Thornspell (20 page)

Sigismund sighed and sheathed Quickthorn, he hoped for the last time that day, and when he looked up again he saw that Fulk and Rafe had started making their way back toward the belvedere. The rider in the lead had taken off his helmet, but his appearance kept shifting, so that at one moment he looked like Rafe and the next like…“Wenceslas?” Sigismund wondered aloud, staring hard as the second rider drew off his helmet too. The red hair that Sigismund was familiar with had become as fair as his own, and after another long, incredulous moment, he recognized Adrian Valensar.

“Shape changing and illusion,” muttered Sigismund, still finding it difficult to believe—but it certainly explained why neither “Fulk” nor “Rafe” would ever look at him directly. They must have been afraid that he would see through the illusion.

And I know who to thank for casting that, Sigismund thought. There were definitely questions he wanted answered, and not just by Adrian and Wenceslas. He caught Syrica’s eye, watching him over Rue’s shoulder. She smiled, but Sigismund thought she looked tired, rather than triumphant.

“It worked out,” he said, a little awkwardly. “Your counterspell and the end to the Margravine’s plotting.”

“Thanks to you, Sigismund.” Her smile was as sweet as his first memory of it, her voice a shimmer of silver. “And to Rue. No magic is ever certain, as I told you long ago. It takes courage and commitment to bring it to a good end.”

“Although not an entirely happy one for you,” Rue said softly, and Syrica sighed.

“No. Farisie had to be stopped, but she will always be my twin. And there were long ages, both in this world and the realm of Faerie, when we were closer, each to the other, than to our own shadows.”

“What happened?” Sigismund asked. She had said in the West Castle that it was an old sorrow, but looking at her face now he wondered if so deep a grief could ever fade. Syrica sighed again, her expression pensive.

“Is it ever possible, in cases such as this, to point to one specific incident or moment and say—there, that was it, it was then the change began.” Syrica shook her dark head. “We followed different paths, Farisie and I, but as to when the first small steps were taken—that I do not know.”

They were all silent, and Sigismund suspected that he was not the only one reflecting on where the Margravine’s path had led and the grief it had brought to so many. “I thought,” he said at last, “that she might be mad.”

Syrica’s mouth twisted, as if she had tasted something bitter. “When pride and the lust for power grow to such an extent that a person disregards all law, and cares nothing for the consequences to others, then that may well be a form of madness.”

“Yet in the end,” Rue said quietly, “it was Farisie’s undoing. She allowed her rage to govern her, blind to everything but the fact that we dared to thwart her will.”

Sigismund nodded, and saw that the sky had grown blue again. The last of the thunder was rumbling away westward and there was a rainbow above the white towers of the palace. “Well, it’s done now,” he said, and stretched, sighing. When he dropped his arms again, he saw that Syrica was watching him, the rainbow reflected in her eyes. She smiled from him to Rue.

“From the beginning,” she said, “I had the highest hopes for both of you. You have disappointed none of them.”

Rue smiled too, but shook her head. “If you had not come here, a century ago—” She broke off, then added quickly, “They’ve finished speaking. The Queen’s coming over here.”

They all watched, silent again, as the white horse approached the belvedere. “Our work here is done,” the Queen said to Syrica. “Do you stay or ride with us?”

Syrica held out one hand to Rue, the other to Sigismund. “If I stay,” she told them, “I too will dwindle, as Farisie would have done.” She turned to the Queen and bowed. “I ride with you.”

“It is well,” said the Queen, and one of her knights led forth a dappled horse, garlanded with lilacs. Syrica took the rein he held out, then turned back into her goddaughter’s embrace.

“Thank you,” Rue said. The words were simple, but her expression, and the clasp of her hands, said a great deal more.

“It is well,” said Syrica, echoing the Queen. Already, thought Sigismund, she seemed less human, her form growing translucent and beginning to fray.

“Do not be sad,” she said, kissing them farewell in turn. “I have done what I came here to do, and now you may live out your lives untroubled by Farisie and her plots.” Her smile was sunshine and shadow at the same time. “Use the years well.”

The Queen had already turned her horse and the cavalcade was moving. Syrica mounted too, and the dappled horse followed the rest of the faie as they flowed to either side of the green hill. There was a shimmer around them, a glow, and it was hard to tell whether the horses were touching the earth or floating through the trees. Syrica waved once, smiling, and then they were all rising up, much as the faie hunt had done on the night of the storm, and riding into the face of the sun. Sigismund suspected that Balisan could still see them for quite some time after that, tracking their path with his dragon’s sight, but for everyone else there was just the sun’s dazzle and a residual brightness in the air.

Everything was so fresh, even the air felt clean and new. Sigismund could see raindrops sparkling on every leaf, brighter than the jewels in Rue’s hair, which had become tangled again during the storm. There was a twig caught in the golden net and leaves plastered against her skirt. He reached out and removed the twig, and Rue turned her head, smiling. From the corner of his eye, Sigismund saw that Adrian and Wenceslas had finally arrived. They must have walked up the hill, leaving their horses well away from the dragon.

Soon, Sigismund thought, it would be time to speak with Balisan and thank him, but also to insist on answers to his many questions. He smiled a little crookedly as he looked from Adrian to Wenceslas and back again.

“I imagine,” he said, “that the two of you have some kind of explanation for your masquerade?”

“I thought that you could use some company on the road.”
Balisan’s voice was a hum in his mind.
“And I didn’t want you to send them away. Besides, Adrian was also the person most likely to see through Ban’s illusion.”

Adrian smiled, and spread his hands wide as if to say that he was not to blame. “It was an adventure,” he said, then seeming to recollect himself, he bowed low to Rue. “Princess,” he murmured, a courtier’s hand over his heart. Wenceslas, however, was still staring in the direction that the faie had taken.

“I’ve seen the Queen of the Faie, She-of-the-Green-Gold-Sleeves, with my very own eyes. And you’ve spoken with her, Sigismund, yet still live.” Wenceslas squared his shoulders, the dawn of a story in his eyes. “So what happens next?”

Ever After

A
great deal, Sigismund thought later that evening. The rest of the afternoon had been turmoil with the whole palace woken from sleep. The first thing Sigismund noticed was the noise. The silent castle had become a cacophony of voices as everyone greeted everyone else, and hugged and cried and kissed. And absolutely everyone, it seemed, had wanted to hug and kiss and cry over Rue. Except that they didn’t call her that.

That was the second thing Sigismund had realized as they made their way through the outstretched hands and all the smiling, crying faces outside the palace. There was no Rue. All around him people were calling out to their princess, but the name they cried was Aurora. Shortly afterward, when the tide of people swept them into the great hall and the heralds there had blown a triumphant blast on their silver trumpets, the whole awakened gathering had cheered for the Princess Aurora Elisabeth Irina Anne, Heiress of the Wood.

They had cheered for him too, Sigismund recalled, leaning his elbows on the parapet of the tower to which he had retreated and gazing east toward where his own gray castle lay. His bruised shoulder was aching again from being thumped so often, friendly-wise, and having to shake so many hands. The King and Queen of the Wood had been both gracious and grateful, but Sigismund had seen the way they clung to Rue when she first reached them, and how their eyes kept going to her even while they were talking with him. It was plain that they wanted time with their daughter alone, and Sigismund had understood that. It had been hard, in fact, not to compare their welcome, a little wistfully, with the stern remoteness of his own father.

“But,” Sigismund said aloud, “does she have to have quite so many cousins and schoolmates and childhood friends?” They had kept coming forward, all eager to introduce themselves and to thank him, as well as to hug and cry over Rue—except that they all called her Aura—before her parents swept her away.

“Aura. Aurora.” Sigismund sighed deeply. He couldn’t help feeling that somewhere in the noise and press of people he had lost Rue. It was like watching someone carried away from you by a current, except what could you do when the river was the love of family and friends? He had been disconcerted, as well, to find out just how many of those cousins and childhood friends were young men.

And in all the noise and excitement, it had been some time before he realized that Balisan had disappeared.

It made sense, Sigismund supposed. There had been more than enough uproar without those in the newly awakened palace having to try and come to terms with the presence of a dragon in their grounds. But sensible or not, he couldn’t help feeling doubly abandoned, given what had happened with Rue.

How like Balisan, he thought, to turn up, reveal that he’s a dragon, and then depart again without a word. But his feelings were definitely mixed, because there was awe as well as pride that a dragon had been protecting him all these years. Sigismund grinned and shook his head. “And I used to think that my life in the West Castle was completely ordinary.”

He would, he supposed, have to go down soon. The King and Queen had ordered that the old feast be cleared away and a new celebration prepared for that night. Sigismund and his friends, they said, would be the guests of honor, and there would be music and dancing as well as feasting. But then they had taken Rue away, and although the courtiers treated Sigismund with every courtesy, he felt very much the stranger and rather in the way of all the preparations. He had also begun to feel extremely tired, which was not surprising, given that he had begun the crossing of the Wood the previous night, and the day itself had been filled with magic and violence.

As soon as Sigismund mentioned feeling weary, he, Adrian, and Wenceslas had been taken to rooms where there was food and drink on trays, clean clothes and soft beds, and hot water for bathing in. Sigismund even slept for a while, in a shaft of warm sunshine stretched across the bed, but woke filled with restlessness and the desire to keep away from other people for as long as possible. In the end he had found himself here, in a narrow tower with a curved balcony near the top, and a clear view over the palace grounds to the deepening shadow of the Wood. Sigismund suspected that the tower might have been built as a folly, simply for people to enjoy the view, since the few rooms it contained were small, and no one had come there to disturb him.

The sunset was coral and fire along the western horizon, but the sky overhead was already dark blue and there were a hundred lights streaming out across the lawns and terraces below. The air was mild and Sigismund could hear the first strains of music from the hall. It floated out the open windows with the lantern light, the notes mingling with laughter and the clamor of children playing hide-and-seek along the terraces.

“So this is where you’re hiding,” said Balisan, stepping out onto the balcony so quietly that Sigismund jumped. Balisan leaned against the balustrade beside him, and Sigismund relaxed as he recognized his usual quizzical smile. It was hard, he thought, to see the immense firedrake in the man—unless it was in the eyes: not just their slanting shape and the flared brows, but something in their unfathomable expression and the way they shone like molten metal, even in the dark.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said.

Balisan’s brows rose, and Sigismund was surprised at just how good it felt to see that familiar expression. “Without saying good-bye?” The voice too was exactly as he remembered, the tone mild beneath the faint sibilance. “I would not do that.”

“I’m glad,” Sigismund said. He studied the dark cloud of the forest, thinking that soon it too would be filled with sound again. The roads would open up and traders like Martin and Bror would begin to come further west—and no doubt there would be negotiations and treaties to establish a clear boundary between his father’s realm and the Kingdom of the Wood. There was, Sigismund reflected, going to be a great deal to do. “But I suppose you’ll be going soon, now this business with the Margravine is done?”

“In time,” Balisan replied. “But I do not have to go straightaway.”

“I would like that,” Sigismund said. He let his breath out on the tiniest of sighs. “I’ve just realized how different everything is going to be.”

Balisan nodded, slanting him a sideways look. “More than you know perhaps. Your father is on his way here from the south.”

Sigismund straightened, all the confusion and lethargy of the day’s aftermath falling away. “Why? How far away is he? When does he arrive?”

Balisan held up a hand, smiling. “Why?” he echoed. “That is easy enough. No one could have held him back once he knew that you intended to venture the Wood on your own. And I did not try.” The sibilant voice was soft. “He loves you, Sigismund, although he is not the kind of man to show such emotion easily and will probably never say the words. The resistance in the south collapsed as soon as he occupied the Varana citadel, and he realized that this must be because the Margravine was no longer there to fan the flames—that you were right, in other words. So he left matters in the hands of General Langrafon—although with strict instructions, I believe, not to put all the
zu
Malvolin to the sword—and came north with the royal bodyguard. He has been pressing hard and should reach the West Castle in the next few days.”

I had better return there before that, Sigismund thought. He suspected that the reunion was going to be awkward, because Balisan was right and his father’s personality wasn’t going to change. “Well, at least we should have plenty to talk about. Not just what happened with the Margravine, but formally lifting the interdict and establishing relations with the King and the Queen of the Wood.” He frowned, thinking. “And there’s still the south. Even if the rebellion there has died out, we still need to reestablish a tradition of peace.”

Balisan nodded. “There will be a great deal to do. Your father will need your help, and be glad to have it.”

“Even if he doesn’t say so.” Sigismund straightened and peered down at the terrace below. A lone flautist had come out and was playing a sweet merry air that had drawn the children like moths to a candle. Sigismund could see their attentive half circle and feel the joy expressed in the music, a joy that was reflected throughout the castle. But he felt outside it all, like the knights-errant in the stories, who having achieved their quest, accept the thanks of those they have helped…and leave.

But I don’t want to leave, thought Sigismund. He turned his head and found Balisan watching him. “I hope,” he said, “that this means an end to Ban Valensar wearing the likeness of my face.”

The bronze eyes gleamed. “As far as the world is concerned, Ban Valensar has never left the West Castle, and you have been at your father’s side throughout this past winter and spring.” Balisan shrugged. “It will not be difficult to make the switch without anyone being the wiser. It is a very small glamour to manage.”

“For a dragon,” Sigismund said, and Balisan raised an eyebrow.

“Does that trouble you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” Sigismund pushed a hand through his hair, trying to decide what he felt. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just that I didn’t know, although I suppose that my father must have.” A memory flashed, the boyhood vision of his father in a lantern-lit campaign tent and Balisan entering on a gust of wind.

“He knew the old story, of course, but only as one of the legends of your House.” Balisan’s tone was thoughtful. “I do not think he believed it was anything more than that, until he sent into the Paladinates for a champion and I answered his call.”

Sigismund felt a shiver creep across his skin. He wondered how his father would have felt, hearing Balisan speak of that long-forgotten kinship and offer help that might level the odds against the Margravine.

“At first,” Balisan said, as if reading his thoughts, “he thought he was dreaming, fallen asleep over the war reports. More than a thousand years had passed, after all, since we made the sword for Parsifal.”

Sigismund shivered outright then, and his hand closed around Quickthorn’s hilt. The sword was quiet again, except for a tiny answering flicker. “A thousand years,” he said. “No wonder the Margravine was surprised when you appeared today.”

“What are a thousand years to a dragon?” Balisan’s tone was reflective. “She should have known better than to discount our interest. And your father is not the man to refuse a bargain when it is offered to him.”

The flautist had changed to another tune, a plaintive melody that spoke of regret, of love lost and roads not taken. Sigismund shifted, tracing the pattern of the stones set into the balustrade. “But you never told me,” he said quietly, and caught his companion’s headshake from the corner of his eye.

“I dared not,” Balisan replied, “in case doing so upset the balance of magic in the hundred-year spell. I knew that Syrica’s influence over the Margravine’s original working was delicately poised, and if I intruded too far…” He shrugged. “And the magic was specific—the chosen prince alone must lift the spell. I needed to teach you how to access your own power in order to do that. If you had known that I was a dragon, then you might, even at a subconscious level, have relied on me.”

“Yet in a way,” said Sigismund, thinking it through, “I had already drawn you into the spell, because I was the chosen prince and you had a kinship link to me.”

“It is possible that I could have intervened further than I did.” Balisan shrugged again. “But it seemed best to leave you free to find your own path.”

The flute music was still melancholy, and Sigismund felt a great deal older than he had that morning. He didn’t want to think about the Margravine anymore, or to go down into the great hall and see Rue again—but only at a remote and glittering distance. Now the quest that had driven him for so long was over with and done, all the paths ahead of him seemed flat and gray.

If only, Sigismund thought, I could stay here forever, talking with Balisan in the old way, and delay taking the first inevitable step into that future. He sighed, watching the western sky fade from apricot to a clear pale lemon. “You said it was a thousand years since you made the sword. Is that when the blood of the dragon came into our line? And are the dragons where our power comes from?”

Balisan reached out and clasped his shoulder, a brief touch but oddly comforting. “Yes to your last question,” he said, “although your family already had a deep connection to the land. Adding in the power of the dragon was like a successful graft onto the original stock. But how and why it came about is an old story, older by far than Parsifal.” He paused, smiling faintly. “Do you remember the tale that you told Master Griff you liked, the one about the princess who spun stories to the dragon to stop it from eating her?”

Sigismund nodded. “Was that you?” he asked, his interest quickening. “Were you going to eat her?”

To his surprise, Balisan laughed. “It was not me. I have a brother who is much fonder of hunting than I am, but of a solitary disposition. He was hunting in the northern regions of what is now this kingdom, and news of his presence came to the people who dwelt there. They were ignorant and thought that a dragon must be appeased lest it prey on them, and the princess had enemies amongst the king’s councilors. It turned out later that some of them were already in the pay of their kingdom’s enemies, and the princess was old enough to be a threat. So she was taken and chained in my brother’s cave when the watchers saw that he had flown out. And no,” he added, reading the question in Sigismund’s face, “he would not have eaten her. But he was annoyed because his solitude had been disturbed, so he thought he would let everyone suffer a bit longer before he let her go and then departed the region himself.”

Balisan paused, the slight smile on his lips reflected in his eyes. “He has never been entirely sure whether the princess guessed that he was intelligent and not just a brute beast, or whether she began telling the stories just to keep her spirits up. But like you, Sigismund, he loves stories, and the princess quickly realized that he was listening and began to offer more storytelling in exchange for her life.”