by J M Sanford
“Oh, Perce, you’ve all but put her to sleep!” Meg teased. “Come on, Amelia, you can’t go to sleep on us so early in the evening. Your turn – tell us a story.”
Amelia had rarely told stories to a real live audience. Once or twice she’d managed to convince Stupid to sit still and listen to a couple of very short poems, but he had a childish sense of humour, and only really appreciated the kind of stories that made jokes about breaking wind. Amelia had grown out of those some years ago. As well as feeling shy in front of Percival, her mood was still rather sour, irritated by Meg’s jovial attitude.
But Meg wouldn’t stand for a demure refusal. “Come on, dear. They all start the same way, don’t they? Once upon a time…”
Amelia cleared her throat. “Once upon a time, in a lonely hamlet on the steep slope of a mountain, there lived a blacksmith and his family. They did well enough, for the most part, with trade passing through on the winding mountain road. They sold horseshoes, and nails, and tools, and kitchen utensils, and –”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Meg, “he was a blacksmith. We get the gist of it.”
Amelia cleared her throat again, loudly. “Then a harsh winter came, harsher than any in living memory. The blacksmith sent out all three of his children to fetch more firewood and keep the forge glowing hot – he even sent his youngest child, a boy of only six years old. One bitterly cold night, the youngest son had not yet returned home, so the blacksmith ventured out into the snow to find him.” A sudden wave of self-consciousness shook Amelia as she feared she’d forgotten how it all ended, but she plunged on. Immersing herself in the bleak and snow-bound atmosphere of the tale, she all but forgot the world around her.
Far from the hamlet, the blacksmith found little footprints in the snow, and hurried after the tracks before the snow could bury them. As the night grew colder and colder, he feared for his son, but he found the boy huddled together with a young woman, the two of them sharing a thick cloak of grey fur. When the boy told his father how she had found him lost in the snow and guided him back onto the road to the hamlet, the grateful blacksmith offered her a place under his roof for the night.
Had he not, she surely would have died out there on the mountain, for it was a colder night than any had known before, and strong winds blew the snow thick and fierce. The girl’s dress was tattered at the hem, and she had no shoes upon her feet. In spite of her thick fur coat, she had fallen gravely ill from wandering out in the cold for so long. The blacksmith’s wife gave her a bowl of steaming hot goat stew, dry clothes to wear and a warm blanket, even though it was clear to see that the girl was a foreigner, and foreigners were not well trusted in that part of the world. In the firelight, her eyes shone like gold, and though she was young, strands of silver threaded thickly through her hair. The girl could not say who she was, or where she had come from – she would not, could not speak. But, on the sole of her left foot she had a mark of ownership that told she belonged to a certain Lady Bolgria. The blacksmith and his wife knew that the girl must be a maidservant for a wealthy family, maybe run away from a cruel mistress, although they knew of no Lady Bolgria in their small kingdom. The blacksmith’s wife, a decent woman but more than a little envious of the mute girl’s fey beauty, said that as soon as the girl recovered her health she would have to be returned to her mistress. The girl seemed to hear and understand this, and even though the blacksmith knew she should be returned to her rightful owner, when he saw the look of fear in her golden eyes he felt pity for the poor little runaway.
Over time, the weather grew warmer and the mute girl began to recover. As she grew strong and healthy, she took on chores, apparently eager to repay her debt to her rescuers, but the blacksmith’s wife had seen the way the mute girl looked at her husband. A tall, strong man, dark of hair and dark of eye, it was clear enough to all that the mute girl thought him very handsome, and so kind to have rescued a stranger when he found her lost in the snowstorm. The blacksmith’s wife began again to enquire after the Lady Bolgria, but none of their neighbours had ever heard of the lady. The blacksmith, not wishing to upset his good wife, knew the time had come, and he sent the mute girl on her way. He told her that she should return to her mistress like a good girl, and knew she understood him, but silently hoped she would instead run and find somewhere she could be safe and happy.
All was well again in the blacksmith’s house, for a time. He all but forgot about the mute stranger until next winter, when she returned. Early one morning he saw her picking her way carefully across the hillside some way up from the hamlet, close enough for him to recognise her grey hair, and see that she still wore the same tattered dress. Even with the bad weather setting in, she still went barefoot. When she realised he’d seen her, she froze in her tracks like a wild animal, and then vanished into the trees. Later, the blacksmith asked his wife if she too had noticed the return of the mute girl. She pursed her lips and stared at him in anger. Yes. Yes, she had noticed, and what was that foreign girl doing, sniffing around their home? Several times he saw the girl come close to the house, only to shy away again, and he became curious what she wanted, although he knew that she would not, could not speak. He took care not to mention the girl to his wife again, although his curiosity only increased each time he saw her, at a distance.
One evening, with the snow falling brightly in the moonlight, impulsive curiosity got the better of him, and when he saw the familiar figure vanish amongst the trees, he went after her. He followed her barefoot tracks in the snow for miles, his heart racing. Her tracks changed: she was running, and he increased his own pace. He had to catch her. He thought he saw her close ahead of him, the blur of her grey cloak and her grey hair in the night – not watching his footing, he slipped on the treacherous ice. Nonetheless he picked himself up and ran after her still, following her clear tracks in the snow. Then, mid stride, her footprints changed again… to paw prints. Before he could think about what he was doing, he put his nose to the strange tracks, and besides the paw prints in the snow he saw his own furry black paws. Laughter rang out amidst the trees: a horrible, cruel, cackling. He looked up to find an old hag standing before him, and the grey she-wolf at her side gazing at him with beautiful golden eyes. He tried to speak but could only whine and growl.
“At last,” said the witch Bolgria, cackling. “I’ve always wanted a breeding pair.”
“Just like a man,” said Meg. “Running off after the first pretty young thing to bat her eyelashes at him, never mind that she’s a wolf dressed up. Are we really supposed to believe he didn’t know, what with her ‘golden eyes’ and ‘silver hair’ and all?”
“Obviously he was blinded by her beauty,” said Percival. “I thought Amelia told the story very well,” he added, making Amelia blush.
Meg shook her head. “Oh dear, what romantic fiddle-faddle has your stepmother been filling your head with, Amelia? We’ll have to teach you some better stories than that.”
7: THE PRINCE
In a tower far above the clouds, a handsome prince leant at the window of his study, frowning deeply as he stared out across the endless sea of white. His hair had the gloss and rich colour of new copper; his eyes almost glowed, gold as a sunset. His clothes were beautifully tailored at great and obvious expense, and his study was filled with antique furniture and fine tapestries. Opposite the grand desk hung a single enormous portrait, larger than life size, of a haughty girl with long black hair and eyes the colour of the ocean. The portrait was so exaggeratedly beautiful – so ethereal and perfect – that the young lady’s family might not even recognise her from it, but she was the prince’s bride-to-be, and no-one dared criticize anything about her to his face. The prince himself had learned rather too late how wayward and headstrong his intended Queen could be, but pride and love of beauty prevented him from letting her go. He clenched his fists and growled in spite of himself. He’d never anticipated that the girl of his dreams would force him to prove his love for her at such great lengths…
“A
rchmage Morel is here to see you, Master,” called a voice, disturbing the prince from his reverie.
The prince looked up to see a man in smart blue uniform standing in the open doorway.
“Very well. Bring him in.” The prince straightened himself up and tried to make his expression neutral, as his Commander escorted the elderly Archmage into the study. The Commander waited at the door, ready to return Morel to his rooms.
The Archmage wore the robes and many rings associated with his station as an elite practitioner of high magic, and his arms were full of rolls and rolls of parchment. He put down his burden on the desk, carefully disentangling his waist-length white beard before looking up at the prince. “Good morning, Archalthus,” he said, sitting down in the prince’s chair. Morel’s casual manner irritated Prince Archalthus, but even the lower level Mages could be a law unto themselves, and Morel had once been the greatest Archmage the world had known. Efforts to improve his manners only ever ended in tears and sulking.
“Good afternoon, Archmage Morel,” said Archalthus stiffly, striding across the room to watch as the Archmage set out his work. “I hope your work has been progressing at a greater speed now that you have the extra materials you requested.”
“You know, it isn’t that simple a matter,” said the ancient Archmage, with an air of almost schoolboyish petulance. “The time taken to develop the required elements to the state of maturity…” he tailed off, apparently having forgotten what he was talking about, distracted by the page in front of him.
“I appreciate the necessity of taking time over a work of such intricacy, Archmage Morel. I am a man of great patience, but you are trying it.”
But the Archmage was lost to the world, completely absorbed in his arcane calculations. “Perhaps… Perhaps…”
The prince leaned closer, peering curiously at the scrolls. Naturally intelligent, extensively educated, Archalthus nevertheless had little patience for written magic, and it galled him that he might as well have been an illiterate farmhand, for all he could understand of the page before him. “Well then, what of the Crown?” he asked impatiently.
The Archmage jumped, as if he had completely forgotten he was not alone. “Ah… yes, the Crown… I insist that such things simply cannot be duplicated. The ancient and noble magicks –”
The Commander sneered at this, showing monstrous sharp teeth. “Bet you could do it if you really wanted to,” he muttered.
“That’s not so!” shouted the Archmage, whose hearing remained exceptionally good for his age. “I’m greatly overburdened: no other Mage in all the world could carry out such works,” he swept a shaking hand across the vast expanse of parchment, almost knocking it all to the floor in his outrage, “And on top of that, I’m expected to duplicate an entirely unique artefact that I’ve never even seen, find a way to break a powerful curse even older than myself, create and maintain golems… Much of the work you ask me to do is quite, quite illegal, Archalthus, and if I were to be caught…” He sank back into his chair, shaking with the exertion of his outburst.
Archalthus sighed wearily. “Commander, if you insist on making such insolent comments, I shall have you executed and turn your carcass over to Archmage Morel for spare parts. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, Master.” The Commander had spent long enough years in the service of Prince Archalthus to know the threat had been no exaggeration.
Archalthus turned and raised one perfect eyebrow at the old Archmage. “And unless I’m very much mistaken, Archmage Morel, you were engaging in soul magic and other illegal disciplines long before I hired you. You may leave my City at any time, but in doing so you would lose my protection and risk falling foul of the Mage Council. We shall concentrate on this project for the time being, I think,” he said, straightening the schematic he had been trying to read. The design seemed to contain an awful lot of circles. Archalthus couldn’t be sure if this was part of the nature of the magic being used, or just the old Archmage’s fancy, and couldn’t think of a way to question it without appearing ignorant. “This is indeed a most intricate design,” he murmured, hoping that he sounded pensive. The Archmage didn’t reply, too concerned with the thought of facing the Mage Council alone.
On the other side of the room, the Commander had pulled out a device like a pocket watch, and spoke into it, “What do you want? I’m with His Highness.”
The voice that replied from the device carried clearly in the quiet study. “Our apologies for interrupting, Commander Breaker, but we recently discovered the whereabouts of the White Queen.”
Archalthus left his desk at once, stalking across the room to peer into the device. An expressionless face with black eyes looked back at him.
“She is travelling with the snail mistress and a gentleman wearing impractical-looking armour,” said the black-eyed gentleman. “They recently passed through a place called Lannersmeet. However…” His bland face began to show a hint of discomfort. Embarrassment, perhaps: he hadn’t considered how best to report that he and his partner had managed to lose the cumbersome and incongruous snailcastletank. “We were slow to confirm the identity of the White Queen, and we were unsure how to proceed from here.”
“Excuse me,” Archalthus took the device from the Commander. “Unsure on what point?”
“There is a crossroads at Lannersmeet. The White Queen and her cohort left unexpectedly while we were otherwise occupied. Nevertheless, we have picked up the trail and will find her again soon. Do we have permission to destroy the White Queen and her cohort?”
Archalthus scowled. “No. They may yet save us the trouble of uncovering the Crown ourselves. Either follow them discreetly, or capture them alive.”
The black-eyed gentleman looked hesitant. “But, they will have to be disposed of at some point before they reach the Crown, won’t they?”
“Yes, most likely. But not now. We may need the White Queen yet, do you understand?”
“Of course.” The gentleman hesitated and then asked, “May we take the opportunity to request some modifications to our anatomy? We believe some improvements could be made to our design in regards to hydration –”
Archalthus shoved the device back at the Commander, and turned to the old Archmage. “I was told your creations were of the highest quality the world has ever seen – perfect in every detail,” he growled. “I should hate to think I’ve been deceived.”
“A-are you questioning my craftsmanship?” the Archmage stammered, trying to look indignant. “Don’t you forget now, young man, that work of this nature has been forbidden for centuries, throughout the world. Very few Mages would have the nerve to defy the ban. My name could be erased from the Council’s records for this, you know, and you thank me by criticising the details? As for the duplication of the Crown, even if it were possible, I dread to think of the consequences –”
“My curse weighs very heavily upon me,” Archalthus cut in, sinking onto the chaise longue with a great sigh of discontent, resting his handsome head on one pale and elegant hand. “It clouds my mind, and makes me do things that I’m ashamed of later… I have decided: attempting to duplicate the Crown isn’t a gentlemanly approach to this contest. I’m very weary,” he added, pointedly. “Perhaps it would be better for you to work alone, for now.”
Archmage Morel took the hint. He gathered his notes and calculations in an armful of shivering rustling parchment, bowing his way out of the room.
Back in Lannersmeet, the black-eyed gentleman closed his silver pocket device with a smart snap, the beginnings of a very worried expression on his face. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “It seems we have drawn attention to a fault in ourselves.”
“It would have been wiser not to have mentioned it,” agreed his twin, absorbed in reading the dials of a small but intricate device that he held to the ground like a sleuth with a magnifying glass. “The snails travelled this way,” he said. “Shall we proceed?”
His companion nodded. “After you.”
8:
WHITE KNIGHT
Another morning, and Amelia woke again to the steady rolling of the snailcastletank on its way, Meg still snoring softly in the top bunk, one arm hanging out over the side. Amelia, still in her nightdress, padded over to the balcony, where she opened the windows and looked down to see Percival in the driver’s seat. He sat so perfectly still and straight and silent that she wondered at times if there was anyone in there at all. The road stretched out ahead straight and broad, with endless miles of open grassland to either side, and the snails marched on. Unknown mountains bordered the horizon, pale and bluish in the distance. Leaning carefully out over the railing, Amelia could just about see down the road behind them, but could see no sign of the two black-clad gentleman assassins following. Thinking of her own unconventional mode of transport, she couldn’t imagine how they might be travelling… She scanned the sky, cloudless and empty and blue.
Her stomach growled. What had Meg said? You couldn’t spend your whole life worrying: practical day-to-day matters generally needed attending to first. Breakfast never ceased to be important. But first… Amelia’s hair, as always, had come undone from its braids during the night, and she sat down at the modest dressing table to brush and rebraid it. For as long as she could remember, she’d begun each day with attending to the considerable task of getting it in order, but now she had an extra reason. She had a knight in shining armour to think of, and his expectations to live up to. Damsel in distress she may be, but in fairy tale illustrations a damsel’s hair was never anything less than perfect… She was less than halfway through the task of brushing her hair when the tower lurched alarmingly to the side, and a shriek rent the calm of the blue dawn. Amelia’s heart pounded as she gripped the edge of the dressing table tightly, glad to find that – like the other furniture in the snailcastletank – it stood bolted into place. The tower swayed, and tottered to a standstill.
