by Leah Swann
The crowd wouldn't part for her now. They had heard the King's roar through the open window and seen the pot fly out. They surged around the wise-woman, angry and uneasy. In the distance she caught sight of someone running away. Was it Vilmos?
‘Sorceress,’ hissed one woman. ‘Doomsayer.’
‘Beware that woman,’ said a father to his children. ‘She’s a witch with mischief behind her ears.’
Someone shoved their foot in front of Raizel and she tripped and fell to her bony knees. The pain was sharp. She pulled herself up quickly, knowing she could be trampled by the angry crowd if she wasn't careful. She uttered a birdlike call so piercing that many put their hands to their ears. Suddenly, the sky filled with ravens. The dark birds flew down to the wise-woman's shoulders and hovered behind and in front of her, swooping and pecking at the people till they backed away.
With a shushing sound Raizel called on the breeze and the little winds began to push gently against the crowd, working with the ravens. She hurried out of the city, towards the narrow track that meandered through the open grasslands to the forest.
‘Thank you, friends,’ she whispered.
The hare, still hiding behind a cart, suddenly bounded through the masses of human legs and followed Raizel, taking refuge beneath her cloak. His warm fur was a comfort to the old wise-woman.
A boy Prince called Andor, peeking out from behind the curtain of his covered coach, saw the hare's mad dash. Surprised, he rubbed his eyes and clutched his father's hand in excitement. ‘Look, Papa – a hare!’
‘What’s that, son?’ said King Niklas of the neighbouring kingdom of Pavel. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don't see anything.’
Andor and his father had come to Ragnor Castle with a gift for the newborn Princess. Andor was astonished that no one else seemed to have seen the hare. How wild and lovely he was, scurrying among the crowd, with his long ears and round eyes. The boy watched, fascinated, as the hare disappeared beneath the felt cloak of the witch causing the uproar.
How magical she must be, Andor thought, to have birds and hares surround her like that. The air was luminous about the witch's head. Andor stared intently at that sparkling veil of light and saw – or thought he saw – a white star-like shape appear then vanish above her.
In the Queen's bedchamber, Chloe and Harmon could hear the crowd jeering. Harmon cleared his throat, his temper leaving as quickly as it had come. He turned away from his wife and the baby. As always, he was ashamed of his outburst but too proud to admit it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something red. An apple was growing on the tiny tree that Raizel had touched! It grew, round and rosy, before his very eyes, until its frail stem snapped and the little fruit fell to the floor. Astonished, the King picked it up and took a bite. It was sour but good and the juice soaked his tastebuds. He took a deep breath and looked at the apple thoughtfully.
‘Let the witch's prediction about Vilmos be known,’ he said to his manservant, Jibade. ‘Just as a bit of gossip, you know. The more people watching out for Vilmos, the better.’
Later that day, Jibade, obeying the King's request, told the second cook. The second cook was a great chatterbox, as Jibade knew well. She told the miller who sold her the flour, and she also told the farmer who sold her the Queen's golden pears. The farmer told the bone-sculptor who made the King's beltbuckles and the Queen's hairclips. The bone-sculptor told the candle-maker who came once a fortnight in his wagon peddling the best quality candles in the Kingdom (or so he liked to say). Of course, the candle-maker told everyone he sold a candle to about Raizel's prediction, as he travelled to the east where the realm had its border with Pavel and north to the border of the Narrowlands and back south to Ragnor city. By nightfall, people far and wide knew about Vilmos.
Chapter Three
Vilmos's First Disguise
When Vilmos saw his pot of swinfen fly from the castle window, he took off, racing through the winding laneways and back streets of Ragnor till he came to the fields and meadows that surrounded the old city. Here on the outskirts was the Executioner's Field, where nothing grew but swinfen and thorns. At the edge of the field, hidden behind a fence of diagonally-crossed logs, was the stone lodge Vilmos called home. The lodge had been home to the executioners of Ragnor for almost three hundred years, since the times of the Great Wars. Vilmos hurried inside, shut and bolted the door, and collapsed.
‘Why, oh why did I send the swinfen?’ he asked Teival, his yellow rat. His mouth twitched with malicious glee. ‘It was foolhardy. But fun.’
On the table was Vilmos's most precious possession – a thin and tatty book that contained four spells given to him by Iniko, a Wizard of Knartesc.
‘Practise these and one day you can have more,’ Iniko had told Vilmos when he was only ten years old. ‘They will make you very powerful.’
‘When?’ Vilmos had asked. The pair were at Usi Cave, a meeting place surrounded by smoking fires.
‘When you have committed your first act of revenge,’ Iniko said. ‘Maybe one day you will be a wizard, like us.’
‘I’m going to be an executioner like my father,’ said Vilmos. ‘He says that it's an important task, getting rid of the Kingdom's criminals.’
Iniko had smiled and tucked the package of blood-stained muslin that Vilmos brought into his satchel. ‘Thank your father for this. If you change your mind, come and see me after you've completed your revenge.’
On the table next to the spell book were five detailed maps of Ragnor Castle. One had belonged to Vilmos's father, who knew the underground dungeons and torture chambers like the back of his hand. Another Vilmos had bought from the candle-maker, who always had some interesting things stowed in his cart. The rest of the maps he had made himself, after spying on the castle. Food and sleep were often forgotten as he noted every door and window, and sent the rats to explore the secret tunnels.
Vilmos poured himself a drink.
‘Well, dear Teival,’ he said to the rat, who was busy with some rotten meat in the corner, ‘our work is almost done. We know all the ways into the castle, and all the ways out.’
That night, Vilmos heard stones clattering onto the roof of the stone lodge. The next morning he heard someone banging loudly on the gate. He opened the front door and was forced to walk through rotten fruit and vegetables that had been thrown over the fence. Obviously people had heard something about him, but what? He opened the gate to a narrow-faced man and recognised King Harmon's trusted manservant, Jibade.
‘I come with a message from the King,’ said Jibade. ‘He says that if you touch Irina, he'll have you executed.’
‘What! What gave him that idea? Is that what that old witch said? She doesn't like me; she's just stirring up trouble.’
‘Don’t get your hackles up,’ said Jibade. ‘If I were you, I'd count myself lucky I'm not getting arrested.’
‘So what?’ said Vilmos. ‘It’s not as if the King would revoke his new laws to have me killed.’
‘I wouldn't try him,’ said Jibade, turning to go. ‘You know the King's temper.’
Later that week, Vilmos learned the stories about him had spread. When he tried to buy milk and eggs at the market, a farmer's wife said to him, ‘How dare you show your face? Everyone knows you're after Princess Irina.’
‘That’s just a rumour,’ said Vilmos, ‘because old Raizel doesn't like me.’
‘You’ve got murderer's blood in your veins,’ said the farmer's wife.
‘Murderer!’ cried Vilmos. ‘The Executioner used to be respected in Ragnor!’
The farmer's wife wrinkled her nose. ‘And you smell of mice and bad cabbages. But I could sell you this nice perfume. Pinecone. Quite good for a man.’
Vilmos bought the perfume. And when he got home he set about disguising himself. Over the following weeks he plucked his eyebrows, grew a beard and darkened his hair with walnut juice.
Late one night, when he and Teival were out exploring the tunnels under Ragnor Castle, Vilmos overhea
rd that King Harmon was planning to travel to Pavel secretly, for a meeting with Niklas the next day.
‘This is our chance, Teival,’ he whispered.
They left the tunnels beneath Ragnor Castle and made their way to the far side of the city. Their destination was a shrine to the Junsong, or ‘the way of truth’. There were many of these shrines in Ragnor. Inside each one was a picture of Jun, the goddess of truth, painted in the vivid colours of egg tempera.
Making sure no one was around, Vilmos opened the shrine's iron gates, reached in and wrenched the precious painting from the wall.
‘When she sees this picture she will trust me,’ the would-be magician said to himself.
Before dawn the next morning, Vilmos dressed in the velvet garb of an artist and carefully filled the pockmarks on his face with clay to make it smooth. He put what he needed into a satchel and made his way to Ragnor Castle, his stomach churning with nerves, watching in the shadows until he saw the King leave secretly from a side gate.
Morning sun made the marble steps gleam like snow. Vilmos lifted the painting of Jun onto his back and struggled up the majestic staircase to the castle doors. He was greeted by the Captain of the Guard and six armed men.
‘Gift for the Queen, Sir,’ Vilmos told the Captain. He was sweating heavily. ‘I am a famous painter, and I have been summoned to paint the loveliest queen ever in the House of Ragnor.’
‘No one sees the Queen without an appointment,’ said the young Captain, whose name was Kellen. He was new to the job, a broad, hefty fellow, and as strong as a plank. He disliked the glistening beads of sweat on the artist's forehead.
‘Of course, of course. But I've come to paint her portrait. Show her this and see what she says.’ Vilmos held the painting out in front of him like a shield. ‘She’ll be most displeased if you send me away.’
The young Captain was unsure but he bade one of his soldiers take the panel to his mistress. After some time, the soldier returned and spoke quietly to Captain Kellen, who nodded. ‘It seems the Queen would like a portrait of herself with Princess Irina.’ He checked Vilmos's cloak for weapons. ‘You may only be in the Queen's presence with two soldiers in the room. Leave your bag here.’
‘But I need my paints and brushes, and the panel to paint on, Sir.’
Kellen opened Vilmos's bag and examined its contents: brushes, wood panels, a palette and a folded easel, an empty bottle with a cork stopper in it. Small glass jars of powdered pigment: red, ochre, and ultramarine blue. Two eggs. Kellen held one up, with a questioning look.
‘To make the paint, Sir. You have to extract the yolk and mix the pigment…’
The Captain waved him in, impatiently, and then two soldiers escorted him to the Queen's bedchamber. Vilmos caught his breath. There she was, the beautiful Chloe, sitting on a velvet chair with Princess Irina on her lap. For a moment he was a lovesick youth again.
No, he thought. Don't forget how nasty she was, how disrespectful.
Next to the Queen was the sylvan. He was white with a soft patterning of silver over his long, graceful tail, almost like lace. Vilmos stared. The forest birds were rarely seen by humans, and impossible to catch. They were said to be highly intelligent and loyal, but Vilmos didn't care about that; he knew they were worth money. A lot of money. The sylvan cooed, before tucking his handsome head under his wing.
A nurse sat in another chair, embroidery on her lap and her feet resting on a round woollen rug. Baby Irina sat upright on the Queen's lap, soft-cheeked and bonny, sunlit curls escaping her cap. Chloe looked up at Vilmos and gave a smile of greeting. Vilmos held his breath. Would she recognise him? He'd taken great efforts to change his appearance, his voice – even his smell. Instead of his usual slightly rotten odour, he smelled as wholesome as a pinecone.
‘Your work is exquisite. You must be a very great artist,’ said Chloe.
Vilmos let out a short breath of relief, and bowed low. ‘So glad to bring pleasure, Your Majesty.’
‘Is it a painting of the goddess Jun? Or the Princess – our ancestor – who was named after her?’
‘Which do you think?’ replied Vilmos, with his most charming smile. She had no idea he was her old enemy! He could hardly believe his own daring.
‘Well, let me see,’ said Chloe, gazing at the image. ‘She almost looks like you can see right through her, she's so delicately painted. I would say – she's the goddess.’
Vilmos clapped his hands. ‘Your Majesty is very smart,’ he said. But not smart enough.
‘Would you be able to paint a portrait of me and the Princess Irina, together? It would be a wonderful gift for the King.’
‘I’ve never had lovelier subjects,’ said Vilmos, smoothly, careful to hide his annoyance at her mention of the King. He hid behind his easel, busying himself with making the paints. ‘So foolish. So easily tricked,’ he muttered.
‘What did you say?’ Chloe called.
‘A profound honour, to paint the Queen.’
‘And the Princess.’
‘The Princess? Yes. The Princess.’
Vilmos placed the wooden panel upon his easel while Chloe sang lullabies to soothe the wriggling Irina. The sylvan slept on his gilded perch.
‘How shall I pose?’ asked Chloe. She was enjoying herself.
‘Put the baby higher on your lap. Press your cheek against hers.’ Vilmos took out a densely woven cloth that he had coated with wax. ‘Please excuse me while I put this on.’ He tied it over his nose and mouth. ‘The smell of eggs distracts me from painting my best.’
Behind the panel, Vilmos pulled the stopper out of the glass bottle he had brought with him. The sleeping spell slid from the bottle's neck like smoke and briefly took the shape of a woman in a transparent, grimy yellow-green dress. She shimmered and stretched out hands with long talon-like nails, then dissolved into the air…
Deep in the forest, where wild blackberries knitted themselves with rose brambles, stood a small hut. Inside the hut, the wise-woman Raizel sat on the earth floor beside a fireplace, meditating. She was warmed by the sunlight coming in through the smoke hole in the roof, until a cool shadow fell over her. She looked up and saw a crow, opening his beak to make three deafening caws.
Raizel understood immediately.
‘Vilmos!’ she cried.
She saw a picture of him in her mind – in Chloe's room. Then she saw Harmon with Niklas in the hall at Pavel.
The wise-woman got up and hurried from her hut. Outside, she raised her scrawny arms to the sky, calling her pigeons, sylvans and ravens. They landed on her shoulders, her head, her elbows, even her thumbs. She chose two pigeons and tied notes to their feet: one for King Harmon and one for Captain Kellen. She summoned a wild horse from the forest and while she waited for him she rummaged through her baskets and stone jars, gathering every herb and magic powder she could think of and jamming them all into a sack. The hare bounded up and leapt in, too, flattening his ears so he could fit inside.
‘What’s the use of having these wonderful spells? Destiny comes and goes like an ocean wave,’ Raizel said to the hare. Her dark eyes glinted inside their folds of skin. ‘Even the sharpest sword leaves no mark on the sea.’
Vilmos looked around the Queen's parlour and let out a short laugh like a dog's bark. Everyone was asleep! And the mask had protected him from the spell perfectly. The soldiers had collapsed, their armour clanking, and were now snoring. The nurse's head lolled to one side, and the embroidery needle dangled from her lap, hanging by a thread. The Queen and baby Irina were huddled closely, still cheek to cheek.
‘Ha!’ said Vilmos, with another bark of laughter. ‘Too easy.’
He bent down and prised Chloe's arms away from the sleeping baby. No one stirred. He placed Irina inside his bag, then grabbed the sleeping sylvan from its perch and stuffed it in recklessly, too. He'd sell the bird at the market. He slung the bag over his shoulder and the baby's sleeping face peeked out at the top. Raising his foot, he gave the nurse's chair a sharp kick an
d she hit the floor with a slap. Then he pulled away the rug and lifted the trapdoor on its squeaky hinges…
Outside Ragnor Castle, a carrier pigeon flew down and landed on Captain Kellen's hand. Startled, he snatched the note from the bird's foot.
‘The Princess is in danger. Banish the stranger,’ he read aloud. His stomach rolled with a sick lurch of realisation. He had made a terrible mistake. White-faced, he turned to Sherrod, his second-in-command. ‘The Queen is in danger. Go to the barracks and get soldiers to surround the castle. Hurry!’
Kellen raced along the corridor to the Queen's bedchamber and pushed open the heavy doors. There he found the guards sprawled on the floor in deep sleep, their heads jutting awkwardly from their armour. The Queen was curled up in her chair, her lovely face slumped to one side, and her arms – for the first time since Irina's birth – empty. And there was the nurse on the ground, the rug cast aside, and a trapdoor open in the floor. The underside of the trapdoor was swathed in spider's webs; it hadn't been used in years.
Within minutes soldiers were pouring into the castle from all sides. They stormed up the corridors, making a tremendous din.
‘That artist has kidnapped the Princess. Get the dogs!’ said Captain Kellen as the soldiers appeared. The Queen made a slight moan. ‘You four. Guard the Queen. Keep her here no matter what.’
Kellen pointed to another group and told them to wait underground by the tunnel exits. He said to the rest, ‘We must rescue the Princess, or our lives won't be worth living.’
Chapter Four
The Wolves’ Den
Vilmos found it awkward to run in the dark. Pausing, he took a torch from the wall and lit it, and the flames illuminated the hordes of rats that lived in the tunnels. He rushed on and the rats made way for him. All too soon, he heard the shouts of soldiers following, much closer than he'd like. He knew exactly where he was going. He planned to follow this tunnel for at least three leagues, till he reached the secret exit that opened into the cover of the forest.
