Wrede, Patricia C - SSC (17 page)

Arven had no idea how long he spent
carving his path through the snarl of briars. His arms grew tired, but his
strokes never lost their rhythm and his steps never faltered. Even when he came
to the ditch that surrounded the castle, three man-heights deep and nearly as
wide, and so steep-sided that a mountain goat might have had difficulty with
the climb, his progress slowed only a little. The briars grew more sparsely in
the thin soil that veiled the rocky sides of the ditch, and now and again Arven
left a stem in place, to catch at his sleeves and the back of his coat and help
keep him from slipping.

He reached the bottom of the ditch
at last and paused to catch his breath. He could feel the keep looming above
him and hear the rushing wind and the thrashing of the briars, though he could
see none of them. He wondered what would happen if he lost his direction, and
was suddenly glad of the ditch. It was a landmark that could not be mistaken,
even in such blackness; if he climbed the wrong side, his mistake would be
obvious as soon as he got to the top, and he would only have to retrace his steps.

"Go on," the prince's
voice whispered in his ear.

Arven jumped, having all but
forgotten the other's presence. There was exhaustion in that voice, a deeper
exhaustion by far than the world-weary undertone it had had when Arven first
heard it, and in his concern he almost turned to offer the prince his arm. Just
in time, he remembered the prince's warning.

"Put your hand through my
belt," Arven said, forgetting his own fatigue. "We've a climb ahead,
and you'll keep up better if I tow you a way."

The prince did not answer. Arven
waited, but he felt no tug at his belt. "Stubborn young fool," he
muttered. Holding back the briars must be more tiring than the prince had
expected. Arven tried not to think of what would happen if the prince's magic
failed before they got to the keep. Well, if the prince was too proud to admit
he needed help, Arven had better finish his part of the business as quickly as
he could. He raised his ax and started forward once more.

Climbing out of the ditch took even
longer than climbing into it had done. Arven's weariness had taken firm hold on
him during the brief rest, and his arms were nearly too tired to swing his ax.
His back ached and his legs felt as if his boots were weighted with lead. He
let himself sink into a kind of daze, repeating the same movements over and
over without thinking.

The jolt of his ax striking
unyielding stone instead of wood brought Arven out of his trance. He cursed
himself for a fool; that stroke had blunted the ax for certain. He probed for a
moment with the flat of the blade and realized abruptly that this was no random
protruding rock. He had arrived at the outer wall of the keep. Arven felt along
the wall a few feet in both directions, but found no sign of a gate or door.
The briars grew only to within two feet of the wall, leaving a narrow path
along the top of the ditch. Without looking back, he called an explanation to
the prince, then turned left and started sunwise around the keep, one hand on
the wall.

He had not gone far when the wall bulged
outward. He followed the curve, and as he came around the far side he felt the
ground smooth out beneath his feet. The wind that whipped the briars ceased as
though a door had been shut on it, and silence fell with shocking suddenness. A
moment later, the prince said, "This is the gate. We can rest here for a
few minutes, if you like."

Arven looked over his shoulder. The
night seemed less dense now; he could just make out the prince's silhouette,
charcoal gray against
midnight
blackness. He stood squarely in the center of an arched opening through which
Arven had passed without noticing. Though the prince's voice was more tired
than ever, Arven could see no trace of weariness in his stance.

"What else must we face?"
Arven asked, leaning against the crumbling wall.

"Only finding the count's
daughter and waking her," the prince said. "Whatever is left in the
keep is not dangerous, though it may be unpleasant."

"Then there's no point in
lingering," Arven said.

"Light the lantern, and we'll
start looking for the girl."

There was a long pause. "I
didn't bring the lantern."

"Young idiot," Arven said
without heat. He should have thought to mention it; he was old enough to know
better than to rely on an untutored and romantically inclined youth to think of
practical matters. He smiled. He was old enough to know better than to try and penetrate
the briars around the keep, too, but here he was. "I suppose we could just
wait for dawn."

"No!" The prince took a
quick step, as if he would shove Arven on by main force. "I can't—I mean,
I don't—"

Knowing that the prince could not
see him, Arven let his smile grow broader. "Well enough," he said,
trying to keep the smile from showing in his voice. "I can understand why
you'd be eager to have this finished. But while we look for your girl, keep an
eye out for a torch or a lamp or something. I've no mind to come this far just
to break a leg on the stairs for lack of light."

"As you wish," the prince
said. "Are you rested?"

Arven laughed. "As much as I'm
likely to be." He pushed himself away from the wall and started off. He
kept one hand on the stone as he walked, feeling the texture change as he
passed under the supporting arches. Despite his care, he stumbled and nearly
fell a moment later. When he felt for the obstruction that had tripped him, he
found a well-rotted stump of wood leaning against a heavy iron bar—all that was
left of the first door. With a shrug, he rose and entered the outer bailey.

As he did, something brushed his
face. He jerked and swiped at it one-handed and found himself holding a handful
of leaves.

"Ivy," said the prince
from behind him, and Arven jumped again. "It's not the climbing sort; it
grows in cracks between the stones above and hangs down."

"I know the plant," Arven
said shortly. He threw the leaves away and looked up. A few yards ahead, the
curved sides of the inner gatehouse rose dizzily above him and flattened
briefly into the inner wall before bulging out into the round corner towers.
This close, the gatehouse blotted out the shapes of the mountains. Its dark
surface was broken only by the darker slots of the arrow loops and a few
irregular clumps of ivy, swaying gently.

Arven blinked and realized that the
darkness was fading. He could see the stars behind the towers, and there was a
faint, pale haze in the sky that hinted at the coming of dawn in an hour or
two. Somewhere a bird chirped sleepily.

"We must hurry," the
prince said. "Come." He started for the twin towers of the inner
gatehouse, and Arven followed. His part in this adventure might be over, but he
had earned the right to see the end of it.

"There is work for your ax
here," the prince called from the tunnel that led between the towers to
the inner part of the keep.

Arven snorted at himself and
quickened his step. When he reached the prince's side, the difficulty was
clear. The first portcullis was down, but closer examination showed that the
iron bands had rusted and sprung apart and the wooden grate was all askew and
rotten besides. A few careful ax strokes cleared the way with ease. The second
portcullis, at the far end of the tunnel-like entrance, had fallen and jammed
partway. Arven ducked under the spikes and stepped out into the inner bailey.

Another bird chirped from somewhere
on the wall above his head, and another. Arven had never understood why birds
insisted on chattering at each other from the moment the night sky began to
lighten. Surely dawn was early enough! He turned to point out the perversity of
birds to the prince and did not see him.

"Your Highness?"

"Here." The prince waved
from the door of the gatehouse. "There are candles."

"Good." The door was half
ajar. Arven shoved it wide and peered in, then recoiled. Two skeletons lay
sprawled across the table in the center of the room, white bones protruding
from rotting shreds of livery.

Arven looked reproachfully at the
prince. "You might have warned me."

"I didn't think." The
prince sounded as much worried as apologetic. "They are only dead, after
all."

"Next time, get the candles
yourself, then," Arven snapped. He went in and retrieved two fat, stubby
candles and a rusty iron holder, fixed one of the candles in place, and lit it
with some difficulty.

The prince was waiting for him in
the bailey. "The count's daughter will be somewhere in the great hall, I
think," he said, pointing. "I... expect there will be more such as those."

"Dead men, you mean."

The prince nodded. "The
spell—the curse— should have protected the whole of the keep, but it has gone
on too long. I doubt there is anyone living, except the girl."

"Let's find her, then, and
leave this place to the ghosts."

The prince winced, then nodded
again. "As you say. Lead on."

"I?"

"You have the light."

Arven shot a glare at the prince,
though he knew the effect would be lost in the darkness. There was nothing he
could say to such a reasonable request, however, so he did as the prince had
suggested.

The door to the great hall was made
of solid oak planks, a little weathered but still more than serviceable. It
took most of Arven's remaining strength to wrestle it open. He threw another
glare in the prince's direction; the man couldn't be any more tired than Arven,
no matter how wearing magic was. The prince did not seem to notice.

Inside, the main room was eerily
still. On the far side, the window glass had shattered, letting in starlight
and the small noises of wind and birds. Closer by, long tables filled the
center of the room and the candlelight struck glints from gold and silver
plate. Around the tables, and sometimes over them, lay a collection of black,
shapeless figures. A faint, sweetish odor of decay hung in the air, and Arven
grimaced. He skirted the edge of the room, avoiding the tables and taking care
to shield the candle so that he would not see the details of the anonymous forms.

"There will be stairs in the
corner," the prince said.

Arven found them: a narrow stone
spiral built into the wall of the keep itself. He started up, his shoulders
brushing the wall on one side and the central pillar on the other. The steps
were as steep as the rocks of the upper mountain, and the climb was awkward.
More than once, Arven wished he could lean forward a few inches more and climb
on all fours, as if he were going up a ladder or scaling a cliff. He wondered
whether castle folk ever became accustomed to the tight, circular ascent. Did
they think no more of it than Arven did of shinning up a tree to cut away an
inconvenient branch that might affect its fall? The prince, at least, did not
seem bothered.

Around and around they went,
passing one door after another, until Arven lost track of how far they had
come. At each door, Arven stopped to ask, "This one?" Each time, the
prince shook his head and they went on. Finally, they reached the top of the
stairs. This time, Arven pushed the door open without asking; there was, after
all, no other place to go.

■ He found himself in a narrow
hall. "The far end," the prince said, and Arven went on. He found a
door and pushed it open, and stopped, staring.

The chamber was small and cluttered.
Broken boards leaned against one wall, some carved, others plain. A stool with
a broken leg was propped on a circular washtub; next to it was a chair with
only one arm. A stack of table trestles filled one corner, and a pile of
rolled-up rugs and tapestries took up another. Old rope hung in dusty loops
from a peg beside the window, and the window ledge was full of dented pewter
and cracked pottery.

The center of the room had been
cleared in haste by someone unconcerned with niceties of order. In the middle
of the open space stood a broken spinning wheel. One leg was missing and two of
the spokes were broken; the treadle dangled on a bent wire and the driving cord
was gone. Only the spindle shone bright and sharp and new. Beside the spinning
wheel, a girl lay in a crumpled heap, one hand stretched out as if to catch
herself and a tumbled mass of black hair hiding her face.

Arven set the candle holder on top
of the stack of table trestles and bent over the girl. Gently, he slid an arm
under her. His work-roughened fingers caught on the heavy, old-fashioned
brocade of her dress as he lifted her and turned her shoulders so that he could
see her face.

She was beautiful. He had expected
that; noblemen's daughters were nearly always beautiful, protected as they were
from the ravages of sun and illness and general hardship. But he had not
expected to find such determination in the pointed pixie chin, or such
character in the fine bones of her face. Arven tore his eyes away and turned to
the prince.

The prince stood in the doorway,
watching the girl with such love and longing that Arven almost averted his eyes
to keep from intruding on what should be private. "Well?" Arven said
gruffly.

"Kiss her," said the
prince, and looked away.

Arven stared, astonished. "Do
it yourself. That's why you came, surely."

"I can't." The prince's
voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"Can't? What do you—"
Arven broke off as the prince raised his hand and stretched it toward the
candle. Suddenly the pieces came together and Arven knew, even before he saw
the candle gleaming through the translucent flesh, even before he watched the
prince's hand grasp the holder and pass through it without touching.
No
wonder he would not carry the lantern,
Arven thought,
no wonder he could
only work the spell at night,
and marveled that he could be so calm.