by Jenny Nimmo
“All safe,” replied the king. “They’re on their way, but we came on ahead. My sons have told me everything.” He touched Petrello’s head. “Is Zobayda safe? And the children?”
The wizards exchanged glances, and Eri said, “Safe, Timoken, though Borlath is confined in the Hall of Corrections. The guards are all loyal, but some have been killed. Chimery is dead and Thorkil is, for the moment, locked in his office with most of his men. Friar Gereint has found his sword and stands guard outside the door. A few of the chancellor’s men are” — he gave a nervous shrug — “somewhere about. But the leopards keep watch, and no one can get past Llyr and his knives.”
“Your daughter Guanhamara likes to spend time on the battlements,” said Llyr. “She’s up there before dawn most days. It was she who told us an army was approaching, or we would never have known.”
“I made Llyr wait to guard the entrance,” said Eri, “while I went alone to walk the spell-wall and begin the Vanishing.”
“Dear friend, you would never have completed it.” The king laid his hand on Eri’s shoulder. “We have learned that the king of England has sent his army to take our castle” — he looked at Petrello — “so my son and I have come to stop them.”
The wizards looked at Petrello and nodded gravely. They didn’t seem surprised to hear that he would be helping to defeat an army of a thousand men.
“A few knives would be welcome, Llyr,” said the king, “to bring the soldiers out of the trees. Do you have enough?”
“A sackful,” said Llyr, his eyes gleaming. “I’ll use Princess Zobayda’s tower.”
“No time to lose,” the king told him.
Before Petrello had time to grasp what was happening, his father had seized him around the waist and they were flying up to the Royal Tower. When the king set him down, he was so breathless, he could hardly stand.
“Look, Petrello! See what we’re up against!” The king pointed to the east.
Petrello staggered to his father’s side and peered through an opening in the wall. His vision was blurred, his head foggy with shock and the long journey through the air. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the trees below. He knew the soldiers were there, but the army appeared to have doubled in size. The glint of armor spread almost to the town, north and south it bobbed and quivered in the early sun. Soon it would burst out of the trees and cover the meadow and the garden.
The king removed his cloak and swung it through the air, his familiar chant filling Petrello’s ears. Black clouds darkened the sky; rain, heavy as iron, thudded onto the trees. A thunderbolt tore into the approaching soldiers, and Petrello could hear their screams. For a moment the army halted, and then marched again, their shields above their heads, the rain denting the metal but not harming them. The king began to roar, and the rain stopped. A bolt of lightning struck the treetops. Fire spread through the branches and they fell, blazing onto the army below. Some of the men dropped to the ground, others came on.
There were wagons on the track, carrying machinery that Petrello had heard of but never seen: battering rams, giant catapults, and siege towers.
A knife whistled through the air and, turning his head, Petrello saw Llyr on Zobayda’s tower, hurling his magic at the army. The knives struck home, piercing breastplates, helmets, and gauntlets, but the soldiers still came on. There were archers among them and a sudden shower of arrows swept toward Zobayda’s tower. Most fell short, but Llyr disappeared; whether he had been hit or was hiding, they couldn’t tell. Another arrow landed behind the king, a burning rag was tied to it and nearly scorched his cloak. He stamped the flames out, but now the sky was full of burning arrows and the army was in the meadow.
“It’s time, Petrello!”
He heard his father’s voice and wanted to shrink until he was no bigger than a beetle. What could he do?
“What am I to do, Father?” he asked. “I have no talent, there’s nothing …”
“You can move the air, my son. You have always had the gift, but you have never had to use it — until now.”
“Move the air?” Petrello murmured.
“You’ve heard of hurricanes, typhoons, cyclones. They’re made of moving air: great winds that can sweep men into the sky, winds that can uproot trees and carry houses. You can bring a wind like that, Petrello.”
“Can I?” he whispered.
“Wish for it!”
Petrello felt a hand on his shoulder. He sensed his father’s strength warm on his back, racing through his arms and into his hands. He moved his fingers, opened and closed them, and a breeze came out of them. He heard a moan, and then a roar as a wind tore over him, slamming him against the wall. Clouds of dust flew into his eyes, and he closed them and sank to his knees. “Hurricane!” he croaked.
With his eyes closed, he imagined he was quite alone with a wind that was all his, a wild creature that he loved. And while it raged about him, a small being came into his mind’s eye; a hairless creature with mothlike wings and huge saffron-colored eyes. It darted through the trees, holding a giant spider’s web that floated behind it, glittering with droplets of water. The image was gone in a second, and he heard the king saying, “Look, Petrello! Look what you have done!”
“The wind,” he groaned.
“The wind has left us; it’s with the army now. Look!” The king put his hands under Petrello’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet.
Petrello stared at the sky. A cloud of objects whirled and twisted above the trees, above the meadow. Higher and higher they rose; now they were level with his gaze, now ever higher: soldiers, wagons, helmets, and swords, all drifting, turning, floating. The wind carried them back and forth, and then they were above the castle, and Petrello turned around to see them blowing over the river, over the forest, toward the great gray ocean. Screams like the buzz of tiny insects could be heard for a moment, before they were drowned in the hurricane’s roar.
Another sound slipped into Petrello’s ear. The king’s voice. “Let them down gently, my son. Scatter them, blow them far from here, but let them live to tell their king.”
“I understand.” Petrello was shaking with exhaustion, but he thought of the soldiers twisting and turning in the air, with nothing beneath them but the sky. They would need a strong and careful breeze to carry them to earth. He had brought the hurricane, now he must control it. He closed his eyes and saw the soldiers floating far, far away, and then they were falling, slowly, gently until they landed on distant pathways, on mountain passes, hills and fields, in forests, hamlets, and castle courtyards. They were crouching in terror, dumb with fright, but safe.
Petrello opened his eyes. The king was looking at him, his head to one side.
“Remarkable,” he said. “Somehow you managed to leave the horses on the ground.”
“They meant no harm. And the soldiers are safe now. But, Father, do you think the king of England will send another army?”
“He won’t risk it. News of an army in the air will be too fantastic to be believed. Those in power will try and forget it. A thousand men were sent to capture a castle and all of them disappeared.” The king smiled and shook his head. “Let’s go down and celebrate.”
This time the king didn’t fly. He descended the spiraling steps with Petrello following, still a little dizzy with shock and success. When they reached the royal apartments, Zobayda and Guanhamara were there to greet them, Gunfrid, Zeba, and Elin shyly looking over their shoulders.
“We saw it from the window,” cried Guanhamara. “Men in the sky, wagons, swords, and helmets, everything an army carries. Did you put them up there, Father?”
“No,” said the king. “It was Petrello.”
They all stared at him in astonishment, but Zobayda was smiling. Her arms were folded and Petrello could see the silver jinni on her finger. It looked especially bright.
Before any celebrations could take place, the king had to be sure that his wife and son and all his knights were safe. It took them two days and two nights to t
ravel through the forest, and, in that time, the king had much to put right in his castle.
Thorkil and most of his men were still locked in the chancellor’s office, but no one felt safe while four Gray Men were still at large. The courtiers kept to their chambers; the workmen, the cooks, the musicians, the stable boys, and messengers stayed close to one another, in their own quarters. Very few risked appearing in the courtyards.
It was Wyngate with his sharp eyes and investigative mind who eventually tracked down the Gray Men. Two were in the armory, hidden in spare suits of armor; one was in the blacksmith’s forge, disguised as a log; and the last was cowering in a barrel of apples in the stockroom. Terrified by the sight of the angry king and his wizards, they quickly gave themselves up quickly. The chancellor might sneer at ancient spells, but his men knew all too well what they could do.
Released from the locked room, Thorkil emerged looking sullen and defiant. He made no apology and no excuses for his treachery. When he and his men had been relieved of their weapons, they were taken to the South Gate and told to make their way, on foot, to Castle Melyntha. “Life with Osbern will suit you better,” the king told Thorkil. “But I suggest that you don’t travel on the usual route, or you will meet my Knight Protectors, and they’re likely to draw their swords at the very sight of you.”
“There will be wolves,” muttered one of the men.
“And wild boar and snakes,” mumbled another.
“And other things,” grunted a third.
“You may take a weapon,” said the king, handing the third man a small knife.
“What about our families?” asked the man, feeling bolder.
“They will come later, in the safety of a wagon.” The king gave the man a hard but reassuring look.
Thorkil said not a word. He marched out, followed by his men, some of whom were shuffling rather pathetically. The great doors closed behind them and the king gave a huge sigh of relief.
“That was well done, Timoken,” said Eri.
“Now for my son,” said the king.
“A far harder task,” Llyr remarked quietly.
Borlath had managed to injure several of the guards before he was finally overcome. Now, confined in the Hall of Corrections, he stormed up and down, scorching and singeing whatever he touched, though he was careful to avoid a full-blown fire, knowing that he would be the first to burn.
The wizards wouldn’t allow the king to speak to Borlath alone. They knew their friend might weaken. Timoken still believed he was partially responsible for his son’s betrayal. It was the jinni’s fateful gift to him, always to have one foot in the realm of enchantments, a place where darkness lurked beside the light.
Guanhamara and her brothers were there, of course, lying flat on the floor above the hall, their eyes pressed to the gap in the boards.
The king sat at the far end of the hall, with Llyr and Eri on either side of him. A dozen knives still hung from Llyr’s belt, and Borlath glanced at these occasionally as he paced before the five men guarding him, their pikes all at the ready.
The king’s voice boomed across the hall. “Borlath, explain why you conspired with others to take over this castle, to abduct the bellman, and to murder my knights!”
Borlath stopped pacing. “Why not mention my other crimes?”
The king was silent. The wizards’ chairs creaked. Eri’s staff tapped the floor.
“Surely you have guessed,” said Borlath in a sneering tone. “Why did Lilith put her enchanted petals into a certain helmet? Because I told her to. Oh, she has a wicked nature, I grant you, but it was my idea.”
Unable to keep the confusion out of his voice, the king asked, “Why?”
“Why? Because I can. Because I will never be king. Because I have to watch wizards defending our castle with ancient magic, because my brother’s power comes from wolves and eagles, and I wanted to silence him forever.”
“You wanted Amadis to die?” roared the king.
“Lilith’s gift is stronger than she thought,” muttered Borlath.
“I wonder,” said Eri quietly.
“It seems that you no longer wish to live here,” said the king.
“Huh!” Borlath uttered a hollow sort of laugh. “Not now that my little brothers are flying and throwing soldiers in the air.”
“You have so much,” the king said sadly. “You have youth and strength, you inspire loyalty in Cafal, and you have a certain command over others. You could be a great Knight Protector, Borlath.”
There was no reply to this. Guanhamara looked up at the same time as her brothers. She rolled her eyes at them and Petrello shrugged. And then, suddenly, someone below started to speak, and they quickly lowered their heads. Tolly was so fast, he banged his forehead on the floor boards.
“We know you are there!” said Eri, from beneath. “So behave yourselves and take note of what you hear.”
Tolly reddened. He rubbed his forehead while his brother and sister shook with silent giggles.
The king seemed unconcerned about the spies above him. In a weary, bitter voice, he told Borlath to gather the possessions he needed, to fetch his horse from the stables, and to leave the castle before dusk.
“I am banished, then,” said Borlath.
“Banished,” said the king. “You can go to Sir Osbern, if you wish, or try to make your fortune elsewhere. But never return to this castle, or you will spend the rest of your days in a pit so deep and dark you will wish you were dead.”
The three children lying above the Hall of Corrections quietly got to their feet and tiptoed out of the building. They had heard enough. Later that day, they watched from the shadows as Borlath rode out of the South Gate. He looked broken and desolate. He could have been a great knight, and although they were glad to see him go, they felt sad that he had chosen to be so alone.
Cafal had crept up behind them, and when Borlath had gone, Petrello asked, “Are you sad, Cafal, to see our brother go?”
“I am sad that he did what he did,” said Cafal, “and I am sad that I told him about Rigg.”
There were two more children to reprimand, but the king had lost the will to punish. It was quite obvious that Vyborn’s natural talent couldn’t be suppressed, but he promised not to change into anything fierce. He would stick to cats and dogs, he said, and an occasional rat. How long this would last, even Zobayda couldn’t predict.
Olga had lost the will to move anything, even herself. She lay on her bed, moaning about how much she missed Lilith, and how Amadis had murdered her. And then her younger sister had a vision. Ever since Guanhamara had “seen” her father and his knights held in a cloud, everyone believed in her visions, though Petrello wasn’t sure about his sister’s picture of Lilith.
“I see her on a beach,” said Guanhamara, perching on the edge of Olga’s bed. “She’s collecting shellfish. She looks a bit cross, but she’s well and … and, I think, yes, I think she’s planning to come home.”
“How?” asked Olga.
“Oh, she’ll find a way,” said Guanhamara cheerfully. “She’s very clever, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Olga agreed, almost with a smile.
“But our father says that you won’t be allowed to see her, unless you stop moving things about.” Guanhamara had made this up, but she decided it was what the king would have wanted. It certainly did the trick.
For quite some time, Olga would only move the smallest objects. She never doubted Guanhamara’s vision, because Amadis confirmed it. The eagle had taken Lilith to a seashore where there was plenty to eat and a small house nearby. Amadis didn’t lie, and an eagle wouldn’t know how to.
The celebrations were held three days after the queen and Amadis had returned, though the twenty knights accompanying them began their merrymaking the very night they arrived. A great deal of wine and mead was consumed, and the bawdy singing lasted until daybreak, but no one in the castle would have dared to complain.
* * *
Spring had become summer
when the great day arrived. Long tables were carried into the courtyard and covered with cloths of red and gold. Cooks and musicians were up at dawn. The smells of baking and roasting wafted through the courtyards, and the sounds of musicians practicing new tunes made it impossible not to hum or sing.
The royal family sat at one table, together with twenty knights, two wizards, the investigator, and Friar Gereint. A new chancellor had yet to be appointed.
Gunfrid and Zeba sat between Cafal and Petrello. Gunfrid’s legs were improving rapidly with a daily dose of the wizards’ new potion. He could even stand on his own; soon, it was predicted, he would be able to walk again.
Guanhamara made sure that her friend Elin had a place beside Amadis, and the girl watched, entranced, as birds and mice and even a lizard settled themselves on his head and shoulders. A tiny wren perched on his finger, and when he gently held it out to Elin, she blushed with pleasure, and asked, “For me?”
“To make you smile,” said Amadis. Behind him, Greyfleet gave an approving grunt.
Gabar paced between the tables, his proud head bending now and then to accept a favorite tidbit. Enid followed close behind him, the end of her thick tail giving any disrespectful dog a sharp tap on the nose.
Before the giant puddings were brought out, the king made a speech. At a gesture from Llyr, one of the musicians blew two blasts on his trumpet, and chattering courtiers, workmen, and children, and barking dogs, gradually fell silent.
The king began with a promise. Looking at Gunfrid and Zeba, he said that very soon he would rescue their friends, still held as slaves by Sir Osbern D’Ark. There were murmurs of agreement from the knights, and the pink-faced orphans smiled their gratitude.
The leopard Star, sitting beside the king, gave his hand a nudge and he turned to stroke its head. The other two leopards came running up and the king laughed as he bent to hug each one. “I haven’t forgotten you, my friends,” he said. “You and your rare gold.”
And then the king went on to thank his family for putting themselves in such grave danger. “Without one another, we would have perished,” he said. Looking down the table until he found Petrello, he added, “We would certainly have lost our home.”
