The Fairy Godmother

by Mercedes Lackey

  She put her wand away, took the coil of knotted rope from Sergei’s saddle, and tied it to the grate that had just been pulled free. She tossed it down through the empty window-frame.

  “Climb up!” she cried, and the rope tightened at once.

  With the little horse bracing against the weight of the men clambering up the rope, the first two, least-injured, came popping out of the window. These two first pulled up anyone who was too injured to climb unaided—Julian was the first—or added their weight and strength to Sergei’s. When all of them were out, she cut Sergei free and distributed her remaining magical weapons.

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  She didn’t have to tell them what to do, for the noise of the fighting drew them as soon as they got weapons in their hands. She caught at Julian before he could lead them into the fray.

  “Your brother Alexander has rallied the army—” she began.

  Julian groaned. “Those poor old men? I—”

  “Never mind that; they’re just a distraction, but they will still fight better with their King beside them,” she interrupted. “More help is on the way, from Kohlstania and other places. If a giant appears, don’t attack him, he’s on your side, and there may be other beasts coming who will tell you they come from me. They may get here before dawn, in fact.

  Princess Kylia—”

  Now Julian looked about wildly. “Kylia? She didn’t escape? I—”

  “Majesty!” She gave him a hard shake. “Leave that to me, I’ll send her to you, I swear! But I can’t get to her if you don’t keep up the distraction of the attack, and—” She shook her head, wondering how to tell him of everything planned without confusing it more, when he suddenly calmed, and gathered himself together.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Alex is in command; he went to the Academy. Whatever he planned will be the best that can be done.”

  She slapped him on the back; he staggered a little, for she had forgotten her armor. “Can you fight?”

  “Maybe not, but I make a damned good figurehead,” he replied, with a grim smile. “Good luck, lady. Send my wife safe to me.”

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  “Good luck, Majesty.” She scrambled onto Sergei’s back, as the King led his men towards the thick of the fighting. In a moment, the darkness had swallowed them; a moment later, she and Sergei were in the air.

  She was supposed to wait until Alexander made his single-combat challenge, but she felt as if she was better off not waiting. For one thing, the longer the attack went on, the more likely it was that extra guards would be sent to watch the Princess. For another—

  For another, she wanted to get her hands on that evil magician’s heart. Alexander’s life would depend on it.

  There were no safeguards— none—on the Princess’s tower. There probably had been something winged up there to keep watch, but all the noise and the fighting must have been irresistible to them. That was one of the odd things about most magical creatures; like Nightsong, like the unicorns, the vast majority of them were not all that bright. It almost seemed as if a creature born of magic could have magical abilities and be beautiful, or strong, or intelligent—but only two of the four. Sergei and his brother were excellent examples of that. That was the reason why the wise magician did not entrust the safekeeping of anything he was concerned about to a magical creature, unless it was an extraordinary one.

  Elena and Sergei landed on the balcony without incident; had Sergei been the size of his brother Nightsong, they couldn’t have done it, but the balcony was just large enough for something pony-sized. She slid off, and pushed open the balcony door.

  Clang!

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  She staggered back, reeling, from the blow to her head.

  Which fortunately, had been mostly absorbed by her helm but still—her ears were ringing and for a moment she had seen stars! “Hey!” she shouted indignantly, fending off the angry, poker-wielding young woman who advanced on her. “What do you think you’re at, wench? Julian sent me!

  I’m here to rescue you!”

  “What?” the poker dropped from the young woman’s hands and clattered to the stone floor as she stared at Elena in shock. “You—”

  Once again, Elena felt the weight of The Tradition collapsing around her and even as she seized on the opportunity to replenish her magical stores, she was pulling off her helm.

  The Tradition had its own path for those who rescued ladies in Durance Vile. And Princess—now Queen—Kylia had spread her arms wide to embrace her “rescuer,” automatically, impelled by The Tradition. And in a moment, Kylia was going to find herself a different sort of prisoner, manipulated and pushed into falling in love—or at least, into something that felt just like love. And she might, possibly, recall that once she had felt exactly the same thing for her husband, but at that point, it would already be too late.

  “Yes,” Elena said, shaking her hair loose, firing the words out as quickly as she could to warp The Tradition back to the path she wanted. “I’m Godmother Elena. Your husband, Julian, sent me—he’s leading a frontal assault on the gate as a distraction in order to set you free to join him.”

  Kylia stopped dead in her tracks, as stunned for the moment as Elena would have been if that poker had connected with her skull instead of her helm.

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  “Oh,” she said, in a small, uncertain voice. “A woman?”

  “Julian sent me,” Elena said firmly. “I am a Fairy Godmother, come at his call for aid. He’s single-handedly leading an heroic assault on the front gate to act as a distraction so you can escape.”

  This was, of course, a lie. That didn’t matter. What mattered was to deflect The Tradition from the course it was on with certain key words. It wasn’t quite a spell, as such, but it had all the force of a spell. Kylia—and through her, The Tradition—heard “Julian—single-handedly, heroic—so you can escape.” The force impelling Kylia into falling in love with her rescuer (which had been the source of no end of tragedy in the past) was deflected by the clear impropriety of Kylia falling in love with a woman, and by the apparent sacrifice that Julian was making of himself. Given those key words, she was impelled right back into the love of her husband.

  This was the problem with Tradition-created “love.” It was manufactured. In time it would solidify into the real thing, far more often than not, but in the first year or two of marriage, the bond was fragile, easily broken, and easily reformed onto another object of affection.

  The Tradition created tragedy as well as happy endings; The Tradition did not care if a story ended happily or in sorrow, so long as the tale was powerful enough. For every Sleeping Princess, there was a Fair Rosalinda. For every Mark and Yseult, the Tradition was perfectly prepared to create a Trystan….

  Not in my Kingdoms.

  “Julian,” Kylia breathed, “he’s out there, you say?”

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  “He is, and waiting for you.” Elena took the opportunity to shove her out the door of the balcony before she had a chance to object. And before she had a chance to react to the presence of a horse on the balcony, Elena had lifted her into Sergei’s saddle. Just in case, she tied off the poor child’s belt to the saddle. Kylia grabbed the pommel reflexively.

  “Off!” she shouted, darting back inside. “Good luck!”

  Sergei shouted back, and leaped from the balcony with Kylia suddenly coming to her senses and shrieking in fear at finding herself several hundred feet above the ground and plummeting towards it like a stone.

  But that was not Elena’s problem; that was Sergei’s.

  With luck, if any of the winged things were attracted back to their guard-post by Kylia’s shrieks, Sergei would already be on the ground. By that time, Kylia would be silent (or even fainted, poor thing), and they would find the balcony door open and the balcony vacant and assume that, rather than becom
e the bride of their master, she had flung herself from the tower.

  And, being no fools, if not very bright—and, as were the minions of most evil creatures, believing firmly in the principle of looking out for themselves first—if they were not magically bound, they would swiftly bugger off before their master found out what had happened, rather than go looking for a body.

  She dashed for the door to the room; if winged guardians did come back she wanted to be sure that she herself was not here. The door to this level wasn’t locked, and she darted into the staircase, closing and locking the door behind her, creating one more reason to believe that Kylia had plunged to her death.

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  It occurred to her, as she began working her way down through the levels of the tower, that Kylia might not be quite the milk-and-honey princess that Elena had thought her. She had, after all, armed herself with that poker, yes, and she had been perfectly ready to attack anything coming in the balcony door with it! Well, good; good for her. That boded well for Julian, too….

  Get your mind back on what you’re doing, she scolded herself. The most difficult task is yet to come. And she worked her way down through the empty tower levels until, at last, she found a door that was locked.

  She paused, her ear pressed to the keyhole, listening with all of her attention. Was there a guard out there? Was there some other sort of creature? She couldn’t hear anything, nor could she sense any sort of magic. All she could hear were the distant echoes of the fighting. Either Alexander had not yet challenged the Sorcerer, or he had, but the fighting at the gate was continuing anyway.

  That might change at any moment. It was time to take yet another chance, and hope that luck was with them all.

  Elena knelt beside the door, touched her wand to it, and teased another fragment of magic into the door-lock.

  “Open locks, whoever knocks,” she whispered to it, and tapped, gently, on the wood of the door beside the lock.

  With a click, the lock tripped, and she pushed the door open—gently.

  She peered around the door, to see that she was in a hallway. There should have been lamps illuminating the whole area, but this hall showed signs of a struggle. Only about half of the lamps were lit; the rest lay on the floor, broken, and the little tables that had once held vases or statues were overturned, their burdens shattered.

  Evidently Kylia had not gone to her imprisonment qui

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  etly. Once again, Elena found the Princess rising in her estimation. So, she fought, did she? Well done to her.

  At least the hallway was clear. If I were the throne room, where would I be? she wondered. Or did she, in fact, actually want the throne room? Sergei had guessed that this was where the Sorcerer’s heart would be, but he had not actually known. So who—or what—would?

  Well, there was dark magic everywhere, the sort that only evil mages could use without being tainted, for it carried the overburden of death, or of being wrenched away from someone who was afraid and unwilling. That was the bad part; she couldn’t use it. It hung in the air in clouds, dark and glowing with a sullen red, as if the place was on fire.

  The good part was that with so much magic hanging about, a little more wouldn’t be noticed. So she eased out a tiny trace, a thread of the stuff, spun it out from her wand, and concentrated on it.

  “Clever, cunning, silent, wary;

  Come to me and do not tarry.

  Anyone who’s wise knows that

  Nothing will escape a cat’s eyes.”

  The thread of magic formed into a tiny sphere and shot off at floor-level. She closed the door most of the way, sat back on her heels, and waited.

  She did not have to wait long, fortunately for her patience. Within a few minutes, a long, slender, black shape 450

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  oozed through the crack she had left open, and stood looking expectantly up at her.

  “Godmother,” she said.

  Elena was not surprised that the cat identified her immediately. Cats, even the commonest barn and kitchen cats, had an affinity for magic.

  “Daughter of Bast,” she replied, with a little bow. Cats liked to be reminded that they had once been worshiped.

  They pretended that they didn’t, that they were above flattery, but of course, that only meant that they were all the more susceptible to it. “I am looking for something. It will be strange. It is very precious to the Bad Pack Leader of the Bad Pack that has taken over this castle, and he will have hidden it.” She used the word “pack leader,” not because cats had a hierarchy anything like a pack, but because they very well understood how dogs operated, and tended to think of humans and other two-legged creatures in those terms.

  “Strange….” the cat pondered this. “There is hard shiny no-scent stuff, but it is precious to all of them, and like the hard shiny stuff that was here already. Will it be—” and here the cat used a word that didn’t translate into human terms. This was because it was the complicated, multilayered feline term, incorporating scent, sound, sight, magic-sight, and a sense that only cats seemed to have that somehow involved magic at a level completely alien to humans. It meant “something that is physical but is also extremely magical” with a modifier specifying “bad magic.”

  “Yes, it will!” Elena whispered, grateful beyond measure that she had somehow managed to attract one of the cas

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  tle matriarchs, and not a kitchen-cat, a kitten, or a pampered lady’s cat.

  “Hmm, the size of a six-week kitten? Hard shiny stuff on the outside, but alive inside?” the cat persisted.

  Now that could only be the heart, as Sergei had described it! He’ll probably encase it in diamond or something, and put the diamond in a box and you’ll have to figure out how to get it out….

  “That’s it exactly, wisest of the wise!” she exclaimed.

  “Can you take me to it?”

  “Can you walk-through-walls?” the cat asked.

  Now, Elena had never been entirely certain what that meant. Cats used the term all the time. Sometimes, it seemed to mean only that the cat could ooze through small cracks and holes that seemed too small for it. Sometimes it seemed to mean merely that it could find a way wherever it wanted to go. But sometimes it seemed to mean just that, literally—as if there were cats who could, indeed, walk through walls.

  Mind, knowing cats, she didn’t entirely doubt it, though that didn’t help her at the moment.

  “No,” she said with regret. “I am not so clever.”

  “Clever,” in feline, meant a number of things that included being powerful, intelligent, cunning, and very, very magical.

  “Can you walk unseen?” the cat persisted. “We must pass many dogs of the Bad Pack. They are roused by the Good Pack at the gate and the two Pack Leaders fighting, but there are still some along the way who are not distracted.”

  Elena felt her throat tighten; so Alexander was in combat! She had to move, and move quickly, for he could not battle so powerful a magician for very long….

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  “I can,” she said, electing to spend a great deal of her magic to make herself invisible. She hadn’t planned on doing so—it would leave her very little to work with—

  But now it was a matter of time, and they had none to waste.

  “Do,” the cat said, and sat on her haunches, expectantly.

  Elena gathered the magic and smoothed it over herself with her wand like a second skin. Then, holding it in place, she concentrated with all of her will, and gave it the direction she wanted it to take—

  “Fool all eyes that look on me; fool each mind that wants to see. Make me clear as purest air; I’m the one who isn’t there.”

  She had never done this before, although she had read about it, and it was most unnerving to watch herself, for she just—faded away, growing more and more transpar
ent, until there was nothing where she was, at all. She’d taken pains to form the spell so that it not only worked on the eyes but on the mind—so that even if one of the Sorcerer’s creatures could ordinarily see things that were invisible, such as spirits, it still would not see her unless it worked a counterspell, because its mind would refuse to acknowledge that she was there.

  The cat’s mouth opened in a feline grin. “Well done, Godmother. I see you not. Come.”

  That was proof enough that the spell was properly set, for cats, as everyone knew, were perfectly capable of seeing spirits. The cat oozed around the door again, and Elena pulled off her boots and followed.

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  led straight into a larger room—much, much larger—that could only have been Stancia’s Great Hall where everyone had been at dinner when the Sorcerer came. The bodies had been taken away, but the tables and benches were pretty much still where they’d been when the fight was over.

  Crockery shards and broken wooden trenchers were scattered everywhere, there were sticky pools of what might have been blood and what might have been drink, mostly dried now. There was no sign of anything edible. Some of the tables and benches were broken or hacked up, the tapestries had been torn off the walls and shredded or were lying in heaps against the walls. There was a foul stench in the air that made both Elena and the cat wrinkle their noses in distaste.

  The foul aroma probably came from the creatures still here.

  Elena could not put a name to what they were; they were outside her expertise, and now she could understand why Stancia’s men were calling them “demons.” The things that they looked most like were spiders, except that they had a hard armoring skin, and only four legs. All four had nasty cutting pincers on them, though, and they had a manlike torso with two “arms” each as well, with appendages that served as hands. They had oval, hairless heads with masklike faces and large, slanting, glittering eyes. They were all, from the top of the head to the tip of the pincers, a shiny black in color.