by Kate Forsyth
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Lisandre said simply. ‘Please, you must help me.’
‘Why?’
‘My brother . . .’ she began, and found herself choking with tears. ‘My brother is dying . . . I . . . please, we have come so far . . .’ Her voice suspended with tears, Lisandre could only look at the Erlrune pleadingly.
The old woman steepled her gnarled fingers. ‘Now, let me see if I understand the situation. You are the sister of the Count of Estelliana, who has been sunk in an unnatural sleep since midwinter. You’ve come here a-wanting my help in awakening him from this sleep. You hope that I will allow you to gaze into the Well of Fate, thus seeing the cause and the cure of the enchantment.’
‘Yes, please,’ Lisandre said with a little shake in her voice.
‘But why should I help save a starkin prince? I have no love for the starkin. They have done naught but harm since they came here.’
‘But he will die,’ Lisandre pleaded.
‘And I am meant to mourn his passing?’
‘Ziggy’s only seventeen,’ Lisandre said. ‘And really, he’s a very nice boy. Not like most brothers. He’s always let me play with him and he showed me how to heft a spear, and said he would take me out hunting with him one day. Starkin women aren’t allowed to hunt, you know. He used to make up stories for me, every night before we went to bed, so I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark. If I was sent to bed without any supper, he’d always smuggle something up to me. Oh, please, you have to help me! If Ziggy dies, Lord Zavion will inherit and he’s a cold, hard man, he’ll be much crueller to the hearthkin and the wild-kin than Ziggy would ever be. And we’ll be destitute, my mother and I. We’ll be at his mercy.’
‘Why should you not suffer poverty and hardship and thralldom like so many others have suffered?’
Lisandre did not know how to answer. At last she said helplessly, ‘I do not know. Please, I never understood before . . .’
‘Now you do understand, what do you plan to do about it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll do something, I promise. I’ll tell Ziggy when he wakes. Together we will change things, make things better.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lisandre faltered again. ‘But I’ll find a way, I promise. The others will help me, they all want to make things better too.’
‘Is that true?’ The Erlrune glanced around the table sternly.
Unable to nod, everyone said, ‘Yeah, of course, ma’am,’ with as much sincerity and enthusiasm as they could muster.
‘How do I know you will keep your word?’
Lisandre looked steadily at the Erlrune, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ she said for the fourth time. ‘I can only give you my word as one of the Ziv.’
‘Not a pledge that inspires trust in me,’ the Erlrune said dryly. She gave one of the christening eggs a spin with her finger and watched it twirl, the jewels all glittering.
‘Very well, I shall help you, not because you command me to or because I have any desire to save the life of a starkin princeling. No, I shall help you because I see clearly that this quest of yours could be the catalyst for great events, events that could reshape our world. Never before in the history of Adalheit have starkin, hearthkin and wildkin come together and helped each other, and saved each other, and forged bonds of love and friendship. That alone has to mean something. So, yes, if you pass the test as all those who wish to gaze into the Well of Fate must do, I shall allow you to gaze into my pool. I have only one condition.’
Emotions flitted across Lisandre’s face like glimpses of sunshine amidst clouds. Triumph, relief, bewilderment, pleasure, and finally, suspicion.
‘What test?’ she asked first and then, ‘and what condition?’
‘The river-roan once asked, in jest, for your first-born child as the reward for his help. I now make the same demand, though not in jest.’
Lisandre stared at her, the colour draining from her face. She tried to speak but her throat muscles would not work. ‘My first-born child?’ she faltered at last. ‘But how do you know about that?’
The old woman gazed at her levelly. ‘Do you really think I do not hear when my name is spoken, or do not see when strangers trespass on my province? Of course I have heard and seen all that has passed between you. Did you expect aught else?’
Lisandre’s lips were white. ‘But Sedgely only spoke in jest. He did not mean . . . you cannot really want my firstborn child!’
‘But I do. You must send him to me when he is the same age as you are now. In the eighteen years between now and then, you must work to heal the rift in the land.’
‘But . . .’ Lisandre faltered.
‘That is the cost for my help,’ the Erlrune said implacably. ‘Your first-born child.’
Lisandre stared at the Erlrune anxiously, her face white as chalk.
‘I do not mean to eat him, you silly child,’ the Erlrune said with a sudden smile. ‘I mean only to teach him and guide him. You will get him back one day.’
Slowly Lisandre nodded her head. ‘Very well then,’ she said through stiff, white lips. ‘I promise you my first-born child.’
THIRTY-ONE
From the outside, the Erlrune’s house had looked rather small but the six companions soon learnt that, rather like the Erlrune herself, appearances could be deceiving. Accompanied by six grey-winged wildkin, they were led through long halls, up sweeping staircases, along endless corridors, galleries and antechambers to a hallway with six bedrooms, three on either side.
The rooms were once again uncannily suited to each of the six companions. Lisandre’s goose-down bed was hung with billowing white curtains and her ceiling was painted with silver stars and moons. There was a great hip-bath before a roaring fire, and a table crowded with different creams, perfumes, bath salts and a bottle of chamomile shampoo.
The walls and ceiling of Sedgely’s room were painted with tall trees so it looked as if he slept in a forest. His mattress was, rather oddly, filled with water instead of straw so that the whole bed rocked when the children jumped on it, like a boat upon a river. His eiderdown was the deep green of a shadowy pond and a big ceramic jug of apple-ale and a tankard stood waiting on the table by the fireplace.
Mags’s room was a frothy concoction of pale pink and lace, with delicate china figurines on the mantelpiece. A beautiful big doll with golden curls and lots of lacy petticoats sat on the pink satin eiderdown, and the wallpaper was sprigged with dainty flowers. On the table by her bath was a scrubbing brush, a fine-toothed comb and a huge lump of oatmeal soap, which made Lisandre laugh and say mockingly, ‘How well the Erlrune meets our needs!’ Mags ignored her, her gaze fixed upon the doll. She sat down, cradling the doll in her arms, and soon was so absorbed the others left her playing, going on to explore their own rooms.
A wing-shaped spinet took up most of one wall in Pedrin’s room, its case beautifully decorated with curling fronds, flowers and dancing wildkin. There was also a lute leaning against the wide-seated chair by the fire, and a collection of different pipes and flutes laid out on the table nearby. On his mantelpiece were two lovely dancing goats, one black, one white, and a tapestry of a goatherd playing a flute to a flock of grazing goats hung on the wall. There was also a box stuffed full of sweetmeats and cakes by his bed, which Pedrin immediately delved into before picking out a delicate tune on the lute.
The tapestry in Durrik’s room showed a jester entertaining a royal court. Durrik grinned when he saw it, appreciating the joke, then he looked about his room with pleasure. There was a new crutch leaning against his soft white bed, and a hip-bath filled with steaming water that smelt of wintergreen, rosemary, thyme and lavender, a combination of herbs designed to ease his aching leg. A music box on the table sang sweetly when opened, with two solemn figures gracefully turning and bowing within. The table by his fire bore a pile of books and a cup of steaming chamomile tea, which the weary boy gratefully sipped as he began to turn the pages of one of
the books.
With the others all busy and preoccupied in their own rooms, Briony was alone when she opened the last of the six doors. She stepped inside with a glad sigh and shut the door behind her.
The walls of Briony’s room were a soft pale green, with a simple design of forget-me-nots, roses and lilies-of-the-valley painted above the architrave. The same pattern was embroidered upon her green eiderdown and pillows, and green silken curtains were held back with an embroidered ribbon. A great bunch of wildflowers on her bedside table sweetened the air. A hip-bath steamed gently nearby, its water green with mineral salts and herbs. A gilt mirror glimmered on the wall, with a pretty white gown hanging beside it.
A spinning-wheel stood in one corner and there was an embroidery stand by the fire, with many spools of coloured silk hung below it and a pincushion in the shape of a pink rose. On the table was a wooden box with a wreath of roses, forget-me-nots and lilies-of-the-valley carved upon it. When Briony opened the lid, she saw it was filled with mulberry leaves and silkworms, many already spinning themselves a little yellow cocoon.
Next to the box was a crystal glass and a decanter of elderflower wine, and a plate of little sweet biscuits, each with a sugar-frosted flower on top. There was also a very thick, ancient-looking book.
Pouring herself a glass of the sweet-scented, golden wine, Briony slowly undressed in the warmth of the crackling fire and climbed into the hip-bath. The water was hot and smelt delicious. She lay back, wondering at the powers of the Erlrune. She had such insight into all their hearts and minds. Briony shivered a little, knowing how dangerous such insight could be.
She soaked in the bath for a long time, enjoying her solitude, but at last the water grew cold and she got out and dried herself and dressed in the soft white gown. She combed out her long mass of dark curls and suddenly realised that her own clothes had disappeared, the curtains were drawn and candlelight illuminated the room with soft, golden light. She wondered how or when this had happened, for she had noticed nothing. It disturbed her a little, but she felt so clean and reinvigorated that it was easy to smile and shrug, and let her sense of unease dissipate.
She poured herself another glass of elderflower wine and sat sleepily by the fire. Her gaze strayed to the thick brown book. She wondered what it was doing there, for Briony had never been taught to read. She opened the cover and the indecipherable squiggles within turned and twisted and resolved themselves into a drawing of a face. It was the face of a woman with a mass of dark curly hair, a pointed chin and ears, and slanted eyes. The face looked up at her and said in a sweet, melodious voice, ‘Magic is the art of bringing change as a consummation of one’s own will . . .’
With a little gasp, Briony shut the book. She held it closed, took a gulp of her wine, and then rather fearfully opened it again. The face looked up at her, smiled a little ruefully, and began again.
‘Magic is the art of bringing change as a consummation of one’s own will. All the world moves upon a wheel of constant change. Season follows season, life follows birth, death follows life. A seed falls, a sapling sprouts and grows slowly into a tree, bearing within its trunk the circles of its time. The tree blossoms, the blossoms harden into seeds and the seeds fall, to begin another tree. In due course, the tree shall fall and rot away, to feed the earth so another seed may grow. Onwards and upwards, the spiral continues. From the helix of life to the celestial dance of the stars, all life spins, a-growing and a-changing . . .’
Absorbed, Briony sat in the chair, sipping her wine and listening.
She came back to herself many hours later. The decanter of wine was empty, the biscuits all gone. Briony felt dreamy and light-headed. She closed the book and laid it carefully back on the table, then looked about her with an expression of serene joy. She could not remember ever feeling so safe and content.
There was a discreet tap on the door. Briony smiled and called, ‘Come in.’
The little grey-winged wildkin looked in shyly and beckoned her. Briony nodded and got up, following her out into the corridor. All the others were just coming out too, all pink and sweet-smelling from their bath and with the same glow of contentment that Briony radiated. Sedgely in particular looked very well pleased with himself, grinning foolishly at the sight of the others and mumbling, ‘A very nice drop of apple-ale, me word! A lovely woman, the Erlrune, lovely! Knows just what a poor old river-roan’s a-needing to be comfortable.’
All were dressed in simple white clothes, without any adornment of any kind. Sedgely and the boys wore long shirts over loose trousers, and Mags and Lisandre were dressed in the same soft dress as Briony. All were barefoot. They smiled to see each other and a little hum of conversation rose as they each began to describe the treasures of their room.
‘I had such a lovely nap,’ Durrik murmured. ‘And my leg does not ache at all! I dreamt . . . oh, I dreamt so many things and now they’re dissolving away. I wish I could remember . . .’
‘Did you see the lute?’ Pedrin’s eyes glowed. ‘It has such a gorgeous sound. I wish I had one like it at home.’
‘Well, look at you,’ Lisandre said to Mags. ‘Who would’ve thought there was such a pretty girl under all that dirt?’
‘Yeah, I scrub up mighty well, really, don’t I?’ Mags said proudly, giving a little twirl so her skirt billowed out. ‘Did you see me doll? Warn’t she bully? Do you think the Erlrune will let me keep her?’
The grey-winged wildkin led them down through the maze of galleries and staircases to a great hall where a pair of ornate wooden doors stood firmly closed. The panels of the door were carved with the faces of wildkin, some achingly beautiful, others hideously ugly, some grinning with spite, others frowning sadly. No-one was surprised to see their eyes glowing with life. All those watching eyes made them feel rather uncomfortable, and they bunched close together.
The doors swung open. The gibgoblin stood inside, smiling malevolently.
‘Sssalutationsss, my dearsss,’ he hissed. ‘Pleassse, passssss through.’
They did not move a step, staring at him in chagrin. He waved his cigar nonchalantly, smoke trailing. ‘Pleassse, no need for disssmay. I ssshall not ssscourge you thisss evening. You are the Erlrune’sss honoured guessstsss . . . for now. Later, perhapsss?’
Still they did not move. He made an impatient gesture, hissing, ‘Passssss through, my dearsss, passssss through.’
Huddled together, they walked through the doors, trying to keep as far away as possible from the gibgoblin. He laughed and lashed his whip mockingly, so that they all flinched.
Beyond was a long dark hall, lined on both sides with great glass doors that stood open to the evening. White gauzy curtains billowed in the breeze. Outside, the sky was velvety-dark and glittering with the icy pinpoints of stars. The round orb of the moon irradiated the garden with silvery brilliance. It was cold and they shivered in their thin clothes.
At the far end of the room was a dais with a tall, elaborately carved wooden throne upon it. On either side of the throne were candelabra, blazing with twelve white candles in three concentric rings. Sitting upright upon the throne was the Erlrune. The light fell full upon her face and figure, making her gown of silver-blue silk shimmer like the lake at moonrise and illuminating her ancient, high-boned face. They all wondered how they could ever have thought her a frumpy old serving-woman. Her lined face was full of power and mystery and pride.
Between them and the Erlrune was a round pool of water. The candlelight gleamed upon its still surface. The pool was surrounded by a mosaic of small blue tiles, bordered in black, set in whirling lines like a hurricane. The pool in the centre was the quiet eye of the storm. Around the edges of the room the tiles were set in coloured patterns of fronds and flowers and faces. The ceiling above them was painted with innumerable stars that glowed eerily, while a forest of trees grew upon the walls, framing the glass doors with their trunks and branches. As they tentatively moved forward a few steps, Briony saw forms and faces in the dark foliage of the tree
s. It seemed they moved, tiptoeing through the shadowy trunks, watching from behind the leaves.
All was silent. Sedgely and the children moved forward a few more steps. All their bonhomie had fallen from them, replaced with a little frisson of nervousness.
‘Look,’ Briony whispered. ‘The tiles are set in a path. I think we should follow it.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Lisandre whispered back.
‘Follow the shape of the tiles, a-whirling about. See? They form a pattern. ’Tis a path that leads round and roundabouts to the pool. I think it would be wrong not to follow the path. Just come along with me. You’ll see what I mean.’
So, in single file, the six companions slowly wound their way into the pool, following the swirling shape laid down in mosaic upon the floor. The path led them inexorably to the pool in the centre of the room and then, rather to their surprise, out again and to the foot of the throne at the far end. The Erlrune regarded them with inscrutable eyes.
‘I hope you found your rooms comfortable.’
‘Just bully!’ Mags said as Pedrin and Durrik both said, ‘Yeah, rather.’
‘Yeah, ma’am,’ Sedgely said, rather abashed.
‘Indeed I did. I thank you,’ Lisandre said regally.
‘So are you ready to look into the Well of Fate?’
They all murmured a rather apprehensive affirmative.
‘Very well,’ the Erlrune replied. ‘First of all you must understand that the Well of Fate may only ever be consulted once in a lifetime. All of you have secret longings and desires that the pool could answer. It could tell you, Briony, who you are. In its depths you could see your past and know who your parents were and why you were lost or abandoned. It could show you your mother, Durrik, and tell you whether she ever wishes she could hold you in her arms.’
Both Briony and Durrik stared at her with stricken faces, their eyes very dark in the flickering candlelight. The Erlrune held their gaze for a long moment, and both dropped their eyes, shamed to have their hidden longing so clearly perceived.
