“Maybe you should ask Sigrid. She’s wise; she might give you an answer. And you haven’t talked with her in a very long time.”
Molly blinked. “How could you possibly know about Sigrid? I’ve only told Alaric about her, and I doubt you learned it from him.”
“You know about Sigrid.”
“Well, of course I do. You’re not making sense.”
“Yes, I am. You just have to think about it.”
“Look, if you’re trying to help me, then please stop talking in riddles, because—”
But the cat was already leaving. He’d jumped off the railing onto the grass. Now he sauntered away in the disdainful manner of cats the world over.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
Then more loudly, “Thank you so very much!”
Molly’s attendant, Esther, who slept on a bench outside the chamber, had apparently heard Molly scolding the cat. Now she opened the door a crack and whispered, “My lady, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It was just a dream. I think I’ll get up and walk around a bit, clear it out of my head.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you, Esther. Go back to sleep.”
Molly made her way to the far end of the villa, where the bathing room was. She went inside and shut the door gently so as not to wake the others.
The room was steamy and smelled of sulfur from the hot springs that fed the pool. Moving carefully in the darkness, she removed her sleeping tunic, unbraided her hair, and slipped into the water. She gasped with pleasure as the warmth embraced her, and she stood there for a long time, her arms outstretched, floating. Then she bent her knees and squatted down till she was entirely underwater. Her hair fanned out around her face like a mermaid’s. She felt her body go slack, the tension melting away. She went up for air, then dropped down again, into this other world where she was weightless and everything was warm.
After a long while Molly climbed out and lay on the deck, wrapped in a linen towel. The clay tiles beneath her were heated by the pipes that carried the water to the pool. The still, humid air caressed her. The world outside still lingered in the hush of early morning.
She could focus now. And as the cat had pointed out, it had been far too long since she’d spoken with Sigrid.
Sigrid was one of the twelve counselors of Harrowsgode (there were thirteen, if you counted the Chief Counselor, Soren Visenson, whose title was Great Seer). And since the council members were chosen from the wisest Magi with the greatest Gifts, there could be no doubt that Sigrid was an exceptional person. Yet Molly had found her repellant at first. And she was not alone in this.
For Sigrid’s great, pale slab of a face, verging on ugly to begin with, seemed incapable of smiling or indeed wearing any expression but boredom and disdain. And when she spoke, her words were as cutting as her voice was cold. But it was the fierce directness of her gaze that made people shudder and turn away. It gave the unsettling impression that she knew exactly what they were thinking.
This, of course, was only an illusion—except in one particular case. She actually could read Molly’s thoughts. Worse still, Molly could read hers. She knew, for example, that Sigrid thought she had the brains of a goat.
The discovery of this strange connection had surprised and unsettled them both, and each had scrambled to build mental walls to keep out the other. Only later did they realize that their Gifts had been linked for a purpose, because they were meant to help each other.
This had happened on the day Molly left Harrowsgode. She and her companions had made it up the switchback trail and were about to enter the narrow canyon that cut through the mountains. Suddenly they’d noticed that the lofty clouds of late afternoon had unaccountably turned dark. And then they’d heard the growl of thunder.
Molly had understood at once that this was not the work of nature. The weather in Harrowsgode had long been controlled by magic, and it never rained during the harvest. No, these storm clouds had been summoned by the Great Seer to keep Molly from leaving. For once it started raining, the canyon would become a raging river, and everyone in it would drown.
Molly and her companions had decided to chance it anyway, and Soren had hit them with everything he had.
Sigrid had saved them that day, not by challenging Soren—her Gift was not equal to his—but by scolding Molly for losing heart.
If you are the great Magus I think you are, came Sigrid’s voice in her head, then you can find your powers even now. . . . But, Molly dear, you will at least have to try!
The situation had been completely hopeless. Giving up was the only sensible thing to do. But because Sigrid had challenged her, Molly decided to fight. She’d harnessed her Gift in a way she hadn’t done before—and the result had been past all imagining. Not only had she saved herself and her companions, she’d freed Harrowsgode from the grip of Soren’s heavy hand.
Because you defeated him by feat of combat, Sigrid had explained, he has lost his position as Great Seer. And because he used his sacred powers with the intention of taking lives, he will be banished from the Magi altogether.
That had been quite amazing, and there was more to come. For by challenging Soren and overpowering him, Molly had become Great Seer in his place.
So she never truly left her ancestral home. Through Sigrid she could still be a part of it, no matter where she went. She could act as the council’s eyes and ears, teaching them about the world beyond their walls. And together with the others, she could help her people return to the ways of old King Magnus: upholding the sanctity of life, foreswearing war and weapons, and always, always embracing the love of learning.
Since then Molly and Sigrid had wandered in and out of each other’s minds with the trust and ease of two old friends who’ve shared a house for years. And now as Molly lay in the warm darkness, she followed the cat’s advice.
Sigrid? She didn’t speak the name, just formed it silently in her mind.
Sigrid?
Sigrid!
I’m here, Molly. I was asleep.
Sorry. I’ve been up for a while, and I forgot it wasn’t morning yet.
That’s all right. It’s a good time, really—no distractions. I’ve been listening these past weeks, and I know what’s going on. But now I really think we need to talk.
That’s what the cat said.
The one with the probing questions and the interesting facts about chess?
Yes. I asked him what the devil he was, and he seemed to think you’d know.
Well, I’m flattered by his confidence, but all I can do is guess. There’s frequent mention in the literature of sorcery and magic of so-called “familiars”: spirit guides that take animal form.
Well, if that’s what he is, then he’s not very good at it—guiding, I mean.
I’m not sure that’s fair. He’s clearly linked to you, as I am. He knows what you know but also things you don’t, and he tells you about them. The chess talk, I’ll admit, is a puzzle. But he got you to rethink Gonzalo’s invitation, which led you to be wary of Reynard. He’s attached himself to the princess, which probably means that you can trust her. And he suggested that you reach out to me—which was certainly wise.
I’m sorry it’s been so long, Sigrid. First I was sick. Then I got here and things—
I know how things are.
Then you’ll understand that until this is over, I won’t be much use to Harrowsgode.
On the contrary. Great matters are being decided in Cortova right now. The outcome could very well shift the balance of power all over the continent, and that affects us. Through you, it’s as though little Harrowsgode actually has a seat at the table.
I don’t have a seat at the table, Sigrid. I’m not involved in the negotiations.
Really? I thought I heard Alaric asking your advice. I believe I heard you giving it.
Well, yes. As to whether my advice was wise or not . . .
You seemed quite certain.
It’s on
e of my failings. I’m so very sure of something—and the next thing you know, I’m having doubts. He’s giving the cup to the princess this afternoon.
It’s all arranged, then—the private meeting?
Yes. Gonzalo was predictably eager to receive his gifts.
And you feel absolutely wretched about it.
Of course I do. If Reynard wins the princess—
Yes, yes, I know. But it was Alaric’s decision to make, not yours. It’s his heart and his kingdom that are at stake, and he’s perfectly aware of the risks. You just need to concentrate on keeping him safe.
I would if I knew how. But my Gift has gone all peculiar, just when I need it most. In the past it gave me warnings and showed me the things I needed to know. Now it gives me nothing—just this terrible foreboding of tragedy and a cat who talks about chess. Besides urging Alaric to be careful, which I’ve done a thousand times—not that he listens to me—what more can I do?
Sigrid?
Sigrid?
I was thinking, dear.
Oh.
It’s often a useful thing to do. Now listen, Molly. Your Gift is changing. Whenever that happens, it’s generally for a reason. Let’s try to figure out what that reason is. I would like to start by asking you some questions.
All right.
You told me about that night in Westria when you and Tobias saved Alaric’s life. What did you see in the visions that led up to it?
Well, first there were people plotting to murder the royal family, though I didn’t know who they were till later. Then on the night of the banquet I saw the wolves coming into the hall.
Did you see King Edmund die? In your vision?
Oh, yes. It was horrible.
Anything to do with Alaric?
No.
So everything you saw turned out to be true. There was a plot. The wolves came. And they killed King Edmund.
What are you saying?
Molly, I believe that in this life—even for you, great as you are—there are matters of fate that are written in the stars. They cannot be changed. Edmund’s death was one of them.
Then why did my spirit bother sending me all those warnings?
Obviously, that’s the question, dear. Why don’t we think it through?
You were warned that King Edmund would die, but his fate was already sealed, so you never had the power to save him. But Alaric’s fate was not yet written. And because you knew about the plot and the curses, because you’d seen how Edmund would die, you acted differently that night than you might otherwise have done. When the wolves arrived, you understood they weren’t real but rather a manifestation of a curse sent to destroy the royal family. And therefore you knew that when they’d finished their grizzly business in the hall, they’d go looking for Alaric next. That’s why you and Tobias ran back up those stairs, and that’s why you were able to save him.
That makes sense, but it doesn’t answer the question. If it worked so well before, why is it changing now? Why does my spirit give me nothing but dread? It’s like I’m grieving, but I don’t know who I’m grieving for. It’s just wearing me down and it isn’t useful at all.
I suspect your spirit is protecting you in some way. Since it’s never let you down before, perhaps you’ll just have to trust that it will tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.
I wish it’d just get it over with and tell me now.
And I wish you had a little more patience.
It’s hard.
Yes. And I’m afraid it’s going to get harder. You’d better be ready.
What do you mean? Sigrid, sometimes you’re as mysterious as that bloody cat.
Molly, remember the day you left Harrowsgode? You were in the canyon in a flood. A surge of water had washed you out of your saddle; and you were holding on with one hand as you were carried down that rushing river, being slammed against the canyon walls by the sheer force of it, the dark waters tugging at your skirts, trying to pull you down.
Of course I remember.
You were already half drowned, and the roar of the flood was in your ears, and there was no way you could possibly survive. Yet you didn’t give up; you fought back. You closed your mind to everything that was going on around you and reached down and took control of your powers. And you did it with such fierce determination that you turned nature on its head. You caused the water to rise up and return to the clouds—every drop, so that even your clothes were dry. And then you cleared the sky.
Why are you telling me what I already know?
Just a reminder, dear, of what you can do.
Because?
You might need to do something like that again, perhaps very soon.
18
The Loving Cup
ALARIC SAT ALONE IN his chamber. His audience with the royal family had been set for that afternoon, and he felt that what he was about to do deserved a few more minutes of quiet reflection.
He got up, opened the large wooden chest in the corner, and took out a handsome ebony box. He set this on his writing table, then went back to the chest for another, larger package: a round leather case lined with plum-colored velvet that pulled together at the top like a drawstring bag.
Alaric sat down again, the leather case in his lap; but he didn’t open it right away. He just waited for a while, as though gathering his courage. Finally, he released the bow and pulled the velvet bag open to reveal an exquisite antique silver bowl.
Many years before, it had been a gift from the king of Austlind to the king of Westria on the occasion of the longed-for birth of a son and heir. The bowl was famous, one of Westria’s great treasures, and had been proudly displayed at court on countless high occasions over the course of three generations.
Now, once again, it would serve as a gift from one royal house to another. And Gonzalo, being a man of refined tastes, would appreciate it for what it was: a masterpiece, an heirloom, and a priceless work of art. He would also know that it had originally been given by Reynard’s parents in honor of Alaric’s father. And now Alaric had quite publicly given it away.
Reynard was sure to be offended by this. And since Gonzalo was already stirring up antipathy between the two cousins, the bowl would be just one more weapon to use in his nasty little campaign. He’d bring it out before every dinner, forcing Reynard to wash his hands over it. And if somehow Reynard failed to recognize the thing, Gonzalo would call it to his attention. “See here, Reynard,” he’d say, “look at this a handsome piece of silver young Alaric gave to me. Now, isn’t it a wonder?”
None of this had been planned, of course. Alaric couldn’t have known that Reynard would be there. He’d decided to give the bowl to Gonzalo because it was lavish and sure to please, it would save him the expense of buying something new, and most of all because he wanted the hateful thing out of his sight. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. For this bowl, the great silver handbasin of Westria, had caused the death Alaric’s entire family.
His grandfather, old King Mortimer, had been the first to die; he’d been snake-bit in wintertime, when serpents lie dormant in burrows and caves and never bite anyone. Much later, Alaric’s father, King Godfrey the Lame, had been gored by a monstrous creature, a thing of such hideous deformity as was never seen before by human eyes. Then Prince Matthias, Alaric’s oldest brother and the heir to the throne, had been strangled by a vine while hunting; it had appeared out of nowhere, dropping down like a hangman’s noose as he rode by. And finally, on that terrible night just eighteen months past, a pack of demon wolves had entered the great hall of Dethemere Castle to finish off the rest: Alaric’s mother; his sister, Elinor; and his brother, King Edmund the Fair.
Then the wolves had gone in search of Alaric and had found him on the stairs, quite unaware of what was happening below. Had it not been for Molly and Tobias, he’d have died along with the others, and the royal line of Westria would have come to an end.
This was such a spectacular, heartbreaking tale of woe—with i
ts royal setting and many gruesome details—that people talked of it everywhere, the general opinion being that the House of Westria had been cursed by evil magic. This was true. But only a very few knew who had laid that curse and why.
Reynard, as it happened, was one of them.
He’d heard it first from Alaric and had laughed it off. Then he’d heard it from his mother, and this time he’d believed. Because she was the one who’d commissioned the great handbasin, then forced the silversmith to fill it with a hundred curses. She’d admitted this to his face.
Reynard had seen for himself what those curses could do that night in King Edmund’s hall. And he would have noted—well, everyone had once they’d left off screaming and running for their lives—how precisely they’d gone about their slaughter, harming no one but the royal family of Westria.
And therein lay another wonderful stroke of blind luck. For when Gonzalo brought out the silver bowl, it would do more than just offend Reynard. It would serve as a reminder that if he were to take Alaric’s throne—whether by murder or through force of arms—he, Reynard, would become the head of the House of Westria, and those very particular curses would then come after him—and his wife and his sons.
At least that’s what Reynard would believe, since he didn’t know that Molly (as usual, with the help of Tobias) had destroyed the last of the curses, so the bowl was completely harmless now. Alaric smiled as he pulled the drawstring closed and set the leather case aside. Now he took up the ebony box.
He removed the lid and peeled off the many layers of silk that protected the Loving Cup. He hefted the weight of it in his hands, turning it to admire its elaborate base. With its filigree and bright beading, ornaments raised and incised, and the many delicate enamels, dark against gleaming gold, it was an astonishing work of the silversmith’s art. In contrast to the base and stem, the bowl of the cup was perfect simplicity: beaten silver on the outside, plated with gold on the inside. It caught the light streaming in through the windows and glowed like the very sun.
Just holding it, Alaric could feel its latent power—pulsing, eager, impatient to work out its purpose: to unite two people in a perfect love that would last as long as they lived and would thereafter bless their children, and their children’s children, for generations to come.
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