The seasons passed quickly. All in all, privacy was wonderful and solitude was sweet, but as the end of his second year of defiant isolation drew near, he began to feel undeniable pangs of loneliness. He craved companionship.
On a brilliant beautiful morning in spring, when the air rang with birdsong and the smells of the newborn earth lay heavy on each breeze, Kedrigern could control his feelings no longer. He closed with a decisive, dust-scattering thoomp the great book of spells before him. Reading about spells was all very well; one had to keep up; but how much more enjoyable to sit in the shade of an ancient oak with a pitcher of cold ale and two frosty tankards, discussing the subtleties of spells with a fellow wizard. Better yet, with two or three fellow wizards and a few attractive sorceresses. But that was not to be; not for a long long time, certainly, and maybe never again.
He sighed, and rose, and stood by his cluttered worktable for a time, fingering the medallion that he still wore around his neck and thinking of his guild brothers. Vain, fidgeting Hithernils, and crusty old Conhoon, and all too clever Tristaver. He missed them all. Of course, even now, he need only apologize, and everything would be forgiven..
No! he thought angrily, banging his fist down on the tabletop, raising a small dust cloud and knocking a litle silver bell from its place on the edge, to fall with a bright tinkle. Eleanor of the Brazen Head rocked a bit, but not having been properly summoned, did not speak or open her eyes.
“No!” said Kedrigern aloud. “Never!” If they apologized, everything would be forgiven. He was prepared to be generous, would hold no grudges, wipe clean the slate, but principles are principles. They were wrong, he was right, and that was that. But he was still lonely.
Spot came bounding into the chamber, its huge ears flapping, eyes roling, tongue loling. “Yah, yah!” it cried, bouncing eagerly up and down.
Kedrigern was puzzled for a moment by his house-troll’s presence, and then he noticed the fallen bell. “I didn’t mean to ring, Spot, but as long as you’re here, I’ll have lunch. Just a slice of bread and some of the soft cheese. And a mug of ale. Bring it out under the oak,” he said.
Spot whirled from the chamber, and the flapping of its huge feet dwindled down the halway. Kedrigern followed the little troll out, carefully closing the door behind him, and started for the front yard.
Spot was useful, no question about it, but Spot was not company. It was an ideal servant: loyal, energetic, eager, versatile, and untiring. But not a chum. They could not even sit down to a nice game of chess on a dark and stormy evening. Spot got excited and ate the chessmen.
Outside, in the shade of the great oak, the air was cool.
Kedrigern finished his bread and cheese, licked his fingertips clean, sipped his ale, and evaluated his situation coolly and calmly.
His work in temporal magic was cluttering up the house and accomplishing nothing. Getting things from other ages was no problem at all, and some of the things were fascinating to examine, but he was not yet certain where most of it was coming from or what it was. Further study was required. That meant a thorough search of his library, and that, in turn, practically necessitated the cataloguing ordeal that he had been putting off for so long. The counterspell for the daughter of Morgosh the Indulgent was completed, and need only be delivered. No other work was at hand, and if something did not turn up soon, he would have no choice but to get to work on the cataloguing, a lonely, dusty job with a Sisyphean potential for frustration.
Kedrigern thought of Morgosh, and his daughter Metalura, and tapped his fingertips together briskly. In conscience, he ought to delay no longer. It was the kind of counterspell that he had to work himself, not something that could be trusted to some local practitioner. Delivery and execution would require him to leave the little cottage on Silent Thunder Mountain for the first time, and that was bad; but it would also give him a few days at Morgosh’s castle, where the accommodations were excellent and the cuisine incomparable, and that was good. Spot’s menus were beginning to pall. Morgosh was known for prompt and generous payment, and that, too, was good, but it was not really a concern that Kedrigern took seriously. A wizard seldom had trouble collecting payment. Kedrigern was thinking not about Morgosh’s treasury but about his greatest treasure, his only child, Metalura.
The unfortunate girl had been a statue for nearly a year now. That was ample time for her to meditate on the need for good manners when dealing with witches. Good manners were about the only thing Metalura lacked, if rumor were to be believed. She was said to be a fine-looking woman, intelligent and clever; but her tongue was like a flaying knife.
Even the generous dowry offered by Morgosh could not bring suitors to his castle, and Metalura was no longer in the first blush of youth. She must be at least twenty, he reckoned. Now, if her ordeal had added civility and a gracious demeanor to her other attributes, she would be…
Kedrigern set his mug down and pondered just what Metalura would be. His thoughtful frown became a smile. His eyes brightened. A beautiful woman with a lively wit and a discerning eye, civil, gracious, and highly dowered; a grateful doting father who would grant any reward to the one who freed her from her spell; and a lonely wizard. The ingredients were perfect. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, grinning as he had not grinned in a long time, he rose and summoned Spot.
“There is packing to be done, Spot,” he announced when the little creature arrived. “I’m going away for a few days, and I’m leaving you in charge. Mind you keep the place tidy I may return with a wife.” Humming to himself, he patted Spot on the top of its warty head and entered the house with an unaccustomed bounce in his step.
Three
wizard goes a-courtin
The journey to Mon Desespoir, the castle of Morgosh the Indulgent, was as bad as Kedrigern had expected it to be, but—to his small relief—no worse. Travel was not one of life’s pleasures for Kedrigern. In his personal menagerie of betes noires it ranked between simple fractures and the company of drunken alchemists. Travel, to Kedrigern, was nothing more than a long series of self-inflicted discomforts, hardships, and dangers that brought one to a place where it was not necessary to go, in which one slouched about, homesick, in squalid surroundings, until it was time to repeat the whole foolish process in reverse. The fact that there were several extenuating circumstances to this trip—his presence really was required, and there was nothing squalid about Morgosh’s treatment of his guests—did not elevate his mood. Travel was travel, and it was all bad.
One could, of course, travel from place to place instantaneously by means of a spell, but transporting spells consumed enormous amounts of magic. One arrived at one’s destination with one’s resources dangerously depleted.
The advantages of a flashy entrance were more than offset by the fact that having arrived promptly and dramatically, one could barely levitate a napkin. It took days to get back to full strength. One might as well spend those days in travel, and preserve one’s image.
At times like this, he envied witches. A broomstick was fast, serviceable transportation, easily acquired, and used scarcely any magic at all. But a wizard seen on a broomstick would never live it down.
He took a little-used footpath through the woods to Morgosh’s lands. There were no inns along the way, and few inhabitants of any sort, but Kedrigern did not mind the lack. He preferred solitude in which to think pleasant thoughts about his triumphal return, a beautiful bride at his side, a dowry in his possession, and an escort of Morgosh’s sturdiest guards-men before and behind, spurs a-jingle and armor gleaming.
He arrived at Mon Desespoir in the afternoon of the eighth day on the road, having traveled by foot, mule, horse, cart, and wagon, as the opportunity offered. He was very dusty, and it was almost as uncomfortable to sit as to stand. But Morgosh the Indulgent received him at once, with all the enthusiasm he was capable of showing.
When they were alone in his state chamber, Morgosh sighed, gazed at the floor, and said, “Tell me the bad news at once, wiz
ard. Your efforts have failed, and my Metalura is lost to me forever.”
“Not so. A counterspell exists.”
“Indeed?” Morgosh cried, starting up from his throne. But he sank back down, and his face fell. “Ah, but you have come to tell me that the counterspell lies in a chest in a cave at the bottom of the sea, guarded by Leviathan. Or buried under a mountain, in the care of a fire-breathing dragon.”
Kedrigern shook his head. “No, my lord.”
“No? Then tell me, how long must my dear daughter remain locked in stone?”
“No longer than you wish, my lord Morgosh.”
“Do not taunt me, wizard. If it were up to me, my dear Metalura would be freed from her spell this very day.”
“So she shall, then,” said Kedrigern triumphantly, pulling a packet from his tunic and raising it aloft dramatically. “Behold the remedy!”
“Can it be true?” Morgosh cried.
“Absolutely.”
“Then let us go at once to the chamber where my poor Metalura stands! She will dine with us this very evening!” said Morgosh exultantly.
“Your lordship, if I might have a few moments… I have traveled long and far. I’m covered with dust, and weary. If you would permit—”
“When my dear daughter moves and speaks once more, you will bathe in asses’ milk and go in silks and velvets, my honest Kedrigern,” said Morgosh, seizing the wizard by the arm and dragging him to a heavy tapestry, which he drew aside to reveal a door. “But first, Metalura.”
Morgosh pointed to a candlestick. Kedrigern took it up as Morgosh unlocked the door, locking it again once they were on the other side. They proceeded down a passage, side by side, to a narrow flight of stairs. Morgosh took the light and led the way upward, to another locked door. Once inside, he returned the candlestick to Kedrigern.
“Light the torches,” he said.
The wizard did so, and as torch after torch blazed up, and the room filled with light, he had his first clear look at the statue that rested on a pedestal at the center of the little chamber that in happier days had housed the family’s ancestral treasures.
It was Metalura in gray stone. She stood in an attitude of alarm, her left hand at her breast, her right extended as if to ward off an impending danger. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, her head tilted slightly backward, away from the unseen threat. The stone folds of her robe clung to a mature but slender and perfectly formed figure. She was exquisitely beautiful.
“Here she stands, Kedrigern. She’s been like this for almost a year, my poor darling,” said Morgosh with a quaver in his voice.
“If you would refresh my memory, my lord—exactly how did it come about?”
“It was malice, Kedrigern, sheer malice. Someone put them up to it.”
“Them?”
“The Drissmall sisters. Do you know them?”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I’ve heard of them. They’re well known for plagues and rashes, but I’ve never heard of them in connection with petrifaction.”
“There’s no question but that it was a conspiracy,” said Morgosh. “I had invited them here on business. While we were in conference, Metalura entered the chamber. I had no secrets from my dear daughter, and she had free run of the castle. I introduced my guests, and Metalura made an observation about the nose of one of the Drissmalls. When one of the sisters objected to the comment, Metalura made unfavorable reference as well to the warts on her chin. You must understand, Kedrigern, that the Drissmal sisters are extremely unsightly individuals. My dear girl was saying no more than the plain truth.”
“I understand.”
“Well, to put it briefly, they turned her into stone. As you see.”
Kedrigern nodded, stroked his chin, and studied the ossified maid. “Do you remember what they said? It’s very important, and your messenger was unable to help me on that point.”
“Oh, they mumbled something. Typical witch talk. Hard to understand them, though. They haven’t a single tooth among them. Their diction is terrible.”
“They speak well enough to cast a first-class spell,” Kedrigern said appreciatively. “I know something about petrifaction spells, and it’s difficult enough just turning someone into a lump of stone. This is a beautiful piece of magic.”
“You’re not here to admire what they did, you’re here to undo it!”
“Of course, my lord Morgosh, “ Kedrigern said in a soothing tone. “But I must know all the circumstances. Did they say anything?”
“Some sort of jingle,” Morgosh muttered.
“Do you remember it?”
Reluctantly, Morgosh recited, “’Lovely lady, stand in stone, Till you speak in milder tone.’ Those were their exact words.”
“Anything more?”
“Not another word. They said that, and they vanished into thin air before I could summon the guard.”
“Mmm… That’s a very straightforward spell. If I counter it, and free your daughter, she’ll go right back to being a statue the first time she makes an unkind remark about anyone. It might be safer if I could get the Drissmalls to lift the spell.”
“I can’t wait any longer. My litle girl was never unkind to a living soul, Kedrigern,” said Morgosh, gazing with moist eyes on the figure that stood before them. “She was clever, and she never minced words. Had a great dedication to plain blunt speaking, Metalura did, but she never insulted anyone who didn’t deserve it. Go ahead and unspell her. She’ll be fine.”
Kedrigern was beginning to feel serious misgivings. Surely her imprisonment in stone must have gentled Metalura’s manners. But old ways die hard. A single relapse on her part might lose Kedrigern the entire reward and gain him the enmity of Morgosh. And probably the Drissmal sisters, as well. He felt himself on very shifty ground.
“Well, when can you start?” Morgosh demanded.
“I’ll get to work right now. But I must warn you, with this kind of spell—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Kedrigern. Have no fear. My litle girl will never say another word that even the most sensitive soul could take amiss. Now get to it.”
Kedrigern got to it. Waving Morgosh back, he untied the packet containing the materials of the counterspell, and laid out two small pouches and a tiny leaden vial, tightly stoppered. He opened one pouch, which contained a red powder, and made a circuit of the room, stopping at each torch to toss a pinch of the powder into the flame. As a sharp scent began to permeate the air of the chamber, he returned to his place before the statue, opened the second pouch, and mixing a pinch of the green powder in it with the red, dropped the mixture on the candleflame.
Billows of rich purple-blue smoke coiled forth from the tiny flame, and roled like sluggish serpents about the floor of the room.
Kedrigern walked once around the statue, repeating an incantation, forming figures in the air with the thick ropy smoke. Setting down the candlestick, he opened the vial, and covering it with his finger he upended it. He touched his moistened fingertip to the statue’s lips, eyelids, and wrists, then stepped back and quickly restoppered the vial.
At first, one might have thought it a trick of the smoke-filled air. But in a very little time, the flush of Metalura’s cheek and the coral of her lips was unmistakable. Her hair turned from stony gray to white, to pale yelow, and at last to a rich gold.
Her breast rose and fell with a deep breath. She blinked, and moved, and at last she spoke.
“What did they do to me, Daddy?” she said in a voice like soft music, sleepily rubbing her hazel eyes.
“You were placed under a spell, dear girl. The Drissmall sisters turned you into a statue,” Morgosh explained, looking adoringly upon her.
“You should have told me they were witches, Daddy,” she said, pouting.
“There wasn’t time, my treasure. It all happened very quickly.”
“It certainly did. I should’ve guessed they were witches, I suppose. The nose on that fat one was—”
“Stop!” Kedrigern cried in a mighty voice, fling
ing his arms wide. “Speak no more, lady!”
“And who is this?” Metalura asked coolly.
“I am Kedrigern, the wizard of Silent Thunder Mountain,” said he with a bow and a flourish that shook loose the dust of the road that still lay heavily in the folds of his cloak.
“You’re a very pushy wizard. What do you mean, coming into my presence dressed like that? You look—”
“Stop, my dearest child!” cried Morgosh with a cautionary gesture. “You must not say another word!”
“To him?” Metalura said scornfully. “He looks like something you put up to keep the pigeons off my shoulders. I never saw such—”
A sharp clingg resounded through the chamber, and Metalura stood in pale unweathered stone, hands on hips, head atilt, looking gorgeously down in unfavorable judgment on all the world.
“What have you done?” Morgosh howled.
Indignantly, Kedrigern replied, “I restored your daughter to normal. She managed to turn herself back into a statue. Don’t blame me.”
“You’re all alike! You’re all in on this!” Morgosh cried, in a rising rage. He dashed to the wall and wrenched free a large, very spiky morningstar once used by a warlike ancestor against invading barbarians. Raising it high overhead, he charged at Kedrigern.
With no time for a protective spell and no place to hide, Kedrigern cast an instantaneous oblivion on the angry noble. Morgosh slowed, staggered, and then, gazing blankly at the wizard, dropped the morningstar. He tottered in place for a moment, sagged, slumped to the floor on his knees, and then stretched out prone on the flagstones.
Voice for Princess (v1.1) Page 4
