Book of Enchantments

by Patricia C. Wrede

  It is too late to change what happened between my sisters, but I still hear more than others seem to, and I have begun to speak of what I hear. It is hard to break the habit of so many years, but I think that I am getting better at it. At least, my efforts now have met with more success than did my attempts to soothe my sisters. Lord Owen and Lord Douglas set their argument aside after I spoke with them last month. My father says I stopped a potential feud, and speaks of having me attend the next working court, to advise him about the petitioners. So much attention makes me uncomfortable, but I suppose I shall become accustomed in time. It is the price I must pay for saying what I know. And if I have learned anything from this, I have learned that it is not enough to see. One must speak out as well.

  Even today, I do not know what happened that day beside the river. But I am the only one with doubts, it seems. The dramatic accusation persuaded nearly everyone, and those who were not satisfied by the harp's song were convinced when Anne smashed the harp to bits. She did it to silence her accuser, they say. But I remember her words to the minstrel: "Then that much of what she sang is true, now." And I remember her voice when she was fourteen, saying of Eleanor, "It was not true when she said it, but I will make it true now."

  I tried to tell my father all my doubts before he sent Anne away, as I tried to tell the minstrel that night in the great hall. Father would not listen then; like everyone else, he believed the harp. The minstrel's hearing was better, I think. For though the song he wrote afterward tells only the story that everyone believes, and nothing of the doubts I shared with him, he has at least made no more magic harps from the desecrated bodies of the dead.

  * * *

  Utensile Strength

  Queen Cimorene of the Enchanted Forest stepped back and cocked her head to one side, setting her black braids swinging. "A little to the left, dear," she said.

  Obligingly, her husband moved the large, gold-framed painting.

  "A little more. Yes, that's perfect. Now, if you'll just hold it a minute longer—"

  Behind her, there was a discreet cough. "Your Majesty.''

  The King and Queen turned their heads simultaneously to find a plump, gray-haired elf in green velvet and lace ruffles standing in the doorway. "Yes?" they both said at the same time.

  The elf bowed immediately. "Ah, Your Majesties, I should say."

  "Yes, Willin, what is it?" said the King. "And can't it wait another ten minutes?"

  "I'm sure I didn't mean to disturb Your Majesties," Willin said.

  "Put the picture down, Mendanbar," Cimorene said with a sigh. "There's no point in arguing with Willin. Or hurrying him. He's as stubborn as I am."

  "Nobody's as stubborn as you are, dear heart, and I'm not putting this down just when we've finally gotten it in the right place. Daystar! Here, Daystar, we want you."

  With a soft popping noise and a brief eddy of air, Prince Daystar appeared in the center of the room. He had Cimorene's black hair and Mendanbar's long, lanky build, and though he was still shorter than his parents, he had the slightly awkward look of someone who hadn't finished growing. "Yes, Father? What is it?"

  "Just stick this picture to the wall, will you? My hands are full, or I'd do it myself."

  The Prince nodded and gestured with one hand. A moment later, Mendanbar let go of the painting and flexed his fingers with a relieved sigh. The painting stayed where it was, just as if it had been hung on a nail.

  "Thank you," Mendanbar said to Daystar. "Now, Willin, what was it you wanted?"

  "There is a ... a young man at the door, Your Majesty, insisting on seeing you," the elf said in evident disapproval.

  "At the door?" Cimorene said. "Willin, I'm ashamed of you. It's pouring rain outside. Go and let him in immediately."

  "I was using the phrase as a figure of speech," Willin said stiffly. "The young man is currently standing in the hallway, dripping on the handmade silk rug that the Emperor of the Indies presented to His Majesty's grandmother. He is insisting on speaking with His Majesty."

  "It's a very ugly rug," Mendanbar said. "That's why we put it in the entry hall."

  "Did he say what he wanted?" Daystar asked.

  "Something about a frying pan," the elf said in a gloomy tone.

  "He's probably come to apply for a job in the kitchen," Cimorene said. "We still need a third assistant cook and two scullery maids, and I told the head cook I want to interview them myself. I refuse to let him hire a princess in disguise who's hoping to sneak into the next ball wearing a dress as shining as the stars so that Daystar will fall in love with her. Princesses are very persuasive, but most of them aren't much use in the kitchen."

  Daystar blinked. "But Mother, we hardly ever have balls. And I really don't think I'd fall in love with someone just because she was wearing a fancy dress."

  "Try and convince a princess of that."

  "You'd better bring the gentleman in," Mendanbar said to Willin.

  The elf hesitated. "Now, Your Majesty? Here?"

  "Yes, of course," Mendanbar said, puzzled.

  "It's all right, Willin," Cimorene said. "He'll put on his crown before you get back."

  "Very well, Your Majesties. Your Highness." Willin bowed to everyone in turn and left.

  Mendanbar looked after him with a thoughtful expression. "Poor Willin. I don't think he's ever going to get used to me."

  "He likes formality, and you have to admit that you're dressed a little more casually than is common among royalty." Cimorene nodded at his stained brown smock.

  "I'm not going to dress in velvet robes with ermine trim when I'm spending the day hanging pictures and cleaning out the attic in the South Tower, no matter how much Willin would like it," Mendanbar said firmly.

  "I think the real problem is that he doesn't think a king should be hanging pictures and cleaning out attics," Daystar said.

  "He's wrong," Cimorene said flatly. "But you did say you'd put your crown on to receive visitors, dear."

  "No, you said that." Nonetheless, Mendanbar made a quick, complex gesture like pulling on invisible cords. An instant later, two crowns appeared in the air in front of him. He caught them and handed one to his wife. "Fair is fair. If I have to wear one, you have to wear one, too."

  Cimorene smiled and took it. They settled the crowns on their heads just as Willin came through the doorway once more. With him was a solidly built young man with sandy brown hair, carrying a large cast-iron frying pan.

  "Your Majesties, Your Highness, Tamriff of High Holes wishes an audience."

  "Thank you, Willin," said the King. "What did you want to see us about, Tamriff?"

  "This," Tamriff replied, carefully raising the frying pan. When he held it up, they could all see that he wore a large brown oven mitt on the hand holding the pan.

  "That is not a suitable subject for discussion with the King of the Enchanted Forest," Willin said huffily.

  "Yes, it is," Daystar said. "It's a magic frying pan."

  Tamriff looked at him with respect. "How did you know that?"

  "It's sort of a knack."

  "What does it do?" Cimorene said. "Make gourmet meals, or just instant eggs-and-bacon for however many people you need to feed?"

  Tamriff sighed. "No. That's the problem. It's a weapon."

  "A weapon? It's a frying pan."

  "My father is an enchanter," Tamriff explained. "A couple of years ago, he decided that he was going to create the ultimate weapon, something powerful and wondrous that heroes would fight over for centuries. The Sword of Doom, he wanted to call it. Only Mother came in with the frying pan at just the wrong minute, and then he tripped over the pig—"

  "The pig?" Mendanbar said. "Where does a pig come into it?"

  "It's the family pet. Father says only witches have cats, and he's allergic to dogs. He says that since pigs are intelligent and unusual, they make good pets for enchanters."

  "So your father tripped over his pet pig..." Cimorene said.

  "And the spell went wrong and f
ixed itself to the frying pan. Both of my parents were furious. Father says that the sort of spell he was using can only ever be cast once by any enchanter, so he's lost his chance at creating the ultimate weapon. And Mother says it was her best frying pan and now she's going to have to start all over breaking in a new one, because you can't cook chicken in the Frying Pan of Doom. It just wouldn't be right."

  "I see." Mendanbar blinked. "The Frying Pan of Doom. How . . . unusual. Why did you bring it to us?"

  "We didn't know what else to do with it," Tamriff said. "It's very dangerous—Father says the spell worked perfectly, except for enchanting the wrong object—but he's not quite sure how it's dangerous. And we didn't really want to experiment."

  "Couldn't you go ahead and give it to a hero?" Daystar asked.

  "Rather tried. No one would have it. Heroes want a weapon that sounds heroic and magical—the Thunder Mace or the Sword of Stars—not the Frying Pan of Doom. And on top of that. . . Well, here, try to touch it. But be careful."

  Gingerly, Daystar reached out and touched the side of the pan. "Ow! It's hot!"

  Tamriff nodded. "Nobody can pick it up unless they're wearing an oven mitt. And no hero wants to go into battle wearing an oven mitt and swinging a frying pan—or at least, none of the fifty-seven heroes Father has checked with so far."

  "What do you expect us to do with it?" Mendanbar asked.

  "Don't you have somewhere you keep dangerous magical weapons?" Tamriff said. "You could put it there."

  Mendanbar shook his head. "Things like the Sword . . . er, the Frying Pan of Doom aren't meant to lie about in an armory. It would be asking for trouble."

  "Could you and Telemain disenchant the pan?" Cimorene asked.

  "That's an idea." Mendanbar studied the frying pan for a moment. "Set it down, Tamriff, and back up a bit. You, too, Daystar." He made some pulling and twisting gestures, and the Frying Pan of Doom began to glow a dull red. Mendanbar frowned and gestured again. The red glow got brighter, and the pan began to make spitting noises, like something being dropped into overheated oil. With a sigh, Mendanbar waved and the glow died. "No, that won't work. I could get the spell off, I think, but I'd use up half of the magic in the Enchanted Forest doing it. We'll have to think of something else."

  There was a moment of silence while everyone thought.

  "Are you quite sure that nobody can pick up that pan without an oven mitt?" Cimorene asked Tamriff at last. "Or is it just that nobody who's tried so far can pick it up?"

  "I don't know. Why? Is it important?"

  "It might be. Sometimes magic weapons can only be wielded by the proper person, and if so—''

  "Then we just have to find the proper person to wield this one," Mendanbar finished. "I think you're right, Cimorene. But how do we do that?"

  "The traditional method is to hold a tournament, at which every knight and hero and prince will attempt to use the weapon," Willin said, his tone a curious mixture of interest, disapproval, and dismay. "In this instance, however—"

  "Willin, you're a genius," Mendanbar said. "We'll hold a contest. We'll tell people the prize is a powerful magic weapon, but we won't mention what. And we'll get everyone to touch the frying pan, and when the right person does, we'll give it to him."

  "How are you going to get all those heroes and knights and princes to touch the frying pan, without telling them what you're doing?" Daystar asked doubtfully.

  "We'll make it a contest to prove how well rounded they are," Cimorene said. "They can start with the usual fighting and swordplay and so on, and then we'll have them sing or compose poetry or something, and we'll finish up with a bake-off."

  "A bake-off?" Tamriff said blankly.

  "A cooking contest. It shouldn't be too hard to arrange for the contestants to touch the frying pan during a cooking contest."

  "Heroes and knights won't come to a contest that involves cooking!" Tamriff objected.

  "Yes, they will," Mendanbar said. "Willin will arrange it. You have no notion what amazing things Willin can do with large formal occasions. How long will it take to get ready, Willin?"

  The little elf puffed out his chest and considered for a moment. "I believe that we can have the invitations out by tomorrow evening, but we ought to allow at least a month before the actual event, to provide everyone with adequate travel time. We can be ready sooner, if you wish, but not as many will attend if we do."

  "A month, by all means," the King said. "The more people we have, the better the chance of the right person being there. We'll put the frying pan in the armory in the meantime. As long as it's temporary, I don't think it will be a problem."

  "We'll have to hire more kitchen staff," Willin said. He pulled a scroll of paper and a pencil from somewhere in his jacket and began writing. "And at least three more footmen. And we'll need additional prizes for the people who actually win the contests. And—"

  "Yes, of course, but first take Tamriff and the pan down to the armory," Cimorene said. "And then see that he gets a decent room. You will be staying until the frying pan has been finally disposed of, won't you?"

  Tamriff nodded. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  As Willin and Tamriff started for the door, Daystar frowned at the frying pan. "I'd still like to know what it does," he said.

  "One thing at a time, Daystar," Cimorene told him.

  True to Mendanbar's prediction, an enormous number of heroes and knights signed up for the tournament, despite the unusual requirements. An even bigger crowd arrived to watch the event, and it took a steady stream of footmen and scullery maids to keep the tables by the castle moat supplied with cider and beef patties and ale and fresh gingerbread.

  "There is a good deal of speculation as to the nature of the prize," Willin reported as the contestants finished their second round.

  "Let them speculate," Cimorene said. "It doesn't hurt anything."

  "What if somebody guesses?" Tamriff said in a low, worried tone.

  "They won't," Cimorene assured him. "But speaking of the prize, where's the Frying Pan of Doom? It's supposed to be on the big table with the rest of the cooking supplies, but I didn't see it when I went by a minute ago."

  Willin turned white. "It's still in the armory. Oh, Your Majesty, I don't know how it happened."

  "You forgot," Daystar said. "Never mind. I'll get it." He started for the castle at a dead run.

  "Don't forget the oven mitt," Cimorene called after him.

  "Why doesn't he just do that popping-out-of-the-air thing?'' Tamriff asked. Having been around the palace for a month, he'd had ample opportunity to see Daystar's usual method of getting places in a hurry.

  "There are spells to prevent people from using magic too close to the armory," Mendanbar said. "A wizard stole something from me once, and it caused a lot of trouble. Since that business finally got straightened out, I've been more careful." He scowled, as if he was remembering something unpleasant. Then Cimorene touched his arm and he looked at her and smiled.

  "The knights are coming," Cimorene said, nodding toward the field. "You'll have to make a speech before they start the bake-off, or Daystar won't be back with the pan in time."

  Mendanbar grimaced, nodded, and walked to the front of the tables. The knights and heroes lined up in front of him. Several of them had black eyes from the round of fighting, and one had his left arm in a sling. As Mendanbar began to speak, Cimorene frowned slightly and said in a low voice, "Maybe we should have held the bake-off first. They'd have been in better shape."

  "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but it wouldn't have worked," Willin said. "Fighting always comes first at a tourney, and they wouldn't have put up with changing the order of events and holding a cooking contest."

  "I suppose you're right," Cimorene said. "Oh, good, here comes Daystar."

  "Where do you want it?" Daystar said.

  "On the main table," Cimorene told him. "I'll show you."

  Halfway to the table, they were intercepted by a blond scullery maid in a crisp
white apron. "Excuse me, sir," she said to Willin, "but the cook is running out of onions, and he wants to know—"

  There was a loud explosion, and an enormous puff of black smoke appeared in the open space behind the tables. Everyone stopped talking and stared, including the knights and heroes. Slowly the smoke cleared, leaving a spreading smell like sour milk and revealing a very tall, thin man wearing a doublet of aquamarine silk, white hose, and a great many diamonds. In a voice that carried to the farthest edges of the crowd, he called, "Annalisa! I know you're here, so you might as well come out. It's time you came home."

  "Drat," said the blond scullery maid under her breath, and ducked behind Cimorene. Cimorene looked slightly startled; then she smiled and jerked her head at Daystar. Daystar moved over to stand beside her, effectively screening the scullery maid from sight.

  "Annalisa!" the thin man called again.

  Mendanbar pushed his crown back on his head and stepped up to the newcomer. "I expect you'll get around to explanations and introductions eventually," he said pointedly.

  The thin man tried to look down his nose at Mendanbar, but Mendanbar was too tall for it to work at all well. "I am Rothben the Great, King of the Gracious Islands, and a mighty enchanter."

  "He is not!" cried a voice from the crowd of knights, and a handsome, dark-haired man in brightly polished armor pushed his way to the front. "Well, maybe the enchanter part. But Annalisa is the rightful Queen of the Gracious Islands, and I will defend her with my honor and my life. Whether she's here or not."

  "Drat and bother," said the scullery maid from behind Cimorene and Daystar. "What's Harold doing here?"

  "He probably came for the tourney," Cimorene murmured. "Most of them did. You're a princess, I take it?"

  "More or less," the scullery maid said.

  "I knew I should have interviewed all of the new staff myself."

  The thin man smiled nastily at Harold the knight. "Ah, Sir Harold. You know, I think you'd be much less nuisance as a pollywog." He pointed, and a long stream of green fire shot from the tip of his finger toward Harold.