by PAMELA DEAN
There was a long silence.
“That would be it, then,” said Ellen. “We’d be stuck home for good.”
“We can always stay here and kill Randolph,” said Patrick.
“Oh, all right. But—oh, well,” said Ellen.
“You could have cornflakes for breakfast,” Laura said to her, tentatively.
Ellen shrugged.
Ruth sighed heavily.
Ted looked up through the wavering green and black of the trees to where another cardinal was beating lazily across the illimitable sky. There was one round cloud that looked as if it had been cut out of cardboard. A fierce possessiveness clamped down on him: he wanted to hold the entire Secret Country in his two hands, as if it were the Crystal of Earth. He felt that it was his, and not even its shadowy Hell nor the inhuman humor of the unicorns nor the ugliness shortly to erupt when Fence discovered the treachery of Randolph could make him want to give it up.
“Ted,” said Ellen, “now can you tell us what the land of the dead was like?”
Ted sat up, staring. The Secret Country was not his. It was not even the Secret Country. It was the Hidden Land, and it was Edward’s. Every act he had performed as its King had been disastrous. Randolph could rule it; Edward could rule it. Ted would ruin it.
He began to tell Ellen about the land of the dead, and the conversation drifted off into what the rest of them had been doing while Ted fretted in councils. Nothing extraordinary had happened, except to Ruth and Laura.
“She can play that flute,” said Ruth, “and I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” said Patrick.
“Well, you know what happens when you let an ignorant person play around with a flute. He can get a few squeaks and whistles out of it, but he probably won’t hit on the right fingering or the right way to blow into the mouthpiece. That’s how it seems with that flute when I try to play it, even though I know what I’m doing. But Laurie, who doesn’t know what she’s doing, and who had to give up piano lessons because she was so uncoordinated—”
“Hey!” said Ellen.
“I’m sorry,” said Ruth, looking abashed. “But it’s a significant detail, even if it is rude to mention it. She can play all sorts of complicated things without even thinking. And it’s not that the proper fingering for that flute is unusual, because I can tell by looking at her playing that it isn’t.”
“How does it work, Laurie?” asked Ted. Something in Ruth’s description sounded familiar.
Laura, red in the face, looked up from the tree-root she sat on. “I just know, somehow, underneath.”
“In the back of your mind?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how I knew how to fence,” said Ted to Patrick.
“Huh,” said Patrick, in his most noncommittal tones.
“It’s too bad I can’t remember how to ride a horse that way,” said Laura.
“Maybe it’s only the important things that stick,” said Ruth.
“No,” said Ted, “because I remembered the names of the flowers we saw on the Unicorn Hunt the same way, and that wasn’t important.”
“Well,” said Ruth, “it might have been important to Edward.”
“Ruth Eleanora Carroll,” said Patrick, in a scandalized tone that Ted recognized as an imitation of Patrick’s mother’s, “is that how you do your sorcery so well?”
“Only some of it,” said Ruth, growing as red as Laura had been. “That’s how I could read the alphabet. But I had to work hard, too, Patrick!”
“I knew it!” chortled Patrick. “You wanted us to think it was all your own cleverness, and all the time—”
“Patrick,” said Ellen, “how did you get those keys out of Fence’s pocket?”
“Prince Patrick was a prestidigitator!” cried Ruth.
Patrick was not at all embarrassed. “What a bunch of fakers,” said he.
“Ted’s not,” said Laura.
“Neither are you,” said Ted, promptly. “Must run in the other side of the family.”
“I’m not a faker,” said Ellen.
“Only because you didn’t get the chance,” said her brother.
Ellen threw a handful of pine needles at him, and Ruth began helpfully to stuff them down the back of his tunic.
“Wait!” said Ted. “What does it mean? What kind of connection is there between us and the real us, that we can remember things they knew how to do?”
“That’s nothing,” said Patrick. “I’ve got a whole list of hard questions. Why didn’t breaking the Crystal of Earth work? Why is Laura having visions and what do they mean? How did Randolph poison the King’s wine after Ted spilled the bottle? What’s the story that they’ve put all over plates and doors and coffins? Why did Shan’s Ring hold Claudia? Why did it stop holding Claudia? What’s Claudia up to? Why—”
“Stop!” begged Ellen. “You know we’re leaving and we’ll never know.”
“Speaking of Laura’s visions,” said Ted, “let’s go root Fence out of the Council and tell him about them.”
The bell rang for the noon meal, and they abandoned this pleasing plan, to plague Fence’s appetite instead.
“Ted,” said Ellen, as they walked back to the camp, “did you see the King down there?”
“No,” said Ted, looking sideways at her alert and inquisitive face. Ellen never failed to amaze him. She sounded as if meeting the King in Hell would have been a nice thing, somewhere on the level of strawberries for breakfast.
“I wonder if he’s met the real us yet,” said Ellen.
“They wouldn’t recognize each other,” said Ted.
“I wonder,” said Ellen.
CHAPTER 17
BEING hungry themselves, they did not really try to drag Fence from his meal, but only asked to speak with him afterward. Laura could hardly eat. She felt as if she were about to take a test she had not studied for.
They took Fence, who seemed mildly puzzled and considerably amused, to the place where they had spoken earlier. He sat down on a tree-root and looked expectantly from one to the other of them. Laura could not look at him and remain apprehensive. His round face, his big eyes, the disorder of his hair and robes after march and battle and three days of councils, even the four days’ growth of beard that could make her father look so formidable but lent Fence only an absent air: all these made him seem pleasant and harmless.
“Did Randolph tell you about the Lady Laura’s visions?” Ted asked.
Fence sat up straighter and became intent. “He did not. Do you tell me now.”
“Laura?” said Ted.
Laura knew that he would do the telling for her if she felt shy, but she decided to go through with it. Ted might tell too much. Once again she explained at what times she would see things, and what things she had seen. This time she did include her vision of Ted and Randolph on the battlefield, but left out the one of Claudia and Princess Laura in the cellar, since she had already told Fence it was a dream. She did not, of course, mention her glimpse of Andrew in the North Tower, staring at the remnants of the Crystal of Earth. If Fence, by some miracle, did not know that Patrick had broken it, she was not going to tell him. She must remember to tell the others, or they would yell at her, however little it might matter now.
Fence looked at her consideringly when she had done. “This is a gift of thy mother’s house,” he said, “though she had it not and in her sister it turned to favor and to prettiness.”
Laura thought that that did not sound like a bad thing to happen, but Fence did not seem to approve of it.
“Hath any of these come to pass?” Fence asked her.
“The one with Ted all bloody and Randolph looking unhappy did,” said Laura. “I saw it myself, when Ted got killed in the battle. And the people and beasts all running around on the flat place, I think that was the battle, too.”
“Was it for that thou took’st the magic sword to battle?” said Fence.
“Well . . . partly.”
Fence was si
lent for a moment. “So many visions of Claudia,” he said. “Claudia’s face in a sword, with magical swords and a unicorn. Claudia regarding a mirror which regardeth not back. Claudia’s face above misty shapes, as it were the sun.”
“And I think the house by the Well that the dragon destroyed is Claudia’s house,” said Laura, suddenly enlightened.
Fence looked at her as he had when she said that Andrew was a traitor. “Why?” he said.
Laura gaped at him. Face and voice and vision had fallen together in her mind, and she knew that the woman with the broom in the Secret House was Claudia. But this, too, was not something she could tell Fence. She lied quickly. “I saw her in the house, when she was looking in the mirror,” she said. “So I thought it was her house.”
“It is not,” said Fence, “but ’tis of one kind with her other deeds that she should put it to her uses. Well,” he said, and fell silent.
“Please,” said Laura, who was feeling extremely uncomfortable now that she had listed so many peculiar visions and seen Fence take them seriously, “what does it all mean?”
Fence smiled at her. “ ’Tis a talent of thy house,” he said, “a seeing of things far off, whether in time or space or thought. It is hard for thee now to know which of these thou seest, but I can put thee in the way of knowledge will help thee, when we return to High Castle. Meanwhile, tell all you see to me and I will help thee sift it.”
“Can you sift what I told you just now?”
“I can sift nothing touching Claudia,” said Fence, a little shortly. Laura had been afraid he would say that; she glanced at Ted, and as she had expected he was frowning.
Fence considered the frown for a moment, while Ted turned red, and then spoke to Laura again. “But what thou hast seen concerning the dragon and the House and the man reading on a book are visions of times past. Belaparthalion smote the House with fire in his wrath against the treachery of Melanie. King Conrad built it anew in its old fashion. The sight thou hadst of the five shadowy figures that thou knewest—of that I am less certain. It might be a vision of the land of the dead, in times past or to come. Fear not. Those visions that are of great moment come again until they are clear.”
Oh, great, thought Laura. “Who was the man reading the book?”
“The book is King John’s,” said Fence. “From thy story I cannot tell who the man may be; but there are few who read on King John’s Book. If thou seest him again, mark him well.”
“All right,” said Laura, feeling relieved. It was not until later that she wondered how she could have inherited a talent of the Princess Laura’s house, and whether this was another instance of the peculiar remembrance that let Ted fence, and let her play the flute, without instruction.
“Thank you, Fence,” said Ted, “that’s all we wanted.”
“A strange gathering for such a purpose,” said Fence, looking around at them, still expectantly.
Laura wondered what he meant. Ted did not answer him, and they all got up and wandered through the trees back to the camp, talking of the weather, if they would have to march in the rain tomorrow. Laura lagged behind; Ruth and Ellen and Patrick went on ahead; Ted and Fence walked together in the middle. When Ruth and Ellen and Patrick were out of sight, Laura heard Ted say to Fence, “Randolph told me that you were drawing near the end of your conclusions about the King’s death. Can you tell me what you’ve discovered? He said you’d found an antidote in the wine I spilled?”
Laura slowed her steps so they should not hear her, and then had to go faster so that she could hear them.
“I know no more than that,” said Fence; he sounded distinctly annoyed. “If Randolph knoweth more, he hath not spoke his knowledge in my ear.”
“Well, he didn’t speak it in mine either,” said Ted, in relieved tones, “but he did seem to think you had it, too.”
“I am confounded by the matter,” said Fence, definitely, “ ’tis a riddle beyond my powers, unless we discover new events.”
Laura slowed again, thinking. If things went according to the game, Randolph would have to force Fence to his conclusions about the King’s death; and he would do it in High Castle, in the Mirror Room where Agatha did her sewing. What Randolph had told Ted must have made Ted afraid that Fence might discover the truth sooner; which would give them that much less time to get the swords and make their escape. But things seemed to be all right. Laura thought of the unicorns; and despite the discomfort their sense of humor had caused her, she sighed. Then she hurried forward again, to pick up her flute and find out what other music the back of her mind could remember.
On their fourth and last day in the round valley, in a shivering desert dawn, they buried the soldiers who had no families. The bodies were put in a common grave, and there were no carved and painted coffins. Otherwise this funeral was much like the King’s. Fence and Randolph conducted the service in the beautiful but infuriating, almost-intelligible language. This time Ted, listening painfully, not distracted by a recent failure, a downpour of cold rain, or having helped to carry a coffin two or three miles, thought he caught a phrase here or there. It sounded very odd, almost like Shakespeare spoken with a French accent. “What is this world? What asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave, allone, withouten any compaignye.”
He leaned over to Patrick, who, required to choose a language to study in the seventh grade, had selected French because Pasteur had spoken it. “Pat! Is that French?”
“French!” said Patrick, under his breath but with amazing vigor. “No!”
“Well, what is it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Be quiet,” said Ruth over Patrick’s head.
Ted obeyed her, and listened, but heard nothing more that he could understand.
They had wild roses and goldenrod and daisies and a kind of tall purple flower that no one knew the name of, to throw upon the bodies before the grave was filled in.
Ted, watching his golden armful drift down and trying not to sneeze, was visited with an all-too-vivid memory of the land of the dead: the light too dim to show any color, the shifting shapes, the mood that made the ghosts draw back from those who laughed, the bodiless voices asking after blood. He felt horribly relieved and acutely guilty. The awfulness of that place struck him more forcibly now than it had when he was in it. Why should people who knew how to fight and who belonged here be doomed to something almost too listless to be called Hell, while he came back and walked under the sun? He had yelled at the others, over and over, that this was real, that they should take it seriously: but surely so long as he could come back like that, with no effort and through no merit of his own, he was only playing.
Such thoughts troubled him all the march back. Most of the marchers were merry. Now came all the singing Laura had missed on the way out. Other people than Randolph brought out pipes and flutes; there was not only singing and storytelling, but dancing in the evenings. Ted was glum; his sister and his cousins were glum; Randolph put his pipe away after the first night and was not so much glum as simply silent; but Fence was deliberately and doggedly cheerful, as Ted’s mother would be when she was worried about something it was no use talking over.
Three days into the march back Ruth caught Ted during a noon break and hauled him off into the grass.
“What in the world,” she demanded of him, “have you told Randolph about me?”
“I told him I didn’t want to marry you.”
“Did you tell him I wanted to marry him?”
“I told him he’d have to take it up with you,” said Ted, thankful that this was the case.
“Well, he has!” said Ruth, pushing both hands through her hair and demolishing her crown of flowers. The night before they marched had been marked by music and merriment and feasting, and Agatha had found wild roses, growing quite out of season, and bestowed crowns upon as many people as would consent to wear them.
“Or I think he has,” said Ruth. “He keeps talking to me—and giving me things�
��and looking at me—but then he seems to take it for granted that I won’t marry him. Which I won’t, but I don’t know if I should say so.”
“Could he be trying to get you to break the engagement, by pushing things until you have to tell him you won’t marry him?” What in the world was Randolph up to? After what he had said to Ted the night Cedric gave Laura the flute, you would have thought turning around and courting Ruth the last thing he was likely to do.
“I hope so. I can’t get married; I have to go to college. I haven’t even gone to high school yet.”
“You could ask him to wait,” said Ted, knowing she could not marry Randolph and that Randolph would not marry her in any case, but drawn into argument in spite of himself.
“For ten years?”
“It wouldn’t have to be ten years for him. You could use Shan’s Ring.”
“Let’s sit down,” said Ruth, a little wildly. “I can’t think.”
Ted found them a flat rock. Ruth pulled the remains of her crown from her head and hurled them into the grass.
“Now,” she said, “it’s still ten years for me. What if I meet somebody who can quote Shakespeare?”
“Randolph can quote Shakespeare.”
“He thinks he’s just talking. Come to that, I guess he is just talking. It’s not the same thing.”
“Well,” said Ted, “if you don’t want to marry him, just say so. It would have to be a relief to him, Ruthie. He can’t marry you.” He remembered Randolph’s contempt for the king who could suggest such a thing, and went on hastily. “He’s a murderer and he thinks he won’t live long enough to marry you. I’m sure he’d feel better if you broke the engagement so you won’t have the dishonor of being betrothed to a regicide.”
“But he doesn’t know I know he’s a regicide,” said Ruth, “and I don’t want him to know I know; I mean, it doesn’t matter if I know, but he wouldn’t want Lady Ruth to know. And it will hurt his feelings if I break the engagement: especially,” she added, glaring at Ted, “now that I don’t have the excuse of wanting to marry you.”
