by Jane Yolen
ASPEN LEARNS A LESSON
Under Fal’s direction, the boys of the Poppy Clan found ten wind-harvested trees lying on the forest floor, so they only had to take down two. Or rather, Fal, at least four times the age of any of the lads, only had to take down two. The boys watched as he brought down each with five expertly placed swings of his ax. Then the old forester measured the trees with steady strides and trimmed off the bottoms till they were all of a size.
The boys hitched two of the oxen that had pulled the wagon to the downed trees. The great beasts hardly strained as they dragged the trees, in pairs, to the center of the encampment.
It all took more time than the queen would have liked. But since the rain had not yet begun to fall, only hovering heavily in the sluggish grey clouds streaming in from the north, she soon had the boys setting up four of the trees along the camp’s perimeter, at the four corners.
Aspen realized that those trees now marked the farthest of all the fires.
“Oh, Mother . . .” he whispered. “I think I am beginning to understand.”
Now the queen began to weave magic in the air with her fingers. It spun out like spider’s silk, winding about each standing tree, anchoring each to its spot. Once the first trees were steady, the queen had the boys set up four more well inside the area designated by the first four.
“Sire,” whispered Molintien, “she’s making a . . .”
“Hush,” he said, finger to his lips.
Again the queen’s spider fingers spun out their silken anchors till those four trees held themselves up in sturdy splendor.
Then the final four trees were hauled by the oxen and placed by the boys under the queen’s direction. The trees marked an inside space where—if Aspen had brought along his throne—a throne would have been set.
When all the trees were solidly situated, by fey and magic, that old companionship, the queen wove a silken canopy over the whole, acres and acres spun out of her fingers, though it was no soft covering to be brought down in any passing breeze.
Aspen put a hand to a piece of the tent closest to him. “Ah . . .” he said. His mother had spun a pavilion as solid as stone. But at what cost?
He turned and saw her collapse into Molintien’s arms, looking as drained and frail and grey as the woman in white who haunted the upper halls of Astaeri Palace.
“Mother,” he whispered, near to tears.
“I may have overdone,” the queen said faintly.
“No, madam, it was well done,” Molintien answered, loud enough so that Aspen could hear. “You can rest now. The fires are saved.”
Aspen had the wagon brought into the pavilion, pushing aside the crowds of illusory soldiers. He ordered four of the Poppy Clan boys to move the wizard’s body to beneath the wagon. One boy shuddered at touching the corpse, which, he said, was no longer stiff, but the rest of the boys seemed to have no problem handling the dead.
Then Aspen told them to stand at each corner of the wagon to keep a constant watch.
“On the dead man?” the shuddering boy asked.
“On the queen,” Aspen growled.
The moat troll picked the queen up and carried her to the wagon, placing her carefully on the straw. Everyone else was surprised at how gentle he was with her, though Aspen was not.
Then Molintien climbed in with the queen to keep her warm. Aspen covered them both with Snail’s cloak and his own as well.
“Does she breathe?” he whispered to Molintien.
“Shallowly, sire. But steady. All she needs is time and some hot tea.”
Tea they had. Time . . . that was a different question. Aspen sent one of the brownies for a mug of tea.
“Are you certain she will recover?” he asked Molintien.
“As certain as one can be in the middle of a war, sire,” she said.
Aspen worried that she was trying to make him feel better. Snail would have told him the truth.
Suddenly at his side, Croak said, “I’ll take first and last perimeter watch. You, sire, should stay here and keep watch over the queen.” Those were the most words in a row Aspen had ever heard from him.
Aspen shook his head. “The queen would never allow it. I will take second perimeter watch with one of the boys and the troll. Wake us.”
“But, sire . . .”
“No buts. I am the king. In some lands, my word would be law.” Aspen’s lips thinned and set in a determined scowl.
Croak saluted and left.
Aspen made the rest of the real soldiers bed down. He stared up into the pavilion roof that his mother had spun out of magic, need, and love. The fires cast strange shadows, which a wizard might have been able to parse. He kept thinking that if he looked long enough at the shadows, something about this war might make sense.
At last, he lay down, knowing he would probably not be able to sleep. But he had underestimated how tired he was. As soon as he was horizontal, he was out.
HE DREAMED OF the Sticksman’s cavern. Not as he had seen it with the Archivist, but as it had been when he had escaped the Unseelie Court with Snail. The stalagmites were gone, and there was a dock, a boathouse, and a crowd of Border Lords charging toward the shore. But instead of Old Jack Daw urging them on, this time it was the skulker. And then, as they got closer, Aspen saw that it was King Obs, not the skulker.
Wait—it is the skulker. He changed his mind several times more, then realized something: They look the same.
Aspen shot awake and sat up. “They are the same!” he said aloud, knowing that some dreams could be prophetic.
No, not the same, he corrected himself. They could not be. Obs wasn’t old enough to have been alive at the time the Archivist had brought him to. But they could be related. Was the skulker related to King Obs? Aspen thought that was an awfully big leap to make from a physical resemblance. But what if he were? King Obs traced his line back to the first Unseelie king: King Arl, the Uniter of Clans. At least he said he did. Was the skulker King Arl? Did the Archivist and I actually go back that far in time? Why did the skulker need to rid himself of the Sticksman? And how will this knowledge help me delay Jack Daw till the changeling army arrives?
Sleep was obviously not going to return, so Aspen got wearily to his feet. He had no answer to any of that. And now it was starting to drizzle. He could hear the patter on the pavilion roof.
“Sire?” It was Molintien, sitting up in the wagon, though the queen did not move. “The men have gathered more wood and are standing by the fires in case the queen’s roof doesn’t hold. We’ll keep them lit while you and the soldiers keep any scouts at bay.”
If it started raining in earnest, he was not sure he would be able to summon his own fire, but it was nice of her to say so. And also to take initiative while he slept.
“Thank you, Molintien,” he said. “The queen’s roof will hold. It must hold. How does Her Majesty?”
“Breathing steady, sire. But colder than I would like.”
He nodded, but once he had heard his mother still breathed, his mind began its own conversation, and whatever else Molintien said disappeared into the patter of the rain.
What I need, he thought, is to hold Jack Daw off another day. Then hopefully Odds will be here.
He decided to walk about the camp to see if anything came to him. I need to make certain no scouts get too close, anyway. I do not want them loosing any arrows and seeing them go right through my soldiers.
He wandered down the hill, already slippery underfoot with the small rain. He sensed rather than saw some of his own scouts nearby. It was comforting to know they were close, but he wondered if any of them had slept. An exhausted soldiery was not going to help hold off the horde.
He saw at once that Jack Daw’s army had pulled back to the edge of the forest, which made sense. They expected an attack in the morning and were digging into a defensive position,
cutting down trees and making a perimeter around their camp with sharpened logs and trenches. Aspen looked but didn’t see any magical means being used.
They must have lost all their wizards when they fought my father.
That was often the way of it with battle-mages. The energies they commanded were so powerful that mutual destruction was often assured. In a few ancient wars Jaunty had told him about, the wizards on both sides had refused to fight because of this. Would that we all could just refuse to fight. Aspen smiled despite the poor weather and his impending doom. Sorry, Jack, my old friend, I just don’t feel like fighting today. Some other time, perhaps?
He didn’t think that would delay the old drow for long. Might confuse him for a bit, however. Aspen stopped walking, struck by a thought. And that might be enough.
Jack Daw was a schemer, a planner. He didn’t like to make moves until assured of victory. Maybe if I confuse him, it could buy us enough time. He looked at his ranks of illusory soldiers, some very convincingly shivering in the cold. Buy us enough time to replace this fake army with a real one.
He looked up at the sky, which showed no sign of light. Dark clouds still hovered over everything.
Unless the magical soldiers disappear before then.
With that cheerful thought, he headed back up the hill.
He was nearing the central fire, which Fal had stoked up to great height, when he heard Molintien call, “Sire, come get something hot with us!”
Us! He ran the rest of the way.
When he came back into the pavilion, pushing past real soldiers and fake ones without making a distinction, he saw his mother sitting up, a mug in her hand.
Aspen hadn’t thought he was very hungry until he saw that mug. Suddenly he was ravenous. I have not eaten since yesterday. He rounded the flames and found that somehow, in the middle of a soldier’s camp and in the middle of a war, his mother—or more probably Molintien—had managed to put out a spread worthy of a king.
Balnar, he thought. The old steward could perform magic when packing a sack for travel. Probably real magic.
Aspen stood next to the wagon while his mother instructed Molintien to pile a plate for him. He tore into it with no decorum and very little of the reverence a meal of that quality deserved.
“So, Aspen,” his mother said, her voice no more than a whisper, “do you have a plan for the morning?”
The question stalled any questions he might have made about her health and whether she should be sitting up.
Aspen shrugged. “The beginning of one.”
“Good. I shall sleep better knowing you have a plan.”
Calling it a plan may be glorifying it a bit. I have a stratagem that might buy us a couple of hours.
“Then sleep well, Mother.” He grabbed a last starfruit and popped it in his mouth. It tasted of cool night and sugared dreams. “But before you are off to that land of shadows, do you know anything about King Obs’s ancestry? Is he truly descended from Arl the Uniter?”
His mother took a sip of whatever was in her mug, then said in the same whispery voice, “They all say they are, do they not?” Another sip. “But Obs’s claim might have more merit than most.”
He thought her hand looked as if it were shaking, and indeed Molintien took the mug from her. His mother made no protest and finished her thought in her whisper voice. “The wizards in the tower thought so, at least. What of it?”
“Most likely nothing. Is it true Arl brought the lawless clans together to form the first Unseelie Court?”
She shrugged, a gesture that once might have been almost coquettish but now made her look exceedingly frail. “No one knows for certain. There are no records from that time.”
“That ever strike you as odd? We have written histories as far back as then.”
“But the Unseelie are very different from us, my son.” Frowning, she held out her hand for the mug. Molintien gave it to her, and she took a long draught. “And we had not yet discovered the Unseelie folk then, for the river crossing was too desperate, filled with carnivorous and very hungry mer. Plus the Shifting Lands swallowed up our explorers, so our histories tell us nothing of the Unseelie then.”
He feared tiring her further, but he knew this conversation was important and she would finish it even if he would not. “I am not so sure how different we are,” he said. “My father tried to have me killed. That seems pretty Unseelie.” He thought of Snail. “And some from that land, like Snail, are brave and trustworthy and noble.”
His mother nodded solemnly, her eyes in the shadows thrown by the fires now dark and unfathomable. Like the eyes of a prophetess. “There are some who say we were all the same long ago. ‘All the rivers in Faerie are one, and so are its people.’” Tilting her head, she said, “I do not remember who said that. I am getting old and this travel does not agree with me. I believe I will turn in now.” She bowed slightly to him. It had to be an unfamiliar gesture for her, who had been queen for so long, but she performed it gracefully and naturally.
“Good night, Your Majesty,” she added. Then she winked and fell back into Molintien’s arms, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
All the rivers in Faerie are one, and so are its people. Aspen moved off to stand by the closest fire. He frowned. Then what was the skulker doing with the Sticksman in that cave so long ago? He plucked a piece of grass and threw it into the fire, watching it curl up and burn, wishing all of his troubles would just burn up and drift away like ash.
26
SNAIL JOINS THE WAR
“There!” Snail shouted, pointing to the final milestone. “After Little Sister, and the next few meadows, there’s a high plain where our troops—the real ones and the illusions—are camped. You’ll know it by the cook-fires.”
She managed to make out the mountain as they passed by it through the driving rain, but only just, and pointed.
Snail hoped the bowser knew where they were. They were flying rain-blind. The only thing missing was lightning. “And thank the gods for that,” she said under her breath, confident neither Maggie nor Dagmarra would hear her.
“I don’t see an encampment anywhere,” called Maggie Light from her place at the head of the bowser. “And no fires.” Her voice seemed rusty, worn.
“Oh no.” Snail was devastated. “Without the fires, the illusory army will disappear.”
Dagmarra spit out a short, sharp word. “Vrest!”
Snail assumed it was a dwarven swear.
The meadows below, or what they could see of them from this height, looked more like ponds from the amount of rain that had fallen.
The bowser headed downward, until he was skimming the treetops, possibly because of the weight of his three passengers. But also his rain-soaked fur must have added even more weight.
Snail patted him for reassurance, her hand getting even wetter than it already was. She hadn’t thought that possible.
THEY DIDN’T SPEAK for the next few leagues. It was too difficult and too wearing. Besides, the closer they came to their destination, the more they feared being overheard by the wrong soldiers. If they were spotted, what fell weapons might be fired at them, what flying monsters might take to the skies to chase them down?
Now Snail tried to see more than just the grey rain and failed. Even rubbing a soggy sleeve across her face didn’t help.
In fact, she thought, it only makes things worse. She wondered if they’d gotten lost; if they were going to suddenly find themselves in the midst of the Unseelie horde. Her mind spiraled out of control with bad thoughts.
“No camp,” Maggie said suddenly, “but I see a shining pavilion ahead.”
“Pavilion?” Snail couldn’t imagine what she meant.
Maggie Light added, “Smoke from all sides. The whole illuminated with . . .”
Snail strained to see through the storm, but she didn’t have the kind o
f made eyes that Maggie had. But that description was enough to frighten her.
“Turn around, turn around!” she shouted at the bowser, certain that what they were seeing was the kind of Unseelie magic that she’d been fearing. Any minute, she was sure, they would be surrounded by dragons and drows, by ogres reaching upward to pluck them from the skies.
But the bowser was already dropping well below the tree line and clearly coming in for a landing.
“You stupid excuse for a foot wipe!” Snail screamed. “You’ll be our deaths.”
Maggie lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I smell no Unseelie here,” she said. “Though I do smell royal magicks.”
Smell? Snail thought. Maggie Light can smell magic? Why hadn’t I known that? Can Aspen use it? When she drew in a deep breath herself, all she got was a nose full of wet air.
They landed with a bump, skidded across the wet grass, till the bowser ended with his head—at least Snail assumed it was his head—resting against a tall tree that was posing as a pavilion post.
A very large set of feet and legs stood by the post.
Snail looked up and up.
“Troll,” Dagmarra said, almost happily.
“Why, Master Moat,” Snail said, “I think we’ve come home.” She stood up, as did Maggie and the dwarf. “Though it doesn’t quite look like the home I left.”
The moat troll grinned. It almost improved his looks. Almost, but not quite.
Then he picked up the bowser as if the rug was no more than a nose wipe, and the three passengers followed behind.
Snail didn’t know what to make of the pavilion, its shimmering light, the fact that it kept the bucketing rain out. The grass beneath the pavilion’s roof was dry, and all the fires—magic or real—were merrily crackling away.
Even more important was the crush of soldiers in full armor, swords at their belts. Snail knew they were only an illusion, but a couple of times when she brushed by them their armor felt solid. She wondered if their swords were sharp enough to run an enemy through and had to stop herself from asking, or from testing out the swords’ points.
