Thornspell (13 page)

Sigismund traced the lead between the panes and watched the rain splash into the garden below. “Thank you,” he said, when he was sure his voice would be steady.

“There’s something else I’ve always wanted you to know,” Adrian said after a moment. “Flor was my friend and in most ways I admired him. But in Valensar we still hold to the old ways and do not hang or mutilate our people for taking game from the forest.”

“Even when the forest belongs to the Crown?” Sigismund asked, remembering that brief conversation from two years before. He half thought Adrian might back away from this question, but the other’s eyes continued to meet his.

“We do not encourage poaching,” Adrian said quietly, “but in lean years, when the harvest fails, taking game may be the only thing that stands between the poorest people and starvation.”

Sigismund nodded, because Master Griff had already taught him this, but he was pleased to learn that not all his companions were as unfeeling toward the common people as he had once thought. Perhaps that too had been Flor’s influence at work, overshadowing those around him so that they hesitated to express a contrary view.

If so, thought Sigismund, then their reticence was un-helpful, since it gave me a false impression of who and what they were. He was certainly revising his opinion of Adrian Valensar, even if his ability to trust would never be the same as before Flor’s betrayal. Wat and Rue had both proved that there were those who did and would keep faith, but he would always be more reserved from now on, a little less willing to accept friendship at face value.

And then word came that the southern provinces had flared into revolt again.

“You will ride with me,” his father said. They were in his study and the table and floor were littered with all the maps and lists needed to get the royal armies into the field. “I’m not waiting for the spring. I’m going to take the rebels by surprise with a winter campaign and put the
zu
Malvolin in the south down, once and for all.”

Sigismund looked at his harsh expression, and then away. “That’s what she wants, of course,” he said. “The Margravine, I mean. She wants us distracted in the south while she moves to achieve her ends in the west.”

His father frowned. “You may be right, but there are still three years left until the spell reaches its hundredth year and can be undone. And the faie has no power base in the west anymore, now that her castle there has been destroyed.”

“She may rebuild one while we are tied up in the south,” Sigismund pointed out. “You should send me there to make sure that doesn’t happen. I know the country and I know what the Margravine is after.”

“Other than you?” his father inquired heavily. He had been leaning over his desk but now he straightened, his mouth a grim line. “If you are right, I would be sending you straight into her arms again. And I doubt there is much you could do there that Sir Andreas, as steward, cannot do equally well. Besides, you are the crown prince and my only son. This time I want you safe under my eye.”

“But the danger in the west is real,” Sigismund persisted, “and we can’t afford to ignore it.”

The King rolled up a map with a snap. “I am not ignoring the west or this old business of the Wood. We will deal with it in three years, which all our information suggests is the only right time, and with an army if that’s what it takes to cut our way through.” He held up a hand as Sigismund tried to speak again. “No arguments. You ride south with me and that’s final.”

Sigismund was tempted to demand how many years his father had been fighting in the south without success, or to simply storm out in exasperation. But even in their short time together, he had already learned that it was futile to argue once his father had made up his mind.

Yet if only, he thought, frustrated, we could deal with the Wood and the Margravine’s ambitions there, I’m sure the situation in the southern provinces would resolve itself.

But he also knew that his father still thought of him as a boy, dreaming of Parsifal and high deeds of errantry, deeds the King saw as misguided in the modern world. Conflicts, in the King’s view, were decided by the best-equipped and best-organized army, not by a single hero with a sword. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to persuade him otherwise.

Sigismund lay in bed that night, his arms behind his head, and thought about that long-ago day when he had stood on the very edge of the Wood. He remembered the listening quiet and how not even the wind had stirred beneath the canopy. The place had been heavy with magic, and he could not even begin to imagine what would happen to an army that tried to march its way through.

As for the Margravine, thought Sigismund, staring into the night, I have to either take her by surprise or anger her enough that she starts making mistakes.

There must, he reasoned, pursuing this line of thought, be some way around the hundred-year limitation on the spell, so that the Margravine isn’t just sitting there at the appointed time and place, waiting for me. He frowned, trying to recall exactly what Balisan had said that night on the tower when he spoke of Sigismund’s faie inheritance—that the flow of magic was two-way, that was it. And Syrica had said that no magic was entirely certain once a spell was set in motion.

“So if I am the chosen prince and therefore part of the spell, then perhaps I can influence the magic as well as be influenced by it—including changing the time when the spell can be lifted.” Sigismund sat up in bed, unfolding the possibility out loud. “I should be able to go into the Wood
now
and shape the magic there to my will.” He locked his arms around his knees. “And it’s already very close to the hundredth year of the spell. That should help.”

It was a course, Sigismund decided, that he had to attempt, even though it would be difficult without his father’s support. In fact, the only reason he could think of for holding back was because to act meant deliberately disobeying his father.

We’re only just starting to get to know each other again, Sigismund thought. If I disobey him now, it might damage our relationship beyond repair.

But what, he wondered, was the alternative? His father had been locked into the conflict in the south for so long that he couldn’t see what was clear to Sigismund, which was that it was a symptom rather than the cause of their problems. And I must deal with the cause, Sigismund thought, no matter how much it angers or disappoints my father—especially as failure to do so is likely to result in his death as well as my own.

He sighed deeply, still not happy, but spent some time after that thinking of ways and means of returning to the west. He would have to go in secret, which meant acting alone, since anyone who helped him would have to face his father’s anger as well as the Margravine’s enmity. Besides, if no one else knew what he planned, then he could not be betrayed.

The best time to slip away, Sigismund decided, would be on the eve of his father’s departure for the south, when there would be so much happening that his absence might not be noticed for some time. His plan was to head north first, disguising himself as a servant riding a common hack, and hope that the first pursuit would head west, searching for a prince on a fine horse. He would only turn west later, when the initial hunt had died down.

Sigismund knew that the likelihood of being found and brought back was high. But I’m still going to try, he thought. I’m done with dancing to the Margravine
zu
Malvolin’s tune.

This spirit of resolve stayed with him over the next few weeks as he gathered together the things he would need, and was with him still as he crept out of the palace on the final night. His father was still closeted in his study, going over plans and supplies, and the palace was so full of soldiers and the noblemen who had answered the King’s summons that no one paid any attention to one more servant, cloaked and hooded against the autumn cold. Sigismund picked up the saddlebags and travel roll that he had hidden earlier in the day and slipped into the stable where the palace hacks were kept. These were horses that could be used by anyone with a commission, or a servant with an errand to run.

It was dark between the stalls and Sigismund could smell horses and hay and oiled leather. The horse he had chosen was a strong bay, just ugly enough to discourage theft, but without being distinctive. It turned its head as he entered, ears flicking back and then forward again in doubt, but it stayed quiet as he drew on the bridle and settled the saddle on its back.

“Going somewhere?” asked Balisan, out of the darkness, and Sigismund jumped with shock. He said nothing until his heart calmed, letting his hands continue with the business of tightening and buckling the girth. “North—and then west,” he said finally, turning his head toward the deeper shadows. “But I expect you’ve already guessed that, since you knew to be here.”

“Your father told me what you said to him. And I know you.” Balisan stepped out of the shadows and Sigismund’s hands closed on the saddle.

“I’m not going to let you stop me,” he said. “I’m going whether you and my father like it or not.”

Balisan stopped at the entrance to the stall. “What makes you think I want to stop you?” he asked mildly.

Sigismund opened his mouth, then closed it. “I thought—well, you serve my father, don’t you?”

“Do I?” Balisan’s tone, like his shadowed expression, was enigmatic.

“Don’t you?” Sigismund echoed, uncertain.

Balisan moved into the stall and Sigismund caught the gleam of his eyes across the horse’s back. “I am pledged to guide and teach you,” the master-at-arms said softly. “And since I believe that you are right in this case and your father wrong, I feel at liberty to honor that pledge by helping you.”

“Oh,” said Sigismund. He had not sought Balisan’s approval or assistance, but his spirits felt lighter all the same. “So how are you planning to do that? It won’t stop the hue-and-cry if we’re both missing.”

The bronze eyes shone like jewels, and the smile was back in Balisan’s voice. “But we won’t be missing. I thought we should put Ban Valensar to good use, since he’s still wearing the illusion of your face.”

The horse must have felt Sigismund’s surprise because it shifted uneasily, tossing up its head. “Easy,” said Sigismund, soothing it automatically. “Easy, boy. I thought that must have worn off long ago,” he added, once the horse was quiet again. “Besides, isn’t he in the West Castle?”

“The Margravine’s magic is enduring,” Balisan said. “And at first we needed to preserve the likeness for our own purposes, as you know. Once Ban was safely in the west there was no pressing need to lift it, especially while we were unsure when you would return and whether we would need to perpetuate his masquerade. More recently—” Balisan’s shadow shrugged against the wall.

“You foresaw this, didn’t you?” Sigismund said, shaking his head. “How soon did you send for Ban?”

“Soon enough,” said Balisan, “to serve our purpose now. He will ride south with me tomorrow, so as far as the world is concerned we will both be where we ought to be. And you are free to ride west tonight.”

Sigismund shook his head again but had to admit that it was a clever plan. “How did you get Ban to agree to this?” he asked after a moment. “Why would he risk the King’s anger a second time?”

“Let us say,” Balisan replied, “that Ban Valensar hopes to redeem former errors and earn a place in your service, and I have persuaded him that it is worth enduring the King’s displeasure in the short term. As for your father, I will tell him in due course, when it is too late for him to turn back or thwart your plans.”

“He’ll be furious,” said Sigismund, thinking that was probably an understatement. “Aren’t you afraid of what he might do?”

“No,” said Balisan. “He will be angry,” he added, as though sensing Sigismund’s doubt, “but he has known from the beginning that I serve you, not him. He will not harm me, Sigismund.”

Will not, Sigismund wondered, eyeing him across the horse’s back, or cannot? “What about Ban?” he asked quietly.

Balisan’s eyebrows flared. “Do you really think your father is the kind of man who would harm Ban Valensar for something he knows to be my responsibility? He is not vindictive, Sigismund, or even unreasonable. It is just that this long conflict in the south and his fear for you are clouding his judgment at present.”

Sigismund was silent, sensing the truth in what Balisan said and knowing the ruse with Ban would give him a far greater chance of reaching the Wood undetected. He was grateful, although more than a little bit sorry for Ban, caught between Balisan and the King. “If we win through,” he said, thinking out loud, “I really shall have to take Ban into my service. He will have more than earned it by then.”

“It should not be too great a hardship,” said Balisan. “The boy means well, even if he is not very bright.”

Sigismund grinned, because it was an apt description of the Ban he remembered. But thinking of Ban meant that memories of Flor were never far behind, and that brought him back to the Margravine and all that lay ahead. For a moment Sigismund felt very much alone, but then his hand closed on Quickthorn’s hilt and he felt the rising tide of adventure.

I’ve always known, he thought, that it’s the chosen prince alone who must lift the spell. This is my quest. It always has been.

There was a burst of laughter and shouting from behind the stable and Sigismund’s head turned. “I’d better go,” he said, and Balisan nodded. Neither spoke as Sigismund led the bay horse out, and he half expected the yard to be empty when he paused at the gate and looked back. At first nothing moved, but then a deeper shadow stirred in the darkness cast by the stable door, and the night lantern caught the outline of a hand raised in farewell.

“Good-bye,” Sigismund whispered, but there was no answer, just the echo of his horse’s hooves as they passed beneath the gate and into the night.

The Road West

T
he Wood was bright with spring by the time Sigismund saw it again. There was a high pass where the road gave a fine view of the western provinces, all fading into the green mist of the forest. It was empty country, with vast stretches of wild land between scattered patchworks of farm and field, but the pass was too far east for Sigismund to make out the squat gray towers of the West Castle, even when he shaded his eyes against the spring sun.

His journey west had been slow, with winter blowing in hard in a series of snowstorms that blocked the road for weeks. Even when the weather cleared, the melting snow and backlog of travelers quickly turned the road into a quagmire, slowing progress even further. Sigismund found that it was a very different matter traveling the road as a serving man on a common hack, rather than as a prince for whom all the world gave way. He became used to being passed in a shower of mud and curses by young noblemen, and pushed into the ditch by merchant caravans anxious to reach home before the winter storms swirled in again.

The delays caused by the weather meant that every inn was full to overflowing with frustrated travelers, tempers were volatile, and rooms in short supply. Sigismund soon learned to count himself lucky if he could sleep in a stable or beside a forge fire, and he spent three days crowded into a drafty woodshed with his horse, waiting until the worst of the snowstorms blew itself out.

The inns where he did manage to find accommodation were frequently small and mean, little better than alehouses set at the crossroads between major towns. But whether the lodging was large or small, isolated or standing on a busy market square, the talk was always the same. Travelers reported an increase in outlaw bands, brought down from the hills by the severity of the winter, and there were darker tales too, of fell beasts and night creatures that lived on blood and human souls. Some said that the winter was behind this incursion, while others maintained that it was because the bulk of the fighting men had been drawn away to serve in the King’s war in the south. The consensus was that it was only safe to travel the road in numbers, and it was this that led Sigismund to sign on with the horse copers.

He had seen them first in a town not far from the capital, two men who made their living traveling the countryside, buying and trading horses. He met up with them again after his three days spent sheltering in the woodshed, in a small walled town where the main road turned west. Sigismund was wet, cold, and hungry, and the horse copers were frowning over the stories of outlaws and night beasts. It was agreed, in the way that happens over beer and hot food, that they would take on extra men before the road became wilder and more isolated, and Sigismund was quick to put himself forward.

Martin and Bror, as the horse copers were called, were both middle-aged men and spoke with a recognizable northern burr. They had, they told Sigismund over a second beer to seal their bargain, spent most of their lives traveling the kingdom’s circuit of horse fairs and markets. Although mainly taking on men for security, Martin made it clear that anyone who joined their party would be helping feed and groom their string of horses, as well as keeping them together on the road and clear of other travelers.

“Fair enough,” said Sigismund. He took another long swallow of the beer. “I can mend harness as well, if you need help with that, and I know how to shoe a horse if I have to.”

“Do ye now?” said Martin. “Well, that’s handy to know, although we mostly do our own shoeing, Bror and I. You stick with the grooming and feeding for now, and we’ll see how we go with the rest.”

“Weather’s clearing,” said Bror, who had finished his beer first and gone to check the sky outside. He came back in on a gust of bitter air. “We’ll be on the road again tomorrow, I reckon.”

Another two men had joined their company before the night was out, and Sigismund guessed that they must be brothers, or at least close kin. They were both lean and ragged, with the red hair and blue eyes common in the western reaches of the kingdom, and said that their names were Fulk and Rafe. In the days that followed they would never quite meet Sigismund’s gaze directly, looking away whenever he spoke to them. He suspected that they might easily turn cutthroat if opportunity arose and he wished that it was customary for serving men to carry swords. The only weapon he carried openly was his servant’s dagger; and Quickthorn was trussed into a bundle on the bay horse’s back. Martin and Bror had bows and staves, which made Sigismund feel a little safer, but he took to sleeping lightly all the same.

In the end they made it through the wild country without incident, although a flooded river and swept-away bridge held up their journey for several more weeks. The snow was melting in earnest by then and everyone agreed that it was spring. The milder weather meant more travelers on the road and news from the capital caught up with them as the snow disappeared. There was a great deal of rumor about the war in the south, although most stories agreed that the King had moved fast in the autumn, crossing the Vara river by night and occupying Varana citadel while the rebels were still recovering from their surprise. Prince Sigismund, it was said, was with the King, news that seemed to please most hearers.

“Here’s to the Young Dragon!” one man shouted, in a wayside alehouse. “And to the honor of the west country, where we had the raising of him.”

Sigismund raised his tankard with the rest; it would have been unwise not to. It was good news, he thought, that the ruse with Ban was working and that as far as the world was concerned he was still in the south. With luck, the Margravine would believe it too.

The alehouse was at the foot of the pass that led to the high saddle, and the view of the western provinces. The road dropped quickly after that and Sigismund lost sight of the Wood but was aware that it was there—like a sailor who smells salt on the breeze, long before he catches his first glimpse of ocean between coastal hills. Martin and Bror were planning a long circuit through the countryside and it would be several weeks before their route brought them close to the Wood. Sigismund contemplated leaving them and riding on alone but decided he was less conspicuous in their company. He doubted that the Margravine’s agents would spare a second glance for a dirty, travel-worn groom working for an equally shabby band of horse traders. He felt certain too that there was no need to hurry. He was not yet nineteen and the Margravine would be biding her time, thinking she had three more years before he could make any move to lift the spell.

It was nearly summer before the horse copers’ circuit brought them to Westwood, a half day’s journey from the West Castle and just over a mile from the Wood. The town was small, but the mayor had ordered a riding horse from the capital and Martin and Bror thought that more business might be done there. They would stay a few days and then turn east again. Fulk and Rafe planned to continue further on, and the copers asked what Sigismund intended. He would be welcome to stay, they said, given that he knew horses and looked after them well.

Sigismund shook his head, unsure of his best course. He longed to go to the West Castle but suspected that it would be better to head straight into the Wood, making his departure from the horse copers as unobtrusive as possible. He was mulling over these thoughts, and a beer, in the dark reek of the local alehouse when Fulk and Rafe ducked in. Sigismund sighed inwardly, knowing that appearances would demand that they sat with him.

“Sleepy place,” commented Fulk, when he had taken his first long draft of ale, and Rafe nodded. He rarely spoke, leaving any talking to Fulk. “’Cept for the knockin’ down of some castle near here. Last year, that was.”

“Magic,” said Rafe, his eyes glancing off Sigismund and sliding toward the low door.

“So folk here say.” Fulk took another deep swallow from his tankard, then wiped his mouth reflectively. “All they say, in fact. It’s prob’ly the only thing that’s happened here in a hundred years.”

“What castle?” asked Sigismund, knowing what was expected of him, although he already knew the answer. The Margravine herself had told him that her castle of Highthorn was located near Westwood.

The upshot of the conversation was that they would ride out and see it the next day. Rafe and Fulk were fascinated by the prospect of a castle that had been brought down by magical energy, and it would have been unusual, Sigismund suspected, if he showed no interest in what was clearly a local phenomenon.

It was strange, he found, to look at a wreckage that was raw and new, with jagged walls and broken roofs gaping to the sky, rather than the ancient ruin that Balisan had shown him in his dream. The moat, where the Margravine had once told him that swans floated, was choked with fallen debris and the first weeds were springing up out of the scarred earth. If there had been swans, they were long gone, and it was hard to accept that he and Quickthorn had been responsible for so much destruction.

Sigismund shivered, but not just because of dark memories and the sight of the ruin before him. A cold wind had sprung up, and what had been a bright, sunny day quickly became overcast as clouds boiled up fast out of the east. They turned their horses into the gale, trying to return to Westwood, but the wind howled, blowing rain and then hail into their faces. The horses were forced backward, and then sideways, until they turned their tails to the stinging blast. Lightning slashed the sky as the full force of the storm struck. Thunder boomed overhead and the hail became torrential rain, plunging the day into darkness.

Sigismund could see his horse’s neck and ears, but Fulk and Rafe had disappeared and the wind snatched his voice away when he called to them. He didn’t see the Wood until he was in it, his horse stumbling and crashing its way through thick undergrowth and the canopy closing overhead. It shut out the worst of the wind and rain, but not the heavy crash of thunder or the lightning, which turned the understory blue-white. Every strike made Sigismund’s horse shy and quiver with fear, then plunge deeper into the Wood.

The storm was driving them and for a while all they could do was run before it, helpless as a rudderless ship, until the wind’s ferocity began to lessen. The thunder and lightning came at less frequent intervals and the rain stopped, but there was still no sun, just a deep twilight beneath the trees. Sigismund peered around, looking for a path or any clue to his location, but there was nothing except tree trunks in every direction and a tangle of undergrowth so thick that even the horse would find it difficult to force a way through.

Lost, thought Sigismund, and sodden to the skin!

He shook his head, aware that this was no ordinary storm, and wondered what had triggered it: whether the Margravine had become aware of his presence once he came to her fallen castle, or whether it was an automatic defense against any intrusion into the ruin. Either way, he could not see his danger lessening now that he had crossed into the forest, and there was a shrill note in the wind that made him uneasy.

The bay horse plodded on and the gloom beneath the trees began to thicken, heralding night. The whine in the wind had intensified, becoming urgent, and Sigismund thought he heard the faint distant winding of a hunting horn. It reminded him of the forest of Thorn, which was hardly reassuring, and he wished he had brought the bundle with Quickthorn in it, rather than leaving it at the inn.

The horse stopped with a snort and Sigismund blinked, then blinked again when the wall of blackness in front of him did not shift or fade away. It really was a wall, he realized after a moment, but one that stirred and whispered to itself as though alive. A hedge, he decided, straining his eyes to make out details through the thick dusk, but one that was high and thick as a castle wall. He stretched out a hand, then snatched it back, cursing. A thorn had pierced him through the leather of his glove. “A hedge of thorns,” he muttered, and then, realizing: “
The
hedge of thorns. This must be the heart of the Wood.”

He began to ride slowly round it, looking for a way in, but the ground was so thick with briars that it was difficult to move without being caught fast or slashed to ribbons by the long, vicious thorns.

If only I had Quickthorn, Sigismund thought again, I’m sure I could cut my way through. He cursed himself for leaving the sword behind, aware that the wind was strengthening and there were other noises in the darkness around him. He could hear a slithering from the undergrowth as though some creature moved there, dragging itself on its belly, and a beating like great wings in the trees overhead. He saw the white roll of his horse’s eyes, the flare of its nostrils as it sidled, wanting to run—and the sound of horns was louder now, a rising clamor.

Lightning flashed, cracking the sky open, and a throng of ghostly horsemen poured through. They hovered above the treetops, twisting in and out of shape, and the eyes of both horses and riders flickered with the same lurid glow as the lightning. They reminded Sigismund of the dancers in the Margravine’s hall, except that their appearance was wilder, fiercer, and he could see the glint of spear tips and the curve of bows. They cried out to each other in high cold voices as Sigismund stared up, and several of them put horns to their lips and blew. Then the whole hunt turned as one and swooped, a ribbon of fire and darkness hurtling toward him, down through the trees.

Sigismund’s horse turned tail and ran, a headlong flight away from the thorn hedge with the faie hunt baying at its heels. An arrow hissed past Sigismund’s ear and he crouched low against the bay’s neck as it twisted and dodged, hoping that its maddened rush would save them both. But a quick glance back at the trail of light streaking after them, curving first one way and then another to avoid every obstacle, was not encouraging.

Another arrow zipped past him like a hornet. Sigismund wondered if these were followers of the Margravine, called up to defend her interest in the Wood, or another group of faie altogether, who only saw humans as prey. Either way, it seemed that hunting humans must be different from going to war against them, since the wild band behind him showed no signs of wanting anything but the kill. Sigismund could hear the exultation in their alien cries and the wild horns blowing as they gained on him with frightening speed. The bay must have heard them too, for its muscles bunched, gathering for a last frantic effort as Sigismund strove to clear his mind and tap into the power of earth and air around him, drawing it into a protective shield.