Book of Enchantments

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Arven looked over his shoulder. The night seemed less dense now; he could just make out the prince's silhouette, charcoal gray against midnight blackness. He stood squarely in the center of an arched opening through which Arven had passed without noticing. Though the prince's voice was more tired than ever, Arven could see no trace of weariness in his stance.

  "What else must we face?" Arven asked, leaning against the crumbling wall.

  "Only finding the count's daughter and waking her," the prince said. "Whatever is left in the keep is not dangerous, though it may be unpleasant."

  "Then there's no point in lingering," Arven said.

  "Light the lantern, and we'll start looking for the girl."

  There was a long pause. "I didn't bring the lantern."

  "Young idiot," Arven said without heat. He should have thought to mention it; he was old enough to know better than to rely on an untutored and romantically inclined youth to think of practical matters. He smiled. He was old enough to know better than to try and penetrate the briars around the keep, too, but here he was. "I suppose we could just wait for dawn."

  "No!" The prince took a quick step, as if he would shove Arven on by main force. "I can't—I mean, I don't—"

  Knowing that the prince could not see him, Arven let his smile grow broader. "Well enough," he said, trying to keep the smile from showing in his voice. "I can understand why you'd be eager to have this finished. But while we look for your girl, keep an eye out for a torch or a lamp or something. I've no mind to come this far just to break a leg on the stairs for lack of light."

  "As you wish," the prince said. "Are you rested?"

  Arven laughed. "As much as I'm likely to be." He pushed himself away from the wall and started off. He kept one hand on the stone as he walked, feeling the texture change as he passed under the supporting arches. Despite his care, he stumbled and nearly fell a moment later. When he felt for the obstruction that had tripped him, he found a well-rotted stump of wood leaning against a heavy iron bar—all that was left of the first door. With a shrug, he rose and entered the outer bailey.

  As he did, something brushed his face. He jerked and swiped at it one-handed and found himself holding a handful of leaves.

  "Ivy," said the prince from behind him, and Arven jumped again. "It's not the climbing sort; it grows in cracks between the stones above and hangs down."

  "I know the plant," Arven said shortly. He threw the leaves away and looked up. A few yards ahead, the curved sides of the inner gatehouse rose dizzily above him and flattened briefly into the inner wall before bulging out into the round corner towers. This close, the gatehouse blotted out the shapes of the mountains. Its dark surface was broken only by the darker slots of the arrow loops and a few irregular clumps of ivy, swaying gently.

  Arven blinked and realized that the darkness was fading. He could see the stars behind the towers, and there was a faint, pale haze in the sky that hinted at the coming of dawn in an hour or two. Somewhere a bird chirped sleepily.

  "We must hurry," the prince said. "Come." He started for the twin towers of the inner gatehouse, and Arven followed. His part in this adventure might be over, but he had earned the right to see the end of it.

  "There is work for your ax here," the prince called from the tunnel that led between the towers to the inner part of the keep.

  Arven snorted at himself and quickened his step. When he reached the prince's side, the difficulty was clear. The first portcullis was down, but closer examination showed that the iron bands had rusted and sprung apart and the wooden grate was all askew and rotten besides. A few careful ax strokes cleared the way with ease. The second portcullis, at the far end of the tunnel-like entrance, had fallen and jammed partway. Arven ducked under the spikes and stepped out into the inner bailey.

  Another bird chirped from somewhere on the wall above his head, and another. Arven had never understood why birds insisted on chattering at each other from the moment the night sky began to lighten. Surely dawn was early enough! He turned to point out the perversity of birds to the prince and did not see him.

  "Your Highness?"

  "Here." The prince waved from the door of the gatehouse. "There are candles."

  "Good." The door was half ajar. Arven shoved it wide and peered in, then recoiled. Two skeletons lay sprawled across the table in the center of the room, white bones protruding from rotting shreds of livery.

  Arven looked reproachfully at the prince. "You might have warned me."

  "I didn't think." The prince sounded as much worried as apologetic. "They are only dead, after all."

  "Next time, get the candles yourself, then," Arven snapped. He went in and retrieved two fat, stubby candles and a rusty iron holder, fixed one of the candles in place, and lit it with some difficulty.

  The prince was waiting for him in the bailey. "The count's daughter will be somewhere in the great hall, I think," he said, pointing. "I... expect there will be more such as those."

  "Dead men, you mean."

  The prince nodded. "The spell—the curse— should have protected the whole of the keep, but it has gone on too long. I doubt there is anyone living, except the girl."

  "Let's find her, then, and leave this place to the ghosts."

  The prince winced, then nodded again. "As you say. Lead on."

  "I?"

  "You have the light."

  Arven shot a glare at the prince, though he knew the effect would be lost in the darkness. There was nothing he could say to such a reasonable request, however, so he did as the prince had suggested.

  The door to the great hall was made of solid oak planks, a little weathered but still more than serviceable. It took most of Arven's remaining strength to wrestle it open. He threw another glare in the prince's direction; the man couldn't be any more tired than Arven, no matter how wearing magic was. The prince did not seem to notice.

  Inside, the main room was eerily still. On the far side, the window glass had shattered, letting in starlight and the small noises of wind and birds. Closer by, long tables filled the center of the room and the candlelight struck glints from gold and silver plate. Around the tables, and sometimes over them, lay a collection of black, shapeless figures. A faint, sweetish odor of decay hung in the air, and Arven grimaced. He skirted the edge of the room, avoiding the tables and taking care to shield the candle so that he would not see the details of the anonymous forms.

  "There will be stairs in the corner," the prince said.

  Arven found them: a narrow stone spiral built into the wall of the keep itself. He started up, his shoulders brushing the wall on one side and the central pillar on the other. The steps were as steep as the rocks of the upper mountain, and the climb was awkward. More than once, Arven wished he could lean forward a few inches more and climb on all fours, as if he were going up a ladder or scaling a cliff. He wondered whether castle folk ever became accustomed to the tight, circular ascent. Did they think no more of it than Arven did of shinning up a tree to cut away an inconvenient branch that might affect its fall? The prince, at least, did not seem bothered.

  Around and around they went, passing one door after another, until Arven lost track of how far they had come. At each door, Arven stopped to ask, "This one?" Each time, the prince shook his head and they went on. Finally, they reached the top of the stairs. This time, Arven pushed the door open without asking; there was, after all, no other place to go.

  ■ He found himself in a narrow hall. "The far end," the prince said, and Arven went on. He found a door and pushed it open, and stopped, staring.

  The chamber was small and cluttered. Broken boards leaned against one wall, some carved, others plain. A stool with a broken leg was propped on a circular washtub; next to it was a chair with only one arm. A stack of table trestles filled one corner, and a pile of rolled-up rugs and tapestries took up another. Old rope hung in dusty loops from a peg beside the window, and the window ledge was full of dented pewter and cracked pottery.

  The cen
ter of the room had been cleared in haste by someone unconcerned with niceties of order. In the middle of the open space stood a broken spinning wheel. One leg was missing and two of the spokes were broken; the treadle dangled on a bent wire and the driving cord was gone. Only the spindle shone bright and sharp and new. Beside the spinning wheel, a girl lay in a crumpled heap, one hand stretched out as if to catch herself and a tumbled mass of black hair hiding her face.

  Arven set the candle holder on top of the stack of table trestles and bent over the girl. Gently, he slid an arm under her. His work-roughened fingers caught on the heavy, old-fashioned brocade of her dress as he lifted her and turned her shoulders so that he could see her face.

  She was beautiful. He had expected that; noblemen's daughters were nearly always beautiful, protected as they were from the ravages of sun and illness and general hardship. But he had not expected to find such determination in the pointed pixie chin, or such character in the fine bones of her face. Arven tore his eyes away and turned to the prince.

  The prince stood in the doorway, watching the girl with such love and longing that Arven almost averted his eyes to keep from intruding on what should be private. "Well?" Arven said gruffly.

  "Kiss her," said the prince, and looked away.

  Arven stared, astonished. "Do it yourself. That's why you came, surely."

  "I can't." The prince's voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  "Can't? What do you—" Arven broke off as the prince raised his hand and stretched it toward the candle. Suddenly the pieces came together and Arven knew, even before he saw the candle gleaming through the translucent flesh, even before he watched the prince's hand grasp the holder and pass through it without touching. No wonder he would not carry the lantern, Arven thought, no wonder he could only work the spell at night, and marveled that he could be so calm.

  "Please, it's almost dawn," the prince said. He gestured toward the window. The sky beyond was visibly paler. "Kiss her and break the curse, so that I can see the end of this before I must go." His eyes were on the girl's face again, and this time Arven did look away.

  "Please," the prince repeated after a moment.

  Arven nodded without looking up. Awkwardly, he bent and kissed the girl full on the lips.

  For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then there was a grinding sound from somewhere below, and a loud crash, and the girl heaved a sigh. Her eyelids flickered, then opened. As she looked at Arven, an expression of puzzlement crossed her face. She sat up, and glanced around, and saw the prince. Their eyes locked, and she stiffened, and Arven knew that, somehow, she understood.

  "Thank you," the girl said.

  "Thank him," said the prince. "He broke the curse. I did nothing."

  Arven made a gesture of protest that neither of them saw.

  "You came back," the girl told the prince with calm certainty. "That is a great deal more than nothing.''

  The prince went still. "How did you know?"

  "I know." She rose and brushed her skirts, then gave the prince a deep and graceful curtsy. The prince stretched out a protesting hand, and the girl smiled like sun on morning dew. "And I thank you for it."

  "You should blame me. If I had done it right the first time, there would have been no need for these makeshifts."

  "True." The girl's smile vanished and she looked at him gravely. "I think perhaps you owe me something after all, for that."

  The prince gave her a bitter smile. "What is it you want of me, lady?"

  "Wait for me."

  The prince stared, uncomprehending, but Arven understood at once. It was what he had asked of Una, at the last. Wait for me, if you can.

  "It won't be long," the girl continued. "I can feel it."

  "You have a lifetime ahead of you!" the prince said.

  "A lifetime can be two days long; it needs only a birth at the beginning and a death at the end." The girl smiled again, without bitterness. "By any usual reckoning, I have had more than my share of lifetimes."

  "The spell. . ."

  "Was unraveling. If you had not come, I should have slept another hundred years, or two, dying slowly with no company but dreams. I have learned a great deal from my dreams, but I prefer waking, if only for a week or a month."

  "I see." The prince reached out as if to stroke her hair, but stopped his hand just short of its unattainable goal. Arven could see the curve of the girl's shoulder clearly through the prince's palm. He glanced at the window. The sky was lightening rapidly.

  "Then, will you wait?" the girl asked again.

  "I will try," said the prince. He was almost completely transparent by this time, and his voice was as faint as the distant breeze that rustled the trees outside the keep.

  "Try hard," the girl said seriously.

  Arven had to squint to see the prince nod, and then the sky was bright with dawn and the prince had vanished. The girl turned away, but not before Arven caught the glitter of tears in her eyes. He rose and picked up the candle, unsure of how to proceed.

  "I have not thanked you, woodcutter," the girl said at last, turning. "Forgive me, and do believe I am grateful."

  "It's no matter," Arven said. "I understand."

  She smiled at him. "Then let us go down. It has been a long time since I have seen the dawn from the castle wall."

  * * *

  Cruel Sisters

  The harper would have you believe that it was all for the love of sweet William that my sisters came to hate, each other so, but that is not true. They were bitter rivals from the time we were very small. His song misleads about other things, too; it does not mention me, for instance. "Two sisters in a bower," it says, not three, though the harp spoke of me and the harper himself stood beside my chair that day when he and his harp turned our clean grief to bitter poison. As for what the song says of William—well, the harper did not write that part himself, so he is not wholly to blame. I could forgive him for that, but not for what he said of my sisters.

  Anne was the eldest of us three. Everyone who saw her said she was born to be a queen, with her long black hair and dark, flashing eyes, and her intelligence and force of will. When first they met her, people came away thinking that she was tall; it was always a shock to them to see her again in company and find that she was barely average woman-size. Eleanor was the tall one; after she passed Anne in height, she made me mark the lintel of our chamber every week for two years, until she finally tired of taunting Anne. In other ways, too, Eleanor was Anne's opposite: her hair was golden, and her eyes a clear, cornflower blue. If Anne was born to be a queen, Eleanor was meant to be a rich duke's pampered wife, carefree and merry.

  And I? I am Margaret, plain Meg, in all things the middle daughter. My hair is thick, but it is an ordinary brown. My face is pleasant enough, I think, but that is a far cry from my sisters' beauty. My father calls me the quiet one, when he thinks of me; my mother says I am too much on the sidelines, watching and thinking and saying little. By the common wisdom, it should have been I who was jealous of my sisters, but I loved them both, and even when we were children it hurt me to watch the spiteful tricks they played on each other.

  They loved me, too, in their own ways. Sometimes, rarely, one would even give up tormenting the other if I asked it, but such occasions grew less frequent as we grew older. The last time I tried to intervene was when Anne was fourteen and Eleanor twelve.

  Eleanor had spilled ink on her best dress and laid the blame on Anne. Anne said nothing when our tutor punished her for it, but her lips were stiff and white about the edges. I did not know, then, that Eleanor had lied about the ink, but I knew that something was very wrong.

  That afternoon, I missed them both, a circumstance so unusual that I went looking for them at once. I found them outside the curtain wall, in the far garden beside the river, where the briars are left to ramble as they will. Anne had Eleanor's favorite gown—not her best one, which had the ink spilled on it, but the blue silk the color of her eyes, with the white roses em
broidered about the neck—and was waving it beside the thorns while Eleanor wept and snatched at it, trying to keep it from harm. Neither of them saw me as I came near.

  "You lied to Master Crombie," Anne said, waving the dress. "Admit it."

  "You know whether I did or not," Eleanor said. "Give me my gown!"

  "Lies are beneath the dignity of our house," Anne said coldly. "One who bears our name ought not to lie."

  "Eleanor!" I said, and they both turned to look at me. "Is it true?"

  "Is what true?" she said, but her eyes slid away from mine, and I knew that Anne was right, that Eleanor had indeed made up the tale she told our tutor.

  "She told Master Crombie that I had ruined her gown," Anne said in a grim tone. "It was not true when she said it, but I will make it true now." And she made to throw the fragile blue silk among the thorns.

  "No!" I said, and she paused and looked at me.

  "You take her side?"

  I shook my head. "No. What she did was wrong. But what you would do will not make it right."

  "I will tell Master Crombie the truth," Eleanor said suddenly, her eyes fixed on Anne's hands.

  Anne turned, looked startled, and her grip loosened. Eleanor darted forward and seized the gown, then whirled away, laughing. "Silly, foolish, to be so tricked!"

  Anne's lips went white, and she lunged forward. I was just too late to stop her. With all her might, she shoved Eleanor into the briars. Eleanor screamed in fright and pain as the thorns scratched her and tore her skirts.

  "Now the things you told Master Crombie are true, after all," Anne said to her. "I have made them so."

  "Anne!" I said. "How could you? Eleanor, be still! You will only hurt yourself if you thrash about."

  "Let her hurt as much as I did when Master Crombie whipped me for her lies," Anne said.

  "She might have been hurt far worse," I said as I went to help Eleanor out of the briars. "Men have been blinded in those thorns." I kept my voice as calm as I could, though I was deeply shocked by both their actions. I think they saw it, but neither would apologize, or admit to being in the wrong, and from that day, whatever power I might once have had to stop them hurting one another, I had no longer.