“Give it to me.”
“What’s it for?” Hugo said, dancing away boldly now that the jig was up.
“Give it to me, and I will tell you.”
Hugo’s brows creased together sharply. He held out the bell.
“There,” Archibald looked relieved. “Now don’t go taking it again.”
“But it doesn’t make any noise! What’s it for?” Hugo asked again.
“Ah. I never said when I would tell you, did I?”
Hugo looked outraged. “But—” Archibald gave a little chuckle. “Do not ‘pop your top.’ If you must know, it is a summoning bell.”
“A summoning bell?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s it summon?”
“The Magemother.”
Hugo looked around. “But it doesn’t ring.”
“It rings where she is. She hears it, and she comes.”
“But she didn’t come,” Hugo said, eyeing him suspiciously, sure that Archibald was tricking him.
“Indeed,” Archibald said darkly. “She did not.”
Hugo wasn’t sure why, but Archibald seemed to be in a bad mood after that. They poured water from the lake on the small remnants of their fire and packed their bedrolls. Quietly, they shared a loaf of pan bread and honey. It wasn’t a particularly good breakfast—certainly not what they were used to receiving in the castle, but to Hugo, who had only ever read about such things, it felt incredibly daring to start the day out with a simple lump of bread and then jump in the saddle.
When they had finished, Archibald pushed his hat a little more firmly onto his head and climbed onto Pilfer. The dapple grey pony moved into a canter and Hugo followed. The jet black horse that Hugo rode was so tall that he towered over Archibald on his pony. He had been bred for the king but was born with markings like ivory socks on each leg, so he was given to the prince instead. Hugo named him Stilts for his height and white legs.
Archibald looked up at him and frowned. “I am not sure it is entirely healthy for you to be looking down on me all day long.”
Hugo smiled wryly. “Well, I’m not riding your pony.”
“Too right, you are not,” Archibald said protectively, patting Pilfer on the side. “He is too much for you to handle.”
Hugo rolled his eyes.
***
They traveled at a steady pace, camping by the river as they went so the horses could drink and graze. Each morning Archibald continued Hugo’s lessons. They spoke of history, politics, philosophy, and for the most part it was quite boring.
After three days of this, they found themselves traveling through the forest in the early afternoon. Archibald was telling Hugo a story about a long dead king, and for once he was trying to pay attention.
“Why was he going to be beheaded again?” he asked, rummaging in his bag for an apple.
“He was not, Hugo. Pay attention. His brother was going to be executed because the wizard Tif told the high court that he was responsible for the murder of a visiting lord. The king discovered that she was lying and raced from his chambers to the courtyard to stop the execution, but he arrived moments too late, and his brother died. That was the last time that wizards were allowed to give testimony in the king’s court until the Magemother took up a teaching post at the Magisterium and began to mend ties between the courts and the wizards.”
“Well,” Hugo said, taking a bite and talking through a mouthful of apple, “I woodn’t hab lep my buther die.”
“Oh?” Archibald said with a grimace. “And how would you have stopped it? Figure things out more quickly?”
“No,” Hugo said, making a slow gesture with the half-eaten apple as if the answer was obvious. “I would’ve gotten to him sooner. People say I waste time exploring the castle, but I bet I could have made it to the courtyard in half the time h—AAH!”
Pilfer, who had been eying Hugo’s apple for some time, had snapped it out of the prince’s hand mid-gesture.
Archibald laughed as Pilfer downed the apple and dipped his head approvingly. “My apologies, Hugo, I should have warned you. He has a habit of pilfering food; you see, that is how he got his name. He means no harm by it.” Archibald patted the side of Pilfer’s neck appreciatively.
“He’s a monster,” Hugo said darkly, rubbing his bruised fingertips and glaring down at the pony.
Archibald gave him a moment to recover, then tried to divert his attention. “So how would you have made it to the courtyard on time?”
“What?” Hugo said, looking up from his fingers. “Oh, I would’ve taken the chicken stairs.”
“The chicken stairs?” Archibald said skeptically.
Hugo blushed. “Well, I don’t know what they’re actually called, I guess, but it is the fastest way.”
Archibald was thinking. “There are three hidden exits to the south,” he said, ticking them off one by one on his fingers, “the king’s closet, the maid’s mirror, and the clover shoot.”
“And the chicken stairs,” Hugo insisted. He could tell that Archibald didn’t follow, so he hastened to explain, excited to finally know something his tutor did not. “Behind that seascape across from the Magemother’s rooms—the one that comes out in the chicken coop outside the castle.”
“There’s a passage that comes out in the chicken coop?” Archibald said incredulously.
Hugo nodded. “Yeah, I use it all the time; it’s the only exit that the guards don’t bother watching at all—I guess they think the smell will do the trick all by itself.”
Archibald laughed generously, putting his hand across his chest to steady himself. “Hugo,” he said, grinning, “they do not guard it because they do not know that it is there. I did not know. And neither did your great-great-grandfather, who as it turns out, could have saved his brother’s life with a trip through the hen house. Ha!”
Hugo grinned.
“So,” Archibald said, straightening his hat. “What is the lesson in all of this?”
“Never underestimate a chicken?”
“No,” Archibald said shortly, but he was still smiling. “Skio kor toom.”
Hugo bit his lip, trying to remember what that meant. His knowledge of the old language was poorer than it should have been, mostly because studying it always put him to sleep.
“Know your own heart,” Archibald offered. “Or in this case, your own home. Either way, I think we should focus on ancient languages for the rest of the day.”
Hugo groaned. “Why?”
Archibald gave him an appraising look. “Because once again you have proven that you are incapable of translating even the simplest of phrases.”
“It’s not like I’m ever gonna need it,” Hugo complained. “No one uses it anymore.”
“Excuse me?” Archibald said. “No one uses it? I just used it now.”
Hugo rolled his eyes.
“You are using it now, as a matter of fact, for our language has grown out of those that have gone before. As such it behooves those of high station to make themselves acquainted with it.”
Hugo was berating himself silently. Why had he let Archibald go down this road? His teacher was obsessed with language, and now he was going be punished for saying it wasn’t important—probably for hours. He was still arguing vehemently about the supreme importance of it.
“As a future ruler you will be in a position to affect the culture of the kingdom at large. I will, therefore, to the best of my ability, see that you are properly educated. Speaking of which,” he said reproachfully, “It’s not like I’m ever gonna? When did you start talking like this? You have been spending too much time cavorting with the servants, and too little with your teachers and your peers.”
“I regret that you disapprove of my colloquial tone,” Hugo said dryly.
“Aha!” Archibald exclaimed. “I knew you had it in you. Why do you not use it more often? Do you resent your education? Your position? Are you hoping that someone else will be the king someday, so t
hat you won’t have to?”
“Yes,” Hugo said honestly.
Archibald stared at him. “Well,” he sighed, “I suspected as much. But we have some time. Let’s save that hurdle for another day, shall we?”
Hugo relaxed.
“Transfirendum hok kwayezo. Translate.”
Hugo moaned.
***
That night, Hugo struggled to sleep. When the fire began to die down and Archibald’s breathing became deep and even, he found himself counting the stars as they emerged, one by one, from the depth of the night. He shifted from side to side, unable to stop thinking how uncomfortable sleeping outdoors was. If only that root was gone, or that stone, or the sound of that bug, maybe then he could sleep.
After a while he realized that it was his mind that was uncomfortable. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Lux staring back at him, one blue eye, one black and empty…so empty. He shivered. Part of him never wanted to set eyes on the mage again. Another part of him wanted to speak his name right now and see if he would appear. For all his strangeness, Lux had real magic, real power—power like he had always dreamed of. He had always been drawn to magic—like a fox to a hen house, his father had said, because he had no business being there. He sighed. If only he were that interested in laws or governing or politics, maybe then his father would be happy. He had read every book he could get his hands on about magic, about mages, but there was nothing in them that said how to become one. It couldn’t be done, it seemed. Either you were magical or you weren’t.
Something tugged at his heart, a deep sadness that he hadn’t known before. He would never be what he wanted to be. He could never become the man he felt like on the inside. It wasn’t in the cards. His heart felt heavy. The weight of it nearly crushed him. This was so stupid! Why couldn’t he be content with the life he was given like other people were. He was going to be king! Wasn’t that good enough?
He knew deep down that it wasn’t. He would never be satisfied being like everyone else. But what choice did he have?
A single tear squeezed out of his eye, and he wiped it away hastily, berating himself. He was being a baby. With an effort, he steeled his resolve, pushing away the aching in his heart. He would just have to ignore it. A prince would do nothing else. He was out in the real world now. Archibald was trusting him. He needed to start acting like a man. If that meant giving up his dream, then that’s what had to be done.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to stop thinking about it.
From above his head, a bird began to sing; it was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep, and the last thing he thought was that it was odd for a bird to sing at night. It was, wasn’t it? This must be a particular kind of bird.
It sounded sad, he thought, like his heart.
Chapter Nine
In which we meet Tabitha
The highest tower of the Magisterium at Tarwal stood at the edge of a cliff. Sea spray washed across its footings a few times a year when the water truly raged; otherwise, it stood well out of reach, gathering creatures from the wind. Birds flitted about the head of the tower, darting in and out; birds flitted around the head of the girl standing at the top of the tower. She stood on a little balcony that jutted out into the open air, high above the frothing mass of blue.
Tabitha paid no heed to the ocean or the city or the Magisterium. Her toes dangled off the edge of the balcony as she leaned against an iron balustrade, eyes shut in concentration.
She was trying to find the wind.
Tabitha kept the birds; she looked after them and they looked after her. She spread their feed, filled their fountains, and listened to what news they gathered on their far-flung flights. In turn they kept her company, never once thinking as others did that she was anything but ordinary.
Sometimes, when the morning was unusually quiet, she could hear a bit of news on the wind; a birdsong or a feather carried on the air was enough. But there was no wind today, just as there had been no wind in the days before. She leaned back into the tower peacefully, dancing lightly away to greet her visitor.
Denmyn was the only person that ever came to visit, the only other person, as far as she knew, that had ever bothered to make the long climb to the top of the tower more than once. A gray head rose above the top step, several hairs out of place. She was wheezing heavily, out of breath after the climb. “Tabitha,” she said with a breathless smile, her wrinkled cheeks pink from exertion, “how are you always standing here waiting for me when I arrive?” She collapsed into the tower’s solitary chair, which Tabitha had carried up for this very purpose.
“I hear you coming,” she said simply.
“Oh—ohh,” Denmyn stifled her wheezing self-consciously. She got to her feet, walked across to the ladder that led up to the nests. She began to climb, sighing, “Someday, Tabitha, I will count all those steps.”
“Thirteen hundred seventy-one,” Tabitha whispered, a little more loudly than she intended. She had counted them one day, long ago.
“You counted them?” Denmyn gave another sigh as she reached the floor above. “Of course you did.”
“Only once.”
“Of course, dear. And what news do the birds bring today?”
Tabitha ran through the day’s news mentally, looking for something that might interest Denmyn. A gull caught under the slapping tail of a passing whale, a forest fire in the high mountains, a herd of heartbeasts rumored to have been put on the run by a bird. She smiled at the last one, trying to imagine a bird with such pluck. “No news,” she said. None that the wizards would be interested in, anyway. “Except the magpies.”
“The magpies, dear?”
“Yes, I told you yesterday. More and more have been disappearing.” She had told Denmyn every day since it began that the magpies were disappearing. The magpies themselves claimed that they were being hunted, but why, they would not say.
“Oh well, that’s as it is, often enough,” Denmyn said dismissively, climbing back down. She called up as she fell out of sight, “I’ll see you tonight.”
Tabitha didn’t respond. She forgot to sometimes, but this time it was for a different reason; something had caught her attention from the window. There was something there, something on the wind. No, not the wind—there was no wind. On the bare air there floated…something. Something birdlike.
She flew to the wide window, hair scattering over the edge as she came to an abrupt stop, eyes closed, listening. It was a dove—a mourning dove.
A burst of excitement raced through her. They were rare, and to hear one singing was even rarer. She became somber as she listened to the song. It told the tale of a future lost, a spirit broken.
She stepped away from the window, thinking. This was a strange thing indeed. Often in bird lore they sang over weeping kings and maidens in the depths of travail. She had never heard one in real life. She wondered who it sang for. It must be a special person to attract the attention of a mourning dove.
For a moment she indulged in the thought. She could find out. Leave her tower. But for what? To satisfy her curiosity? She had responsibilities here, and the world outside her tower was so big.
It must be a very important person for a mourning dove to sing, she thought again.
She crossed the room and poured bird seed into a long feeder, but she did the task without paying attention; her mind was already far away.
***
Over the next couple days, Hugo tried to be a model student. Archibald seemed more alarmed than relieved. Hugo could guess why. Though his behavior had been admirable, his mood was poor. He couldn’t help it. Ever since he made his decision he’d had a difficult time being cheerful. Life seemed heavy now.
“Is something wrong?” his teacher finally asked after a long day of riding. He was gathering wood for a fire.
Hugo shrugged.
“Ah,” Archibald said sagely. “The shrug.” He touched the side of his nose. “Sometimes a shrug means no. Sometimes it
means yes. Other times it means something in between. Which kind was that?”
Hugo shrugged again.
“I see.” Archibald nodded to himself. “Very well. Keep your dreary thoughts private. I shall still endeavor to cheer you up.”
Hugo felt his temper surge. He didn’t want to be cheered up. Why couldn’t Archibald just leave him alone? He always did this—it was one of the best and worst things about him. His teacher was always, day after day, excruciatingly cheerful. “Aren’t you ever just in a bad mood?” Hugo blurted.
“Yes,” Archibald said easily, “but lucky for you, it takes more than a melancholy adolescent to put me there.”
Hugo glowered.
“Very well,” Archibald said. “I know just the thing.” With a spark, the fire caught and Archibald leaned back. “I will give you…” he said in a dramatic voice, “three free questions.”
Hugo brightened. It had been a long time since he had a free question. It was a thing they had done when he was younger. When he got too tired of studying, Archibald would let him ask a free question. It could be about anything, and Archibald had to answer, even if he didn’t want to, even if it wasn’t appropriate or prudent. As he got older, the practice had ceased. No doubt Archibald had grown cautious about the things he might ask. After all, Archibald was one of the most educated people in the land, and there were many things he might not wish to tell a young boy.
Hugo settled down against the base of a tree opposite Archibald. What should he ask? He forced back a smile.
“Where do babies come from?”
Archibald went pale.
Hugo burst out laughing. “Ah! I got you!” He was doubled over laughing now. It felt good to laugh again. Archibald looked at him sternly. Hugo wiped a tear from his eye. “Ah…okay, I’ll admit, I feel better.”
The Mage and the Magpie Page 5
