"Thank you," Andrie said, and added, a bit timidly, "is there anything I can do for you?" She hadn't spent years at her mother's court for nothing; magical creatures could be tricky or easily offended, and she wanted to be on good terms with this one.
Besides, it might be the only magical encounter she would ever have: she wanted it to last.
"Actually, there is." The frog blinked at her. "I would like to return to the palace with you, if I might."
Andrie couldn't for a moment imagine why a frog would want to see the crumbling palace; she gazed at it for a minute, astonished. There was an odd twinge of emotion beneath the surprise, something that it took her a minute to recognize as embarrassment. She had loved her home once; the thought of showing it as it was now to anyone, even an enchanted frog, sent a small pain into her heart. She said, stalling for time, "Why?" and then, thinking that perhaps that had come out a bit rude, added, "I mean, there's not—there's no magic left—" realizing that an enchanted creature might have heard of the sparkling heyday of Signy's court as a place to find refuge.
"My own reasons," the frog said. "Don't worry, princess. I know."
But you're only a frog, Andrie thought. A magical frog, who seemed to know a great deal about the state of her family and her home, and it was just a bit suspect that a magical helper would turn up at the moment when she needed one anyway. What reasons would a frog have for coming to her home?
But she had offered, so she nodded and agreed. In all of Signy's stories, it was never wise to offend a magical creature; they were notoriously capricious, and after all, this one had done her a favor. She couldn't very well deny it one simple request. And surely if it meant her harm, it would not have helped her or spoken so politely.
Besides, Andrie thought with a flash of inner cynicism, just about anything it could do to her would be a welcome alternative to her looming wedding plans.
She sighed. More than likely no one would notice her carrying a frog into the palace anyway; she was mostly left to her own devices, except when her father wanted her, as he had tonight. Even when her old governess had left, no one had bothered about finding a replacement.
She looked up at the setting sun and shivered. Suddenly, the edge of the dark water felt a lot colder.
She held out her hand and said, "Shall we?"
* * * *
Andrie carried the frog up to the castle nestled in her pocket, against the cool round curve of the golden ball. It remained quiet and quiescent the whole way, and she might have started to wonder whether she'd dreamt the whole conversation if not for the indubitable presence of Signy's ball, returned to her, a solid shape brushing against her leg through the fabric of her skirt.
She let herself in through a side door, avoiding the great portraits of Signy that gazed down at her with painted eyes, and drifted, like a ghost in the palace byways, up through the cold stone corridors. The few servants that had stayed were all downstairs, clustered by the lingering warmth of the kitchen ovens; she passed no one, only cobwebs and dried candle wicks, leaning drunkenly in their settings. Her shoes made small puffs of dust as she walked. No one bothered to clean anymore; there was no pride left in the castle. No pride left in her father.
Andrie followed her own footprints up to her room, and closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. Here, at least, the tarnish hadn't yet reached: the whitewashed walls were still bright and clean, and the tapestries that adorned them glittered with warm color. It was not a large room, but it was cozy, thick rugs warming her feet and walls lined with leather-bound books. She kept it neat herself; the maid whose job it was to wait on her princess could barely be bothered to light the fire in the mornings. Compared to the rest of the castle, it felt like heaven.
She fished the frog out of her pocket, and set it on the burgundy counterpane covering her bed. It blinked at her; the bright green of its skin showed up absurdly against the silk. It said nothing.
Andrie sat down next to it, thinking that perhaps she had just temporarily taken leave of her senses. She certainly felt foolish.
The frog said, quite suddenly, "You have a very nice room," and Andrie jumped.
"My apologies," the frog said. "Forgive the social awkwardness, princess. It has been... a long time since I've had a conversation with anyone human."
"You weren't always a frog, then?" Andrie tucked her feet up under herself, getting comfortable. It was a horribly unladylike posture, but she doubted the frog would care. Besides, her toes were cold.
"No," said the frog and then was silent for a minute. Andrie wondered if perhaps she had offended it. She was unsure how one expressed sympathy for an enchanted creature; should she offer to help, or simply apologize? Signy, she thought, would have known. But this was her adventure.
"Tell me," the frog said, "about your prince. The one who's coming tomorrow to marry you: what's he like?"
"He's not my prince," Andrie said and scowled. "And how did you know about that, anyway?"
"One hears things," the frog said vaguely. "Do you dislike him?"
"I don't dislike him. I don't like him. But I certainly dislike the idea of marrying him."
The frog made what might have been a small amused amphibian noise, but remained silent when Andrie glanced at it. "He's not objectionable personally," she went on. "He's young, handsome, a magician... he used to come to Mother's salons when we were younger. Arrogant, though. As if he always knew he would be a great sorcerer." She thought about Prince Nial for a minute. She hadn't seen him for years, but she remembered that aura of haughtiness he wore like a cloak, shielding him from the world. He had always been polite to her, but never friendly. Charitably, she'd hoped that perhaps he was just uncomfortable with strangers.
"He became the heir to his kingdom when his brother vanished last year," she went on. "Everyone looked for Prince Colin; even Father managed to send a few scouts out to help. I remember hoping for word—I always liked Colin." Actually, she had more than liked Colin; the times she'd met him, coming to visit his younger brother in Signy's court, he'd been kind to her. He'd been one of the few people she'd ever met who saw her as an interesting person simply because she was herself, not because she was the child of the most famous sorceress in ten kingdoms. She'd thought Colin had understood; after all, it was his younger sibling who garnered all the praise for his magical abilities, while the heir to the throne, like Andrie, could barely light a candle.
She had even hoped that someday, perhaps, their parents might see the benefits of a betrothal. It would have been a great alliance, uniting two of the largest and most powerful kingdoms.
Now, when it had finally come to pass, the wrong prince would be standing beside her.
Lots of things had gone wrong, it seemed, in the last few years.
She got up, distracting herself, and slipped out of the muddied gown, changing into one of the thick warm nightdresses from her closet. They were all a few years out of date; no one was left in the palace who cared about such things.
The frog said, interrupting her thoughts with surprising interest in its voice, "So you don't wish to marry your prince?"
Andrie scowled at it. "Didn't I already answer that?"
The frog blinked at her.
She sighed. "No, I don't." Andrie should have felt uncomfortable confiding her personal secrets to an amphibious creature, but somehow she didn't. The frog was surprisingly easy to talk to. Besides, it had been a very long time since she'd had a friend.
"Most princesses would jump at the offer," she said, "for the chance to marry a magician, to be a queen, to have everything we're told we should want. But no one ever asked me whether I wanted to marry him. No one asked me anything at all."
"Perhaps your father thinks he's providing for you."
"I'm sure he does," Andrie agreed, "but he doesn't know what I want. He barely knows I'm here, half the time." And she remembered, like a ghost rising palely out of memory, the long silent banquet earlier that evening, with no conversation but the clink of tarnishe
d silver until King Therin had announced the arrival of her bridegroom the next day.
"What do you want?" the frog asked her, not flippantly, but seriously, as if it really wanted to know.
Andrie started to answer and then stopped and thought. It was a question she hadn't quite considered, except in abstract terms of nameless longing for things to be different.
"I want," she said finally, "to be wanted for myself, not because I'm a princess or a sorceress's daughter. If I have to get married, I want it to be to someone who cares enough to speak to me before announcing our betrothal. I want my father to be my father again and a king again." She stopped. "I wish I could fix things."
"Hmmm," said the frog.
Andrie looked at it, but it volunteered nothing more.
After a minute, she asked, "What do you want?" rather timidly, realizing that maybe she had been selfish in whining about her palace life to an enchanted creature trapped in a green body.
The frog blinked at her again. "Bring me to the hall tomorrow," it requested, "when your bridegroom arrives."
Andrie wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but that certainly wasn't it. "Why?" she said before she could stop herself.
"I think perhaps I can help both of us," the frog said mysteriously. "Trust me, princess." And it refused to say any more, hopping over to her dresser and settling down on the cool marble. She offered it a blanket, and it thanked her politely but absently and then lapsed back into silence.
Eventually, Andrie gave up on it and tried to go to sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, would be an eventful day, one way or another. She fully expected to remain awake all night worrying about her arriving bridegroom and whatever the ensorcelled amphibian was planning, but to her surprise she found herself oddly relaxed. It was almost comforting to have some other presence in the room, as there hadn't been since she was a small child. It felt like having a friend.
Andrie curled into her warm blankets—the tower room was drafty—and drifted off, watching the gleam of the frog's dark eyes from atop her dressing table.
* * * *
Surprised whispers spread across the hall as she entered the next morning. Andrie had dressed carefully for the occasion, in her favorite color, a gown somewhere between silver and periwinkle, almost the shade of her eyes. The clothing was a kind of armor; she knew that she looked more mature, almost elegant, a real princess. She needed that strength.
The eyes weren't on her, but on the creature she held, its bright green skin displayed ludicrously against her pale dress as it peeked out from her pocket. At least, Andrie thought, amused, they had noticed her this time.
The servants muttered in the background, hovering boldly around to watch the spectacle. The foreign prince's retinue looked at them a bit askance, no doubt troubled by the lack of discipline, but they stared at the princess as well. Andrie guessed that they must be wondering why their lord would be interested in such a strange, plain girl. She was a bit curious about that herself.
Her father eyed her with startled dismay as she stopped and curtseyed. "Andrina," he said faintly, "why do you have that... thing?"
Andrie looked back at him, hesitated, and finally just shrugged. She did not want to try to explain; she doubted he would understand. Besides, he would give way in the face of her silence. He no longer cared enough to argue with her.
Therin swallowed a little uncomfortably, and she pitied him. But just as she might have spoken, he seemed to decide that it did not matter, and turned, holding out his hand to the young man at his side.
"Prince Nial, my daughter Andrina. Andrina, this is Nial, your betrothed." The words hung oddly in the air, like a portent of some unimaginable event to come.
The young man took a step forward and bowed to her gracefully, like a tawny lion; but his eyes remained strangely fixed on her the entire time, sweeping over her face and form. Andrie had the uncomfortable sensation that she was being measured.
She curtseyed again, because she did not know what else to do, and murmured, "Prince Nial."
One of his hands flickered out, and caught her chin, raising it so that she was forced to look him in the eyes. Andrie wanted to shiver at the touch—his hands were cold—but his fingers were also strong, and she had the impression that they would be capable of enormous cruelty if he chose.
She looked into his eyes, dark as night, cold as sin, like bottomless pools in contrast with the bright gold of his hair. They remained opaque and unreadable to her, and she felt a shudder of aversion. She could see nothing in those eyes, no love, no compassion, no humanity. He looked at her as he would contemplate any new possession.
Deliberately, she took a step back, freeing herself from his influence. Unexpectedly, he laughed, like a man amused by childish defiance.
"Signy's daughter in spirit, if not in power," he said. "You may do after all." It was the first time she had heard his voice, and the edge of self-satisfied arrogance to it made Andrie sure, if she had had any doubt, that she would never marry him.
Aware of her father hovering like a distracted mother hen around the edges of the conflict, she asked sweetly, "Where is your brother, Prince Nial? Did he not come to see us wed?" It was a shot not quite in the dark; surely Nial at least felt guilty over inheriting in his brother's absence, and surely he also had known of the affection between his brother and his betrothed. It had been an open secret, all those years ago at Signy's court. But Nial had insulted her; she felt the need to fire a return shot.
But she hadn't expected the reaction she received.
His face twisted, growing ugly, something warped shining past the fine features; one of those raptor-quick hands snatched at her arm, fingers pinching, and he whispered, "My brother was not meant to be king."
Andrie jerked herself free of him, and her father took a small hesitant step towards her. The servants, behind them, rustled and murmured uneasily.
With a visible effort, Nial released her, calming himself. "It is a tragedy, of course," he said softly. "But it may after all be better this way. Where should the magicians of the world be, if not in charge? Who better to decide the fate of the world?"
"Anyone would be better than you," Andrie said bluntly, and this time he did not laugh, but took a step toward her, and suddenly seemed to grow in stature, wielding an aura of menace that made her shrink back. She could almost feel the power eddying around him.
Suddenly, perhaps for the first time, she was afraid.
Andrie slipped one hand into her pocket as Nial advanced, and brought it up between them, like a talisman.
The frog hopped out onto her palm, and said calmly, "Hello, Nial."
The prince stared at it. His face changed again, eyes growing wide and black; he whispered, "Colin," and his right hand came up and swept the frog from Andrie's hand, sending it flying across the room.
Andrie screamed.
The frog struck the wall with a violent splat, and Andrie closed her eyes, but opened them again, and caught her breath in shock.
There was no blood, no frog's-skin; the body of the creature seemed to burst open, and a young man, perhaps a bit older than Andrie herself, fell to the floor. He sat up slowly, and the marks of the stone burned brightly against his light skin. He moved gingerly, and Andrie guessed that the impact had been more painful than his stoic expression revealed.
"Colin," Nial whispered again and advanced toward the helpless figure. "Why did you come back? You never should have come here."
Colin, Andrie thought, and remembered the boy she had once known, tall and blond and already showing traces of the king he would be. The boy she had once cared for.
He looked thin and pale next to Nial's blazing fury, white-blond hair falling in his eyes, long after months of enchanted imprisonment. But he was alive. She thought: he came to help me. He had cared for her, and he had come to save her. No one else had.
But it had gone wrong; they were in his brother's power now. Neither of them could fight a magician.
"Why did yo
u come here?" Nial demanded once more, standing over his brother. The power gathering around him was almost palpable. "You were safely out of the way. I would have had the kingdom—both kingdoms—and Signy's daughter—everything a mage should have, everything I've deserved—"
From the floor, Colin met his brother's crazed glare calmly. "None of those things were ever yours to take, Nial."
"You want the girl for yourself!" Nial shrieked. "You want me to have nothing!"
"That isn't true." Colin shifted position, moving as if it hurt; his brother twitched, ready to act, ready to be provoked. Colin stopped trying to stand up, and remained still.
"You have always stood in my way," Nial breathed. "I thought I had disposed of you. I thought I had been kind. But," he added, expression turning satisfied, "not this time. I will kill you, this time. That way you can never interfere with me again, brother."
He lifted his hands, and Andrie could see the magic swirling and eddying around them, dark red and vicious. Colin remained focused on his brother, as if he could make the younger man sane by will alone.
He put out a hand, perhaps to plead with his brother, or to restrain him; Nial stiffened and drew a breath, preparing to fling his spell of death.
Without thinking, without considering, Andrie grabbed her mother's golden ball from her pocket, where she had held the frog, and flung it at his head.
Her aim was poor, from anger or fear or simple shock; the throw missed, and the ball struck near Nial's feet. He looked her way, and laughed.
But the ball had cracked against the solid flagstones, and a sort of shimmering golden vapor was rising from it, swirling and solidifying, wrapping itself around Nial. His expression went from amused triumph to astonishment, and he brushed at the clinging mist futilely.
A serving girl, in the background, gasped and dropped a tray of bread. The clatter was oddly muted in the sudden silence.
The otherworldly shimmer wound its way up towards his head, and in the changing hues of the mist Andrie thought she saw a familiar face.
Nial saw it too; he went white, as though seeing a ghost, and tried to step backward in horror, but the strange golden fog held him fast. He could no longer move, not even his arms; his eyes darted, seeking some escape, and his lips moved as if attempting a spell, but nothing happened.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII Page 19
