Thornspell (16 page)

Syrica nodded. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, as he let his breath out on a short sigh. “But there was no time, a century ago, to ensure an elegant solution. Farisie had already begun her working when I arrived here and I had no choice. I had to act.”

They were both silent then, watching the moon. Somewhere in the night a cricket chirped, and beneath its voice Sigismund could sense peace unfurling its tendrils into every crack and cranny of the West Castle. Then his attention sharpened again. “What did you say?” he asked slowly. “Just now. You called the Margravine something, some other name?”

Syrica seemed lost in thought and for a moment he wondered if she would answer. When she did, her voice was no more than a thread, spun out of moonlight and the spring night. “Farisie. That is the name by which we know her on the other side.” She moved slightly, the candlelight catching in her dark eyes. “
The
Farisie, she was called here once, before the word became general for our kind. But she likes titles, and the Margravine
zu
Malvolin is a useful mask.”

Sigismund remembered the belvedere. “She said she was the princess’s godmother. Is that true?”

Syrica smiled. “No,” she said gently. “I am. It is one of the reasons I was sent across. As for the other—Farisie is my sister, my dark-hearted twin.” She read his face and her fingertips touched his cheek. “It is an old sorrow, Sigismund. Do not let it grieve you.”

She turned as if to go, but he made an abrupt movement and she stopped, her expression a question.

“A magic of twins,” Sigismund said finally, struggling to come to terms with its implications. “Spell and counterspell twisted together but working in opposition. How could anyone outside of yourself and”—he hesitated—“the Margravine, hope to influence such a knot?”

Syrica considered this, her brows crooked together. “It is strong,” she said at last, “but I feel you may be right in what you have argued tonight. You are part of the magic now and that will give you power over it. Action and reaction,” she murmured, “ebb and flow. It is part of all magic, but especially ours—and you have power of your own. That too will affect the weave.”

She paused, studying Quickthorn, which Sigismund had propped back against the wall. Her hand went out, but withdrew without touching it.

“The West Castle too stands on a strongpoint. It is nothing to the one in the Wood, but it has concealed me from Farisie all these years. And you have this sword, the one the dragons made for Parsifal. Like you, Sigismund, it has power of its own. Use it,” Syrica said, and vanished.

The Hedge of Thorns

S
igismund stared at Quickthorn, his eyes growing wide. “Dragons?” he whispered. “
Dragons
made you?”

He found it impossible to stand still and began to stride up and down the room, trying to understand what it all meant. Had Balisan known? he wondered. The master-at-arms had told him that the sword belonged to Parsifal, but would he have known who made it?

“And why,” Sigismund asked aloud, “wouldn’t he mention it if he did?” He paused, staring down at the sheathed sword. The dragon on the scabbard gazed back at him with the same enigmatic eye as the dragon above the fireplace of his suite in the Royal Palace. A breath of wind strayed through the open window, and Sigismund could have sworn the dragon’s eye winked as the candlelight flickered. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself.

“Because I was supposed to find out for myself why the crown prince is called the Young Dragon,” he said, dredging up the old memory. He began to pace again.

“That must have been what Rue meant, that gesture with her hands. She was drawing a sword. And the other part, pointing to the walls and floor—like Syrica, she was trying to remind me that this castle too stands on a place of power.” Sigismund caught the blaze of his eyes as he passed the mirror, amber in the half-light thrown by the candles. He stopped, watching the eyes narrow and then flare as realization struck home. “Of course! I don’t need to go into the Wood again and contend with whatever’s been trapped in there. I am standing on a place of power and I have the sword.” Sigismund drew another steadying breath. “I can use it to cross from one strongpoint to the other, just as Rue and I did when we escaped from the Faerie hill.”

He picked up the sword and drew it, and this time the jolt of power was lightning up his arm. “So you agree, do you?” he whispered, turning the blade so that first ice and then fire glinted along its edge. Flame flickered from the dragon’s jaw and burned in its eye as it caught the light.

Had dragons really made it? Sigismund wondered. Could possession of the sword, together with the dragon symbol of his House, mean that his power was connected to theirs?

He angled the blade again, remembering the dragon that he had seen after his encounter with the earth serpent, just before he stepped back into his own world. “Is that why I could see it?” he whispered. “Because of Quickthorn, or my own power, or both?”

He went to the window and gazed into the night, wondering if it really mattered. The connection to the dragons was exciting—alright, very exciting, Sigismund amended with a half grin—but it didn’t seem to have any direct bearing on the business at hand. He had the sword and the ability to use it; that was what mattered.

“And once we get there,” he said, speaking as much to Quickthorn as himself, “then we’ll find out whether I’m right about being able to influence the hundred-year spell—or not.”

There was no reason to wait, Sigismund decided. His shoulder was already much better and he had his supplies from the road. The longer he waited, the more room he gave the Margravine to maneuver. “No,” he said, buckling on the sword. “This is it. We’re going tonight.”

He waited until the castle was fully asleep, watching until the only lights were the night lanterns glowing above the hall and the main gate. There were guards on watch; he could hear their regular up-and-down tramp and low-voiced confirmations that all was well. Mist rose out of the damp ground and thickened as the night grew colder. Sigismund could see it lying in banks across the park as he finally drew his curtains closed, wrapped himself in a thick cloak, and let himself out of the room. He had decided to make for the topmost tower, because of its privacy and clear view of the Wood, and was confident that no one saw him as he traversed the dark silent corridors. Nothing moved and the only sound, other than the guards on their distant round, was the melancholy hoot of an owl.

The tower had a cool dusty smell, as though it had not been used at all since he and Balisan left the West Castle, but the trapdoor onto the roof opened without a creak. The mist was thinner here, the stars closer, and Sigismund could see the dark bulk of the nearby Wood, with the moon sailing westward above it. When he peered down, he could make out the sunken garden and the lilac walk, leached of color by night. The whole world was quiet, so still that he could imagine he heard the earth turning beneath his feet—but now he had to step outside that safe circle and cross the Wood.

Sigismund shivered and drew the sword, which glowed with the same pale light as the moon. He let his breath slow, attuning himself to the rhythm of the earth and the stately wheel of the stars. Quickthorn’s power hummed, deepening until they became the pivot around which planes and time revolved. Sigismund stared straight ahead, eyes wide as he breathed in night and the darkness broke apart, reforming itself into the same herringbone pattern as the path through the lilac garden. This new path began at Sigismund’s feet and flew, straight as an arrow through the wall of the castle and into the Wood. It cut across the tangle of magic like a sword, its hilt resting on the star-crowned tower, its tip piercing the hedge of thorns.

Sigismund lifted Quickthorn and extended it along the path of magic, one blade overlapping the other as he stepped forward into a great bending of energy and light. Substance and shadow rushed by him and he was blinded, the breath knocked out of his lungs and torn away. He felt impossibly stretched, little more than a ribbon of energy and thought extended along a rushing tunnel, spun out further and further between the place he needed to leave and the one he sought to reach. The pressure in his ears became a thunder and there was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth.

The tip of the red and white sword touched something solid and twisted. Pain lanced back up Sigismund’s arm, but he tightened his grip rather than letting go. The thunder in his ears exploded and the tunnel became a wheel of spinning fragments. There was light, energy, and sound, with Sigismund spinning at the center, tumbled this way and that until he had no sense of up or down. It was all he could do to hold on to the sword: there was no more breathing, no more thinking, just a wild chaotic spiral—and then his whole body was flung down onto something solid, the last breath pushed out of his lungs.

He was still alive. That was Sigismund’s first thought. The second was that he needed to breathe, and he sucked in air with a gasp. The first breath was fire, the second a little deeper, and by the third he could hear the wild pounding of his heart. He felt like he had run a race, but the surging of his blood was urgent, telling him there was no time to waste. Sigismund seized a few more ragged breaths, then opened his eyes. For a moment he thought that he was blind, then he realized it was still night and he was lying on his back, staring up into a thick canopy of trees.

When his eyes adjusted he could make out stars through the leaves, and when he tipped his head further back, he could see a sheer black wall behind him. His right arm was stretched out above his shoulder and Quickthorn was plunged hilt-deep into the wall—except that this was no wall, and Sigismund had seen it before.

“The hedge of thorns,” he said, and scrambled to his feet, then swore as pain stabbed in his shoulder and arm.

Just the recent bruising, Sigismund reassured himself—and not helped by that last wild tumble. He pulled Quickthorn out of the hedge and swung his arm, rotating the shoulder joint. He didn’t think there was any new damage, just the muscles protesting at more rough treatment, so he looked around. The sky through the trees seemed to be growing paler, but it was hard to be certain. Daylight would help, Sigismund decided, remembering the tangled briars and vicious thorns from his last visit, but the sense of urgency was still with him. If he was going to find a way through, he wanted to begin at once.

“But how?” he muttered, looking up at the soaring hedge. He had thought that Quickthorn might cut a way through, but now, facing the sheer size of the hedge again, he was not so sure. But it might be that there was an obvious point of entry, a gate or a place where the hedge grew thin. It had to be worth investigating, at least.

The ground here did not seem to be as thick with briars as he remembered, and the pale glow from the sword helped, picking out the worst patches. But neither the thickness nor the height of the hedge diminished, and although he circled it until the sky blushed pink, Sigismund was unable to find an opening. He stopped, studying the long, sharp thorns, and reflected that in any other forest the trees would be alive with birds by now, but not here. In this wood everything was utterly still, as though the whole world was holding its breath—and had been, he thought grimly, for nearly a hundred years.

“And I don’t know about you,” Sigismund said to the surrounding trees, “but I’m tired of waiting. It’s time for some hack and slash.” He raised Quickthorn up and cut into the hedge with a great, backhanded swing.

There was a clap like thunder and the ground shook so that Sigismund struggled to keep his balance. The rose vines in front of him curled away with a snap, and for a moment he thought they were going to whip back into his face, but instead they kept curling, rising and arching to form a tunnel though the hedge. Sigismund swallowed, because it was so deep, a good spear cast at least, and he could never have hacked his way through. But whether it was because of his influence acting on the spell, or some quality inherent in the sword, or both, it seemed he would be allowed to pass without challenge.

It worked, Sigismund thought, exultant. He wanted to punch the air and shout out to the sun, rising above the trees, but knew he needed to remain coolheaded. The magic was still far from undone, but even opening the hedge of thorns might be enough to lift the interdict and let the Margravine through.

Her appearance here, thought Sigismund, sobering, can only be a matter of time. He squared his shoulders and stepped into the shaded tunnel beneath the briar hedge, walking steadily through and out into sunlight and silence on its far side. He had hoped that the magic might work in his favor and the opening close again behind him, but it remained unchanged.

Not good, thought Sigismund, thinking of the faie hunt and whatever else might come out of the Wood, as well as the threat of the Margravine. I must hurry, he told himself, but found it hard to move. Everything was still and even the air appeared thick with sleep, the white towers of the palace shimmering like a mirage on the far side of the garden in which he stood. Sigismund wondered why his arm seemed so heavy, then realized that he was still holding Quickthorn, which felt as though it was made of stone. After another moment he sheathed it and stared around the garden, a puzzled frown on his face. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t remember it from any of his dreams.

It was certainly large and very formal, with manicured hedges and gravel walks, stone terraces, and trees in tubs leading up to the palace. There was an ornamental lake with a small green island at its center and a marble summerhouse reached by stepping-stones. The stones curved across the water like swans flying and the lake’s blue surface was completely still, unmarred by a single ripple. Sigismund, staring hard, realized that the clouds mirrored in the water were motionless as well. He swallowed, glancing up at the unmoving sky and then as quickly away again, dizzied by the sheer scale of magic required to achieve such a thing.

“Must move,” he mumbled, “find the princess, break the spell. No time to lose.” But his legs felt numb as he forced himself forward and even his thoughts were slow, as though separated from each other by layers of cotton wool. Sigismund frowned, then dragged off his leather gauntlet and closed his hand around Quickthorn’s hilt. There was no hum or crackle of power, but he found he could move and think clearly again.

There was another summerhouse further away, on a small wooded hill beyond the formal garden. Sigismund could see it as he climbed the terraces that led to the castle entrance, and supposed it must be part of a larger park. The whole place was a mixture of the cultivated and the wild, with the white palace floating above it like a cloud and rose vines scrambling down the steps and terraces to meet him. It was not until he stood in the palace gate, however, that Sigismund saw the full riot of briars that twisted and scrambled over the main courtyard and inner walls. They were the one thing, it seemed, that had not stood still but had thrived and grown rampant for the hundred years of the spell.

Sigismund stepped forward, picking his way across the briars and into his childhood dreams. It was all exactly the same, he thought, dizzy again—although the disorientation might not be magic this time, but simply the overwhelming perfume of the roses. Nothing moved and there was no sound, but in every room and around every corner he found people asleep. There were guards standing upright at their posts and courtiers slumped on chairs, some with sleeping hawks on their wrists or slumbering hounds at their feet. Sigismund peered into the silent courtyards where fountain water hung sparkling in midair, and stood for some time looking into the great hall where the King and Queen slept on their golden thrones. Their attendants lay sleeping around them and the birthday guests sprawled forward across the long tables.

But if this was the same as in his dreams, Sigismund thought, pulling himself away from that sad, glittering scene, then he already knew that the princess was not here, or in any of the rooms along these sleep-filled corridors. Instead he had to find the final staircase, the one that ended in shimmering impenetrable mist. Sigismund was not sure whether it was the same staircase he had climbed in his later dream, after his return from Thorn forest, but he was reasonably certain that he would find the briar-choked room at the top, with the sleeping princess inside it.

“So find one or both staircases, and then climb. It should be easy.” He thought he spoke softly, but his voice echoed against the silence and a gong sounded once, discordant, as the echoes died away. It seemed distant, but Sigismund began to run anyway, fearing what it might herald. There was too much magic here, too many potential pitfalls, and he tried not to recall how the princess and her room had always stayed just out of sight in those early dreams, concealed at the top of the next stair or hidden around another corner.