They all stopped barking, held their heads down to her in submission, and backed away.
Dagmar stopped murmuring and they began to bark at her again.
She murmured once more and they went still.
“Magic,” she said aloud. How was it possible? She did not have the ability to speak to animals in their own language, as King George did. But she was doing something to tame these hounds, and she had done the same with the horses.
All those years she had stayed inside the castle, refusing to go out because she did not want to show the kingdom how little she was like her father, how lacking in magic—she might have discovered the truth about her magic long before now. She had seen animals inside the castle, of course, and had been in the stables now and again, or crossed paths with the castle hounds. But her father preferred to have contact with animals wild in the forest, who had not lost their own language.
What would he think of what she could do?
She was suddenly afraid of telling him. He was always sad when he saw a hound who had turned from pup to fully domesticated adult, with no language of its own. It was as if the pup had died.
And what did Dagmar do but force animals to silence their own language and listen to hers? She wondered about her parents now, though she often tried to tell herself that they did not matter, that it was her time with King George and Queen Marit that mattered most. Still, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she wondered if her nose was like her mother’s or if she had her father’s eyes, if she could draw a picture of the two of them simply by looking at herself.
There were no portraits of her parents, of course, not like the ones that hung of kings and queens of Kendel in the gallery below her bedchambers. No one who knew them had ever come to tell her anything about them. But they must have had magic like she did, or one of them had. If they had not died, perhaps they would have become rich from taming animals for others. Or perhaps they chose not to do it for money, but only out of necessity.
King George could appreciate that, surely. There were times when wild animals had to be tamed, for their own sake, as well as for the sake of the humans they might harm.
Lord Morlieb had the ability to speak to humans and to make them listen to him with the old language. Dagmar could speak to animals and calm them. Was she like Lord Morlieb, then? Making the animals do what she wanted?
Dagmar experimented on one of the hounds. She pulled it closer to her, and then she tried to change the pitch of her murmuring, so that she put a shade of emotion in it, anger. Could she manipulate the animals to act in a particular way?
It did not work the first time, nor the second, when she tried to make the animal dance, nor the third, when she tried to make it attack one of the other hounds. If she stopped speaking, the hounds attacked her and each other, which was why they were hanging with exhaustion and wet with sweat and covered in tiny bites. But if she were murmuring to them, they hung their heads and the aggression that was natural to them was gone. She could not use them for any purpose.
So, she was not like Lord Morlieb. And it did not last for any length of time. There were no lingering effects on the animals, so far as she could tell. The hounds were as wild when she left them as when she had first arrived. It would not be of much use in selling animals for profit after all. It was only for protection in a dire moment of need. Or to calm animals who were upset for no reason, after a storm or something similar. She had no idea if it would be useful at all for anything other than getting herself out of a difficult situation. Certainly, it wasn’t something a princess could be proud of.
Chapter Eighteen: True
True saw Dagmar leaving the stables and going to the kennels. He followed after her, heard the barking of hounds, but when he stepped forward to help her with them, he saw that she had done something extraordinary. She had calmed the hounds without speaking in their own language. She did not have the strength to subdue them physically, but she stared at them and they stayed away.
She had the same power that the Olde Wolf himself had, or another version of it. True had been determined to stop the Olde Wolf and he thought that Dagmar was against him. But he backed away from the kennels and realized he must have been wrong. Dagmar had to be working with the Old Wolfe all along, in order for her to have learned from him.
Who in the castle was to be trusted? No one, it seemed. True had sacrificed his true form and his own mother was trapped in the castle in Princess Dagmar’s room. True itched to go and find her, to take her out to the forest again with him. But he did not trust himself to fetch her alone.
The queen, he thought. The one who had left the castle. Wherever she had gone, True had to find her. He left the castle behind, stretching out his human legs as far as he could. He could run, after a fashion, but he was constantly tripping over his own feet because his balance was wrong. He had no tail to hold him straight and the rhythm was entirely different when he had only two sets of legs on the ground.
He made it to the village by nightfall, where the faint scent of the queen had led him. There was an outbuilding at the edge of the forest and he could see the outline of a candle shining from within. The outbuilding itself was small and unheated and it smelled of dried sage and thyme. The scents were overpowering and True sneezed.
Immediately, the light from within was extinguished.
“Hello?” said True.
“Leave me in peace,” said a female voice within. Her tone was sharp and she spoke in a lower register, almost as a man’s.
“Please. Let me in,” said True. He looked behind him, but could see no sign of other villagers watching his movements. This outbuilding had been abandoned and the roof was caved in on one end. It was not a place that humans were meant to live. It had been built for tools, and perhaps for animals. But there were no animals left in the village that he could smell.
He moved closer to the door, pressing his face against it. “I come from the palace.”
“I have no wish to speak to Lord Morlieb or any of those who follow him,” said the queen.
“I am not one of his followers. I am called True. I have news of your daughter, and of the king.”
“Who are you?” she asked, and True could hear that she came closer to the door. “Your accent is—strange.”
Again, True looked around. “The king touched me with his magic,” he said. “I was a hound. And now I am a man.”
The door opened. The woman within was dressed in a torn and dirty gown, and yet she looked royal regardless. She looked like a lead female would look, if she were human. Her head was held high, and her eyes were ever-watchful. She sniffed the air around True.
“You smell familiar,” she said.
“I came from the castle,” said True. “Perhaps that is it.”
“No. It is more than that. You—tell me about your pack in the forest.”
True tried to think what a human might wish to know about his pack. “We are the fiercest pack,” he said.
“Fierce?” she said. “You are in Fierce’s pack?”
“Yes.” That was not what he had meant, but it was true. “She is my mother.”
“Your mother?” Queen Marit put out a hand to touch his face, and it gently moved to cup his chin. “You make a handsome human,” she said. “And a daring one, to come out this far for me, after Lord Morlieb and my husband banished me from the castle.”
“I am not a human,” he said.
“No, of course not. And you must wish to return to being a hound as soon as possible. But still, I am glad that there is someone who can withstand Lord Morlieb’s magic.”
“Your husband left the castle. He will have recovered, I should think.”
“What do you mean? Why would he leave his own castle?”
“Because when he used his magic to transform me—” True began.
The queen put a hand to her own heart. “He transformed himself, as well. Of course. That is the way he learned to use his magic first, in pairs. Perhaps it ca
n only work that way. I do not know.”
“The guards came into the room and he left it.”
“Then he is truly free?”
“But Lord Morlieb remains within and all follow him. We must stop him,” said True. “He plans to destroy all humans. That is what he is doing to the animals he is gathering. You know that they are missing from this village.”
“And I should think from all around the kingdom,” said the queen. “But if the king is free, then the people will rally to him.”
“Even if they hear Lord Morlieb’s voice?” asked True.
The queen’s face went still.
“And your daughter has joined him,” True continued. “She has found her own magic, like his.”
“Dagmar, with magic?” said the queen. “Surely not. She has never had it before.”
“She never had Lord Morlieb to teach her.”
“She has been my daughter in every way. I cannot believe she would betray us now. We must go back to the castle.”
“We must find a way to stop Lord Morlieb’s magic first,” said True. “I would think that the king would know best how to do that. Now that he is no longer under the power of that magic.”
“Perhaps,” said the queen.
“Lord Morlieb has no reason to want to harm her, for now,” said True.
She hesitated a moment, and then she nodded. Again, True was reminded of how much like a hound she was in certain moments. She moved back inside the outbuilding and brought out a bundle tucked under her arm.
“Will you come with me to find the king?” she asked.
“It seems the only way that I can hope to be human again.”
The queen looked him up and down. “Is it so terrible?” she asked.
“It is not right,” he said. “It is not what I am meant to be.”
“I know that. But if you were never to return to your old form, would you find a way to be comfortable in this one? Would you think, perhaps, that you were glad to have a chance to see the world differently?”
“I am a hound,” said True. “I will always be a hound. Even if I am in this form, that will not change who I am beneath.”
Her head tilted a little to the side and she nodded just slightly. “I think it might change you, after all,” she said. “And if you went back to the hound form, you might regret the change. There might be moments when you wondered if you had found the right you again, after all. Or there might be times when you wished you had hands instead of claws, or stood upright rather than on all fours. Or perhaps that you longed for a touch on the nose instead of a kiss. Or a howl instead of a song.”
True was confused by the time she had finished talking. Did she think he should be a hound again or not?
“Fierce’s and Red’s son, I am glad you are with me. Do you know that I knew your grandmother?”
“My grandmother?” True’s memory was not so long as that.
“Her name was M—Beatrice,” said the queen.
“Beatrice? Oh, yes, I have heard of her. She was a fine lead female. There are still stories of her told.”
“And do you think she ever stood on the edge of the forest and watched the castle, wanting to go inside?”
The stories True had heard of Beatrice did not lead him to believe that. But he did not say it to the queen.
“Or perhaps not. Perhaps only humans can regret the change.”
They stepped out of the outbuilding, and True tensed. He heard a sound behind him. The village had been quiet before, but now there were voices, loud human voices.
Had he been followed?
“Run,” he said to the queen. “I will guard your back.”
“And you say you are all hound,” she said.
“But—a hound would protect his pack.”
“I am not your pack,” said the queen. “I am a lone woman whom you have just met.”
It was a sensible thing to say, and yet still, True did not flee her. “Go,” he said again.
“I think not. I have been a queen too long. Now it is time for me to be myself.”
It was not long until True understood what she meant. The queen moved toward the sounds of the voices. There was a shriek that raised True’s hackles, and then the sound of a babe crying. And something crashing.
“They are my people. My pack,” said the queen. She dropped the bundle in her arms and bent over it. Then she pulled a sword out of it.
“Do you have one for me?” asked True.
“Would you know how to use it?” asked the queen.
True realized he did not. He was not sure how useful he would be at all. He did not have his hound form, which was how he was used to fighting, and he was still not balanced in this form.
“Get away from these people!” shouted the queen, running forward with the sword.
A man turned and True saw that he was wearing the castle livery. The queen’s own guards were here? And she was fighting against them? The world had turned upside down.
“Lord Morlieb sent us,” said the guard. “We are to bring all these people to him in the castle. For their own protection.”
“Let them go and return to the castle. Tell Lord Morlieb that the queen told you that they are not his people. They are mine.” She swung the sword in threat.
Like a hound baring her teeth, thought True.
But the guard showed no sign of retreating.
True had no sword, but he threw himself at the other guard, snarling and biting with his blunted human teeth.
This guard was slower to take out his sword, and True felt it sting his neck when he turned and attacked a second time.
The queen came to his aid, but True saw the guard behind her raising his sword. He leaped and held out his hands to knock the sword away. He was surprised that the guard had not had a better grip on it.
The guard and True tumbled on the floor and to his surprise, True felt the bite of human teeth on his own neck. He cried out at the warm sensation of blood dripping onto smooth skin. Then he kicked at the guard’s underbelly.
The guard groaned, but would not let go of True. The two of them crashed into the sword the guard had dropped. True could feel the cold steel running down the length of his spine, but he thought as a hound thought, seeking the most vulnerable parts of his opponent, the neck, the belly, the eyes and ears. A blind and deaf animal was easier to fight. Though its actions were wild with fury, they were not focused and had no force behind them.
True hit the guard in the face and was surprised to hear the crack of bone in his nose. He had not realized that human noses were so fragile. The guard clawed at him, but True did not let go of his firm grip. He threw his head back and smashed his chin into the guard’s left eye.
The guard was silent for one long moment, then howled in pain. It seemed easier then, for True only had to keep at him, first on this side, then the other. He felt lines of skin opening on his back, and then on his face. But they were small wounds compared to what he gave in return.
It was not until he let go of the guard to prepare his death blow that he saw the guard had changed.
He was no longer human.
He was a wild boar, with long tusks that could have gored True if they had been used well.
Somehow, True had used the great magic on him.
It must have been because of his contact with the king. He had transferred the power to True, perhaps because True had the human form now. True shook his head. He did not understand how it was possible, but it had happened.
True could see the open-mouthed expression of the queen and behind her, the other humans in the village. But the guard from the castle was not as surprised. He seemed only anger and a little wary of True. He retreated, then turned and ran.
His run was not balanced.
It was not a human run, thought True. It was the run of some animal he had seen before. If he had more time to think, he would recognize it, he was sure.
There was a sound of squealing from the wild boar, and True tu
rned just in time to see the wild boar charged him. He had no defense, and could not move quickly enough, not in his human form.
He was going to die.
He prepared for it. He was a hound still. He could face death squarely.
But in the end, the queen stopped the wild boar. True heard the whistle of her sword flying past his ear, and then the thunk of it as it penetrated the boar’s mouth, pushed it back, and then pulled it to the floor.
True could hear his own breathing then, heavy and wet, as the boar had gone silent.
Chapter Nineteen: True
“That wasn’t something my father ever practiced with a sword. He wouldn’t have thought it very sporting against a human. Though he used spears in hunting,” said the queen.
True felt as if his head was turning around in circles on his neck. He looked at his hands. They were human hands, not hound paws. He was standing upright, as a human. His neck was covered in hairless human skin.
“He was not one of our guards,” said the queen. “I did not recognize him. I think he must have been an animal Lord Morlieb brought into the palace, and mad ehuman.”
“Then Lord Morlieb has the great magic, as well?” said True, more fearful than ever.
“Or he is working with another who does,” said the queen.
True felt ill. He wanted to be a hound again. If he had the king’s great magic still, why could he not use it on himself? He tried to think what he had done with the boar. He stared at his human hands. He imagined himself a hound again. He gritted his human teeth and
“Perhaps you cannot use it except when the need is greatest,” suggested the queen softly.
The villagers had slipped back into the home and seemed huddled inside like baby birds in a nest, waiting for a mother to return.
“My need is very great to be myself again,” said True.
“But the magic itself sometimes has needs,” said the queen. “And it uses us as its tools. It is not a comfortable thing, but it must be born.”
True tried to match the set of her chin, which was like a hound near death, who refused to let out a sound of pain.
The Princess and the Wolf (The Princess and the Hound) Page 16
