Rue?” the King demanded, sharp and searching, but Master Griff shook his head.

“No one else came through, Sigismund. Only you.”

Sigismund looked around the room again, half expecting to find Rue gazing back at him out of the shadows, then his gaze sharpened on the dragons above the door. “I’m sure we both went through the same opening, so where could she have gone?”

Balisan shook his head. “I do not know, but there is nothing we can do to find her, now that the opening has closed.” His voice was calm, his gaze still intent on Sigismund. “We need to talk more about your whole adventure, including the part played by the young man that we know as Flor Langrafon—as well as how you came by that sword. But not now. You are exhausted and need to rest.”

Sigismund nodded, too tired to pursue the question of Rue. Balisan stood up and turned to the King, who said something about safety.

“He will be safe,” Balisan replied. His smile was grim. “No one will come at him, waking or sleeping, except through me.”

Sigismund let his eyes close and the blur wash over him. When he opened them again he was in his own room and Master Griff was there, bending over the red and white sword and sketching the detail on the scabbard. “It’s very old,” he murmured. “And powerful, you say?”

“To Sigismund’s benefit,” agreed Balisan, from beside the fire. “The use he made of it was somewhat crude…but convincing.” Sigismund was sure the master-at-arms was smiling, but his eyelids sank down again and he did not hear Master Griff’s reply.

The next time he woke, sunshine was streaming in through the casement, with a hint of rainbow where it fell across the bed. Sigismund stretched, still half asleep, then remembered that it had been late autumn, almost winter, when he went hunting in the forest of Thorn. Almost two years, he thought, and twitched as though a fly had crawled across his skin, for both the hunt and his time in the Faerie hill were still yesterday for him. He flung an arm across his eyes, trying not to dwell on Flor’s false friendship and subsequent betrayal, but he could almost taste the bitterness, sharp as bile in his mouth.

I did not see behind
his
mask, he thought, so how will I dare trust anyone again?

But then he remembered Wat, who had died to save him. The memory was still raw, and Sigismund found it almost impossible to comprehend that for everyone else it was now an old story.

And what about Annie, he thought, sitting up. There had been no formal betrothal between Wat and Annie, not even an official understanding, but Sigismund had seen them walking out together in the summer evenings. She would know of Wat’s death, of course she would if Master Griff had been hidden away in the West Castle, but still—

“I must write to her,” Sigismund said, and turned to rummage in the cabinet beside the bed.

Someone, Balisan he supposed, had put his saddlebags there, still spattered with mud from the hunt. Sigismund’s hand hovered, and then he was fumbling with the buckles, clumsy in his haste to find the treatise on boar hunting. It was still there, he saw with relief, and turned to the page where the sprig of rue had been, but all that remained was a few crumbled fragments.

Sigismund touched them with a gentle fingertip while his mind flashed to his first meeting with Rue, standing amidst a swirl of brown leaves in the autumn garden. Perhaps if he went there now and plucked a fresh sprig, it would bring her forth again. I hope so, thought Sigismund. He didn’t want to think about what it might mean if she didn’t appear. But it was only when he was pulling on his tunic that it occurred to him to wonder who had placed the herb inside the book in the first place. It was Balisan who had given the treatise to him, but Master Griff who had gotten it from the palace library—but that was before the tutor had come to rethink his views on magic.

“Besides,” Sigismund said aloud, “even I didn’t know about the connection between Rue and the herb until I was in the Margravine’s power.”

He stared into the mirror, thinking about those two lost years, and at first saw only what he had always seen: a square, open face with a smudge of freckles across the nose and cheekbones, rough fairish hair, and brown eyes. But the reflection had changed subtly since the last time he looked. The face was thinner, the line of the cheekbones and jaw a little more pronounced, and the arch of his eyebrows seemed stronger, more sharply defined.

Ageless, Sigismund thought with a slight shiver, not unlike the faces of the dancers in the Margravine’s hall—proof, perhaps, that he was susceptible to their magic. He wondered exactly how time did move in that realm, and saw the enchanted hall again with its circle of faie dancers. And he heard the sweetness of the Margravine’s voice while something wilder and darker moved in her eyes.

Sigismund’s thoughts shifted to his father and he frowned at the eyes shadowed in the glass. The King hadn’t seemed at all glad to see him, even after Balisan assured him that Sigismund was not an imposter. Is this how it is at every royal court, Sigismund wondered, or is it something particular about him? Or is it me?

He couldn’t help hoping for a change in his father’s manner, but the King remained distant when they met later that day, his attention focused on the implications of Sigismund’s recent adventures. “I want to know everything about the part played by the Langrafon boy,” he said, “and to understand more about the lineage and history of that sword. We need to know whether you stumbled on it by chance or if it was placed in your way—and if so, whether for good or ill.”