The Key & the Flame

by Claire M. Caterer

  “What Almaric is trying to say,” Jade cut in, “is that Your Ladyship is likely to dissolve the bones of your kinsman as well as his bonds.”

  Holly’s head swam all over again. “What? His bones?”

  “Now, Jade!” Almaric waved away the concern. “Yes, Lady Holly, it certainly could happen. Bones, you see, are locks as well, and if your spell were to go just the least bit awry—”

  “And it likely would,” said the cat.

  Her stomach lurched. She might end up killing Ben. “Be—be honest, Almaric. Would it? Would the spell go awry? I’ve been practicing so hard.”

  The old man shrugged, his eyes flitting nervously back and forth between Holly and the cat. “Well . . . to be honest . . . yes, my lady, it is quite likely. But not to worry! Surely there will be no chains involved. Let us take some tea, and then you might practice more.”

  Holly tried to follow Almaric’s advice and convince herself that she wouldn’t have to bother with dissolving any manacles, but the thought kept creeping back into her head, chilling her skin in the hot sun. She was nervous and irritable. She missed Ranulf, who had disappeared as soon as they arrived, saying he would not return until after teatime. It was nearly dark before she heard his familiar hoofbeats outside the cottage window. She ran outside.

  “Ranulf, where’ve you . . . ?” she started to say, then halted.

  Standing in the twilit clearing with Ranulf was Bittenbender of the Dvergar, shouldering his ax. He gripped it when he heard Holly approach, then relaxed. “Lady Adept,” he said quietly, and nodded to her.

  “Bittenbender, right?” Holly didn’t know whether to shake his hand, so she only nodded as he had.

  The small man sat down on a tree stump and motioned to the grass as if inviting Holly to join him. Ranulf’s chest rumbled, as horses’ do, and Holly guessed the Dvergar wasn’t showing her the respect Ranulf thought she deserved. But she sat down anyway.

  “Is it true ye’ve met the Wandwright?” said Bittenbender. His voice was tight, as if struggling to keep patience.

  “Yes,” said Holly. She sat up straight and looked down at the man’s squinty eyes. He wasn’t going to scare her. “I forged a new wand—I mean, she helped me to.” Holly pulled the wand from its scabbard. Bittenbender recoiled a fraction.

  “So ye have.” He held out a grubby hand. “May I?”

  Holly started to hand it to him, but something in Ranulf’s stance made her reconsider. “Sorry, but it’s mine. I had to work pretty hard to forge it. It’s very powerful.”

  The Dvergar grunted. “Ye’ve learnt well, my lady. There’s a new sort of look about ye. Ranulf came to us today, singing yer praises, callin’ fer an army of Exiles—those what lacked faith in ye not three days gone.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and turned over his boot, scraping mud from the heel. “I was amongst them.”

  “I know,” Holly said. “And what do you think now?”

  Bittenbender shrugged. “I think it still be a fool’s errand. But we’ll join with ye.”

  Holly remembered the host of creatures she had met—the stags, centaurs, and others who had doubted her. “And Fleetwing? Will he come too?”

  Bittenbender shrugged. “A leogryff does as he likes. And what he likes is to be paid in kind.”

  “I don’t understand. What changed your mind?” she asked.

  The little man grinned. “I an’t changed a thing, lass,” he said. “We’ll join ye, I say—but we wants something in return, do we. Fleetwing, too.”

  Holly shivered, as if a breeze had blown between them. She had seen Raethius in her vision at the Wandwright’s cottage. “You want me to Banish the Sorcerer.”

  “Ranulf, but she’s quick, this one!” crowed Bittenbender to the centaur. Ranulf swished his tail but said nothing. “Aye, lass. We want the Banishment.”

  “I already told you. I’m not ready to do that yet. Maybe someday, but—”

  “Aye. Someday. That’s all we’s asking.”

  Holly’s heart lifted. “You . . . You just want a promise? A promise that I’ll come back and help?”

  “The word of an Adept’s meant to be binding,” said the Dvergar, “but I’ll be needing a bit more than that.”

  He rifled in his tunic—which Holly saw had a dozen different pockets—and drew out a small silver dagger. It was thin and triangular, like an arrow, and along one edge ran a hundred jagged teeth, while the other edge was beveled smooth and sharp. Bittenbender turned it over by its gilded handle and Holly saw a rune etched in the steel.

  “What is that?” she asked. Áedán nestled close to her, but she felt no warmer.

  “One of the tools that we forge, we the Earthfolk,” said Bittenbender in a whisper. “With this we take a blood oath, one which ye can’t easily break.”

  “You mean, I’d swear it?” Holly glanced at Ranulf. Did he think this was a good idea? The centaur returned her gaze, then finally nodded.

  “Ef ye can return, ye must. That’s what the oath says.” Bittenbender pulled a small scroll of parchment from another pocket. Holly tried to read it, but the language wasn’t English, and the wand wasn’t helping her translate it.

  “I have read it, Lady Holly,” Ranulf spoke up. “The Dvergar speaks truth. You may trust him.”

  But she didn’t—not really. She might believe what the oath said, but the Dvergar’s shifty eyes didn’t encourage good faith. “I want to come back anyway,” she said defensively.

  “Then signing this oath should be easy, lass.” Then, with an uncomfortable glance at Ranulf, he added, “Yer Ladyship.”

  “What do I do?” Holly asked, trying to still the trembling in her fingers. She’d have to be brave for this; she was asking the Exiles to risk their lives—again.

  “Hold yer right hand still, and I’ll make a wee cut. Yer blood on this parchment will be yer oath from this day forward.” The little man brandished the dagger. “Are ye ready, Lady Holly?”

  “Yes,” she said, before she had more time to think about it. “Just do it.” She looked up at Ranulf and kept her gaze fixed on his wide brown eyes while the sharp point slashed across her palm. She couldn’t help emitting a gasp, but she didn’t scream. She was proud of that.

  “That should do it,” said Bittenbender, rolling up the scroll and standing, all business now. “Until the morrow, Yer Ladyship.” He tipped his ax like a hat and swaggered into the wood, whistling tunelessly.

  Holly stood up. Ranulf’s tail swished as he gazed after the Dvergar. “I hope I did the right thing,” she said. She pressed the tail of her tunic into her palm, trying to stanch the blood from the shallow cut the dagger had made.

  “An oath goes both ways, Lady Holly,” said the centaur. “You have earned the protection of the Exiles. That is no small gain.”

  She gazed up at the stars. Everything was different here—even the moon, swimming large and yellow near the horizon. She couldn’t quite see the features of the man in its face.

  Ranulf laid his heavy hand on her shoulder. “They are as old as time itself,” he said, following her gaze.

  Holly wanted to say that didn’t make any sense, since some of the stars were much older than others, but she only nodded.

  “There, in the south.” The centaur’s long arm pointed halfway up the bowl of the sky. “Do you see, Lady Holly? The transit of the Lion’s Tail.”

  Even among the blaze of constellations, Holly picked out a large ball of a star, bigger than Jupiter, with a sparkling tail behind it. A comet?

  “It comes but rarely across our skies. It foretold your arrival.”

  “I don’t see how. It could mean something else—anything else. Me coming here, it was just an accident.”

  “The Mounted do not believe in accidents,” said the centaur.

  Holly sighed. “Everything that’s happened seems like a big accident to me.”

  “How so, Lady Holly?”

  She thought a minute. “It’s hard to explain, Ranulf. My world’s so different from
here. Nothing really special ever happens to me. I’m kind of a failure, really. I mean, Ben’s the one who’s so good in school and does what all the teachers like. He’s in advanced math and he’s into robotics and programming, and he’s got cool ideas on how to design new computer games. I’ve got a compass and some climbing gear. And I’m good at reading, I guess. I know that forging the wand was something really special. But I can’t help feeling like I’ve fooled you all into thinking I’m somebody I’m not.”

  The centaur was quiet, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof. “I cannot speak to your position in your own world, my lady,” he said at last. “I can only tell you of your place in this one. You have a purpose here.”

  “And what purpose is that?”

  “You were given an Adept’s wand in your world, where there be no Adepts. That wand was lost, and you, the last of that mighty race, forged a new one at the Wandwright’s hand. You come from a distant realm, and yet you forge and train like our Adepts of old. Do you not see purpose in that?”

  Holly shrugged off a chill. “I don’t know. Yes, of course. I mean, it seems like . . . ” Like I belong here. But that was ridiculous.

  “I believe that one day you will rid us of the evil that has befallen us.”

  She glanced up at him. “The Sorcerer?”

  “Raethius of the Source. You must know him, name him, in order to Banish him. This much I know of Adept magic.”

  “But Jade said there’s no way I could learn that spell. And anyway, there’s no time. I have to find the boys and get us all home safe.”

  “The hour is not yet at hand. But it will come. You will return one day to Anglielle.” Ranulf gazed back up at the stars. “Of this I am certain.”

  Chapter 37

  * * *

  The Return of the King

  While Holly was busy forging a wand and signing blood oaths, Everett had spent two days training for his jousting tournament. Once he had acquired the red scarf—what Sol had called his “lady’s favor”—everything had changed, both for him and for Ben.

  His initial bumbling with the wand had been forgotten. He was a knight now, and everyone in the castle turned out to watch him practice. Even Lord Clement, the king’s adviser who had nearly severed Holly’s hand in the forest their very first day, arrived on the pitch.

  “Your station is much improved, lad,” he noted dryly. He was watching Everett throw firebombs at shields positioned around the pitch as targets. He rubbed his stubbled beard and regarded Everett with dark eyes.

  Everett shrugged. “It’s Avery’s doing, not mine,” he said. Clement’s pockmarked face hardened. “I—I mean, His Highness. He’s the one who said I should use the wand.”

  “Wands are tools of Adepts and traitors,” Clement said.

  Prince Avery, who had been fencing with Loverian, tossed his shield in Ben’s general direction, ignoring him as he cried, “Hey! Watch it!” He walked up to where Everett was practicing. “Sir Everett is no Adept, my lord Clement,” he said easily. “We have dubbed him ‘the Mage.’ ”

  “And the difference, Your Highness?”

  Avery shrugged. “He is not of our land and poses no threat to the kingdom. He is not the magicfolk we hear tell of in stories. He has only a happy talent for illusion, as have our court magicians.”

  “It’s all just trickery, my lord,” Everett put in. “You know, like a show.”

  Ben came up to Everett and handed him a cup of water. “I’ve seen it before where we come from,” he said. “Nothing magic about it, really.”

  Clement scowled. “Look upon yon castle, Your Highness. What see you? A fortress built on trickery? Nay, we are men, not mages, not Adepts. It be by our own strength that His Majesty’s castle stands. And what of our good knights? There be not a mage nor merman amongst them. If this lad uses trickery, how may he compete in fairness against them?”

  Avery smiled. “None shall assume Sir Everett to compete for a true prize,” he said. “This display is but for our royal amusement.”

  Lord Clement humphed and strode away, still frowning.

  “You know, he has a point,” Ben said. “Isn’t everybody else going to think the same thing? Won’t they hate Everett because they’ll think he’s a whatchamacallit, Adept?”

  “Squire, thy speech is likened to the wind,” said Avery dismissively, turning to Everett. “What thinkst thou, Sir Everett?”

  “Ben could be right, Ave—I mean, Your Highness.”

  “Hmmm. The opinion of a knight is to be considered.” Avery threw an arm around Everett’s shoulders. “Let us think on it, thou and I, over luncheon.”

  Together they walked to the wide poplar tree at the edge of the lists. Behind him, Ben called, “Oh, sure! When it’s a knight’s opinion, you have to think on it!” Everett heard Dart say something about the horses, and Ben replied, “Okay, I’m coming.”

  Everett felt a stirring of guilt walking away from Ben, but he knew that the closer he got to the prince, the better off they all would be. He could hardly refuse. And he could always apologize to Ben later.

  After lunch, though, Ben refused to speak to him. His face was blotchy and swollen, and Everett asked if he’d taken his medicine. “He has, my lord,” Dart volunteered, when Ben stalked off to the other end of the tilt. “But I did come upon him weeping not an hour gone.”

  “Here, take Buttercup a moment, can you?” Everett slid off the horse and handed the reins to Dart. He picked up the well bucket and followed Ben.

  “Looks like you could use a wash,” he said when he came within earshot. “I brought some water.”

  Ben turned away and walked around the pitch, setting up the shields in the dirt for more practice. “I guess luncheon was good,” he said finally, not looking up. “You took long enough. I’ve been in with the horses all afternoon.”

  “We were just talking,” said Everett. “You got Avery worried. You were spot on about the magic. But Avery’s got a good idea. He’s going to post notices all over the village about a mage and a show, so it all looks staged—like we’re making sport of Adepts, not trying to be one—”

  “That’s great. Glad I could help you and Avery.” Ben sounded anything but glad.

  “It’s helping you and me, Ben. It’s not like I’m enjoying this.” And he wasn’t. Not much, anyway.

  “Oh, come on!” Ben threw down one of the shields and turned on him. “You’re throwing around lightning bolts and jousting and feasting and calling him Avery. What am I doing? Brushing horses! And it smells in that stable. And I’m allergic, in case you forgot! Now, all of a sudden, you’re best friends with the guy who was ready to chop our heads off two days ago.”

  “Look here, I’ve got to play along, haven’t I? How else are we going to get out of this, by making him the enemy?” Everett lowered his voice. “I’ll try to get you out of the stables, all right? But we’ve got to trust each other.”

  Ben sighed, and kicked one of the shields for good measure. “It’s just . . . I’m tired. I want a real bed and my computer and normal food. I even want to see Holly, even though she’s bossy and annoying.” His voice thickened and he swiped a hand across his nose.

  “I know. Me too. Let’s just get through it, yeah? We’ve got a tournament to win. And I need your help, Ben.” Everett patted him on the shoulder and led him back to the other end of the tilt.

  He felt another twinge of guilt, remembering his promise to Sol. She wanted him to deliver Holly to her, but for what? Surely the fairy wouldn’t hurt Holly; she’d done nothing but great things for Everett.

  The night before, he had lain awake on his straw pallet, thinking while Ben snored next to him. He couldn’t very well just give Ben’s sister over to Sol, no matter what the reason. But he was clever enough to engage Sol’s interest, wasn’t he? Clever enough, he thought, to outwit her. He would use the lady’s favor, all right. He only needed to get through the tournament. Then he and the others could escape, and Sol could have her token back; he wouldn’t n
eed it anymore. He pulled it out of his sleeve now and wrapped it around his free hand. In truth, it was all the help he needed. He didn’t need Ben at all.

  —

  It wasn’t hard for Everett to keep his promise to Ben. Everett had gained the trust of nearly everyone in the castle, and the squires and pages all argued over who would bring him his horse and hand him his lance. Ben had little to do but stand around and look impressed with Everett’s skill. The prince’s attitude didn’t change much, but at least he allowed Ben to eat meals with them.

  Relieved of squiring duties, Ben appointed himself chief medic of tournament practice. Knights were constantly being thrown from horses or lanced in the gut, and Ben found that crumbling a Tylenol in a stein of ale cured most ills. The other squires respected him, and he even looked a bit stronger. The fresh air and exercise were doing him good, and he blushed and smiled when the knights praised his efforts.

  Everett continued to work all the next day, though now he seemed to need no more training. With his lady’s favor wrapped around his hand, Everett threw sparks and fireballs at will, and Buttercup obeyed every command like a prize stallion. Every man in the castle challenged him in turn, some eager to see his displays, others sure they could best him. Everett conjured phantoms with long faces that spooked horses and knights alike. Once, a flaming yellow bird flew from the wand and set fire to one of the pennants flying over the grandstand. As the pages scurried to pull down the flag, Everett peered through the smoke and saw a tall, slender lady with fiery red hair sitting alone at the top of the berfrois, watching him, her porcelain face as still as a doll’s. He blinked as the sun caught the circlet on her head.

  The queen?

  For a moment Everett was distracted as the pages shoved him aside, stamping out the flames before they spread on the grass. When he looked back up at the berfrois, the queen was gone.

  The training recommenced. Servants neglected their duties to sit and watch. Even the knights Pagett and Gervase forgot their own practice and cheered for Tullian as he galloped through Everett’s purple fog, eyes shut, thrusting with his lance. But one flick of Everett’s wrist sent the lance flying over the knight’s head, landing upright in the soft turf beyond.