by J M Sanford
Amelia shrank quietly into the corner. She'd been captured, lost in the maze of Ilgrevnia's back streets, when she'd completely run out of magic to see in the dark, or fling fireballs, or even just to melt out of sight. Too late, she'd realised she ought to be more discriminating in her use of magic, saving it up for when she couldn't do without it, and she disagreed with Miss Castle, thinking it might be rather handy to be underestimated. She was only too glad the horrid guardsman hadn't searched them – not only did she have the crown hidden on her person, but also her precious spell book in a pocket of her skirt. In the midst of their audience with the dragon, she'd remembered an old story about how dragons could smell gold and jewels, and almost fainted, dreading the moment when the cursed prince might catch the scent of the hidden treasure and know that she'd lied to him. “Did you want him to take your knife?”
“Of course not!” snapped Miss Castle. She sighed and paced back and forth, then turned and fixed Amelia with a look that made her feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. “Why did you come here?”
“To… to find the White King, of course.”
Miss Castle laughed bitterly. “Well, you've seen him now. Not quite what you were hoping for, I imagine.”
“That's not the White King. That's…” Amelia dropped her voice to a whisper, “…Prince Archalthus.”
Miss Castle winced – they'd both seen what might come of careless use of that name. “Yes, he's the White King. And the Black King too, if I understand correctly. Whichever one of us wins him: the future King of the Dragon Lands. Seems he's the one who's been pitting us against one another all this time.” The words came out in a rush as Miss Castle paced, at a loss for anything truly productive to do about her situation. “I should've known something was wrong when we couldn't find him in any of the history books,” she muttered. “No one disappears so completely without somebody going to a great deal of trouble over it. Just my rotten luck that he turns out to be literally a dragon prince. Well, I'll never marry a dragon!”
“Why would he marry you?” said Amelia. “You're twelve years old at the most.”
“I just turned fourteen! And royals marry young all the time – there's nothing strange about that.” The diminutive Black Queen paced about some more, and sighed again. “My name's Elizabeth, by the way, but you can call me Bessie.”
Amelia, shivering with nerves and cold combined, stared at her and said nothing. She remembered Meg's injunction to be careful with names.
“Do you have a first name?” Bessie pressed. “Or do I have to go on calling you Miss Lamb, as if you're some schoolmistress? Like it or not, it looks as though we may be spending some time together.”
“Amelia. Did the golems get you too? They cornered me in one of those pointless little alleyways that don't go anywhere, and I ran out of magic.” Amelia had feared they would kill her, but in spite of everything it seemed the prince still wanted her alive.
Bessie was not forthcoming on the events leading to her own imprisonment – instead she occupied herself with a focused study of the lock.
“He's determined to be king, you know,” said Amelia, skirting uncomfortably around the suggestion she wanted to make: that one of them might marry the prince and through their newfound power protect the other from any consequences of losing the contest. “Do you think he'd be a bad king?”
“He's a dragon!” Bessie snapped. “He said as much himself, at the jade temple. Don't you remember? Do you want to marry a dragon?”
Amelia wondered hopefully if true love's kiss might lift the spell, as it so often did in fairy tales, but she didn't want to embarrass herself by putting this theory to the pragmatic Miss Castle. “He really is a dragon at heart?” Amelia sighed. “When I first saw him, I so wanted to believe it was the other way around.”
Bessie made a rude noise. “That stupid girl Rose has herself convinced of the same idea. I don't suppose you know about her yet. Well, we're surplus to requirement, since the prince has found some charmingly empty-headed merchant's daughter to be his queen.”
“But… but he offered to make me his queen if I told him where the crown was.” The crown that was, at present, digging into the flesh behind her knee.
“Yes,” said Bessie, “I was there. He offered me the same.”
Amelia sat and thought about this while Bessie went back to her amateurish attempt at lock-picking. Amelia had never really needed to lie to anybody before; not about anything serious. But if she confessed now that she had the crown with her, then it would only mean the resumption of the fight they'd begun in the magic shop. Miss Castle would try to take the crown by force, Amelia would have nowhere to hide, and Miss Castle would be crowned Black Queen… maybe even before sunrise.
Amelia remembered Meg's idea that they might win this contest by 'fighting like women', and throughout their journey had given some thought to how they might do that. By stealth, cleverness, and magic, Meg had said. Now Amelia saw that the enemy Black Queen – this girl Bessie – was in just the same position as she was, almost powerless, at the mercy of the cursed prince. “This is probably a silly idea,” she said, hesitantly, “but do you think there's any chance of one of us being crowned Queen without a King?”
Bessie's eyes lit up. “Wouldn't that be a fine thing! If there's a way, I'll find it.”
Amelia forced a smile. If Bessie wanted to be Queen without a King, she'd still need the crown. Amelia, having risked her life and that of her friends to reach the jade temple first and win the treasure, had no intention of meekly giving up her prize. “Your wings are very pretty,” she said, hoping to change the topic of conversation.
“It's kind of you to say so, but they're not much use any more, are they?” said Bessie, and she stretched out one arm to show the soft brown feathers now bent and broken, lying crooked against one another.
Amelia's heart ached at the sight as it would do for any broken-winged songbird, forgetting for a moment the deadly rivalry that was supposed to exist between her and Bessie. “Oh, you poor thing! Does it hurt?”
“No, I just think it’s a shame, that's all: they were so much fun. You should have seen my Paladin's face when I first tried them out!”
“Can they be fixed?” Amelia asked. “I don't see how it is they're attached.” She peered closer. The quills seemed to be poking through the seams of the girl's blazer, which looked rather tattered now. Bessie was not quite so neat and self-controlled as the image of the Black Queen that Amelia had come to fear.
“No, I think they've had it. Getting back to my skyship's going to be trickier than I thought, if I can ever get out of this dungeon...”
Amelia took a cursory look at the lock: a simple enough lever lock, so she guessed, not made to stand up to any magic. She could solve that problem easily enough, now that she’d calmed down. But… she had the crown, and doubtless the prince would want to see her again, so perhaps the best thing to do would be to wait for him. After all, she only had the Black Queen’s word for it that there was this other girl… But then again, what if Bessie was telling the truth? “So, this merchant’s daughter,” said Amelia, tentatively. “Is she here in Ilgrevnia?”
“That’s right. A prisoner, and she doesn’t even care.”
“Could you take me to her?”
“Why? I told you she’s quite happy where she is.” Then Bessie fixed Amelia with another sharp look. “Oh. You think I’m making it up, don’t you?”
“You are the Black Queen.” Then, with her heart pounding with fear that she was making another colossal mistake, Amelia spoke her lock-charming spell. The lock clicked agreeably, the heavy door swinging open with a creak like the bray of a donkey.
Bessie watched this casual display of magic with undisguised envy, and Amelia suppressed a smile of triumph at the realisation she knew something the Black Queen didn't. “Why didn't you do that before?” said Bessie.
“I didn't think there was much point. I mean, you saw what a maze this place is. Now, will you show me th
is other girl?” Amelia asked again, barring the exit.
Bessie shook her head. “Oh, fine. I’ll show you if I can, but we mustn’t be seen, and you can’t talk to her. Then we must find a way out of the City. Put your gloves back on – those rings are too valuable for you to lose if we're captured again. Between us we might pass gloves off as the latest fashion for young ladies about town.”
Amelia hesitated, still afraid that the tricky little Black Queen might be leading her straight into a trap. But it was either go with Bessie or wait for Prince Archalthus, and Amelia had to admit that in her heart she preferred Bessie to a dragon, Black Queen or not.
13: THE THRONE ROOM
Beneath the palace of Ilgrevnia there was a ballroom, never used, but looked after in readiness. No cobwebs lasted for long in the high arches of the ceiling, and the granite dancefloor shone polished black, bright specks in the stone glittering like constellations trapped beneath glass. Heavy velvet curtains framed a stage, and at the rear of the stage was an archway, walled off, and with a woman's face carved above it, long hair flowing in graceful curls and flourishes. Two gentlemen much too nicely dressed for manual labour worked tirelessly with pickaxes at the stone. They'd been at their task for hours, from morning until well into the night, and while they worked, an old man wearing a waist-length beard and the robes of an Archmage shuffled back and forth across the dancefloor, muttering to himself. Though he carried an ornately carved staff, he didn’t seem to need it to steady himself – instead he had a stick of blackboard chalk attached to one end of it and was busy marking out a complex series of circular runes on the black floor. Every now and then, he paused to check his work, or pick up the hem of his robes to keep them from erasing what he'd previously drawn. The sound of the gentlemen at work with their pickaxes echoed sharply off the high ceiling, regular as the ticking of a clock.
“Stop!” said the old man at last, now deliberately scuffing over the chalk lines with his slippers and the hem of his robes. The twin gentlemen stopped at once, looking to the Archmage for further instructions. They'd been working without rest for almost a full day, and had yet to make any appreciable progress through the wall, although periodically a servant had come to sweep away the dust they made. Archmage Morel had been set the task of breaking into the hidden throne room behind the walled-up archway by any means he could think of, but the spells protecting the throne room from unworthy intruders were more ancient even than Morel, and more powerful. Only one of the Queens could unlock the throne room, and then only with the Crown. He'd have to tell Archalthus it couldn't be done, although the spoilt brat of a prince naturally believed that whatever he wanted, he could have, one way or another…
Morel realised that the two golems were still awaiting his instructions. As they waited, they neither fidgeted nor made to resume their work nor even blinked, and though they were his own designs, Morel found it uncomfortable to suffer their patient attention for too long. He waved them off irritably. “Go back to whatever it was you were doing before I called you. I need time to think.” Archalthus continued to set his only Mage new tasks before the old ones were finished: break the curse, complete the wedding present, and always make more golems… At first Morel had relished the challenges. Fulfilling the extravagant wishes of a prince would be a matter of pride for any Archmage, and Archalthus gave him considerable creative freedom, but Archalthus also changed his mind again and again about what he wanted the most. More than that, the Archmage grew tired more easily as the years went on. Though Morel had never slept more than three or four hours a night, he still never had enough time to complete all the tasks the prince set.
He ought to have gone to his bed, but instead he returned to his workshop, which had once been the palace chapel. The airy vaults of its ceiling had a rich and pleasant resonance, perfect for casting spells by voice, and he'd lined the walls with shelves and drawers for his books and supplies. At the far end, where an altar had once stood, the windows stretched from floor to ceiling, opening onto a balcony that overlooked Ilgrevnia's Keystone Square. A hundred years ago, Morel had reoriented the whole City just so that the windows of his workshop faced south at all times, catching the best light of the day. Once it had been merely a matter of keeping the place warm and providing good light for his work, but now… the Orb of Helemneum stood before the great windows, continually drawing power into its enormous glass shell: long hours of light; the power and promise of each sunrise and sunset; the mystery of each full moon. The Archmage stood back a moment, just admiring his handiwork. Now it absorbed the pure white-blue of moonlight, captured in the deep facets of crystal. If he could keep the prince at bay until spring, it would give the Orb the chance to collect even more power. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of it, counting the recreation of the Device from Helemneum's original notes his greatest achievement of the century. They'd said it couldn't be done, they'd said he'd be mad to experiment with such unearthly magicks, but look at it now… The Orb was bound in amaranthine, partly because Morel had more of that precious metal than most Mages would know what to do with. It must have cost the prince a fortune, but whenever Morel wanted supplies or materials, he had only to ask and the prince would soon provide. Many years ago, Morel had amused himself by demanding obscure and dangerous reagents for spells, but only those genuinely extinct ingredients had proven impossible to procure, and the fun had gone out of that game after a while…
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a huge black shadow descending out of the sky towards the windows, and his heart skipped a beat as the black griffin settled on the railing of the balcony, folding its wings. Morel put his hand to his chest, measuring his heartbeats as they settled into a more sedate rhythm. That wicked creature would be the death of him. What had he been thinking when he'd picked up the rain-washed skull of a crow and decided it would make for an amusing griffin? He couldn't stop the beast from stealing, or from asking difficult questions. It would have been better to stick to duller-witted birds like eagles and owls, but in the past Archalthus had praised Morel lavishly for his less conventional creations… Shaking his head at the looming deathly harbinger on his balcony, Morel pulled paper, ink bottle and brushes from a drawer, and dashed off a handful of spellpapers – runes in thick, loose strokes on warning red paper. The black griffin watched as Morel glued the new spells across the windows to the balcony, ink and paste splashing on the hem of the Archmage's robes.
As Morel turned to his drawing board, his gaze fell upon the long 'to do' list pinned to the top of it. With the Orb complete and his own place in the history books assured, perhaps the time had come for the Archmage to rid himself of Prince Archalthus and spend more time on his own ideas. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he'd vanquished a dragon, and he understood now how it must be done. Not by using his magicks directly against the beast, but by shaping the world around it into physical weapons: summoning the power of tidal waves to quench the dragon's fire; forging swords of ice to pierce and slice… But Morel knew the danger, too. Archalthus often threatened him with the Mage Council, but worse than that, if Morel failed in battle, then the dragon prince might simply kill him and have done with it. Better for Archalthus to have no Archmage than a treacherous one. Better for Morel to serve the prince a little while longer, rather than facing the dragon's greatest wrath… If the golems could retrieve the Crown, then it would all be over soon enough, and Morel might then be freed from his long years of servitude. With the Crown in Miss Hartwood's hands, the throne room would open up to her so that she might take her place on the fabled throne of the Dragon Queen, and the Crown placed on her head in coronation would transform the human girl into a more fitting bride for the Dragon King. Morel shook his head. What a waste of such a beautiful girl – all the sadder when her natural beauty was her greatest asset, for Miss Hartwood wasn't a bright girl, and Morel doubted that transformation into a dragoness would do much for her temperament.
14: THE LABYRINTH
White Queen and Bla
ck Queen walked briskly together through damp and dingy tunnels. Though the palace above had been warm and alive with the glow of lamps and chandeliers, there was no light in the tunnels below, bar the lantern that Commander Breaker had left behind. The other cells had all appeared to be empty, their barred entrances like the gaping mouths of spiny deep sea fish, all dark beyond those long iron teeth. Leaving the cells behind, the girls had entered a maze.
“If I tell you the charm to open any lock,” said Amelia, her voice echoing down the dark and dripping tunnels, “will you teach me the spell for those wings of yours?” It seemed a fair enough trade and the friendly thing to do. As she understood it, that was how witches did things: sharing their spells with their sisters, their daughters, their friends.
But Bessie only turned to shush her, her face fierce in the flickering light of the lantern she carried. “We must be silent as cats in the night,” the little Black Queen whispered. “We don't know who or what might be about, down here in the dark.”
Amelia turned over this unpleasant thought a long time in silence. The two of them had walked a good half an hour without seeing even one other lantern lit. These tunnels must not be in regular use. Or at least, if they were habitually used, it was by something that could see in the dark…
Past another locked door, a grinding, growling noise in the distance made them both hesitate, and Amelia heard a regular thud, the footsteps of some enormous creature, out there in the dark. Fearless, Bessie crept forward, the lantern held high. She disappeared around a corner, but her quiet voice echoed back to Amelia: “Come on! It's nothing to be afraid of.”
Though Amelia didn't agree, she didn't like standing around in the dark much either, and why should she waste a light spell when Bessie had a lantern? She scurried down the corridor, round the corner, and almost fell straight down a flight of stairs. Bessie had to grab her by the sleeve to keep her from falling into the source of the great noise – an open rectangular pit filled with cogs like the inside of a giant's pocket watch. Gears the size of cartwheels turned on shafts as thick as a man's arm, ropes on pulleys quaking as they disappeared into the bottomless black depths of the pit. Rickety wooden steps led up and over the machinery, with little to protect those who wished to cross from a long fall and an awful death.
