Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  Sigismund selected his next arrow with care. “Telling stories I can understand, but why would the princess kiss the dragon? Especially,” he added, thinking of Master Griff, “if she thought it was going to eat her? You’d think she’d want to keep as far away as possible, particularly from its mouth.”

  Wenceslas put another arrow into the bull’s-eye. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said dreamily. “I’ll think of a reason. But kisses are important, you know, magical and powerful. It’s there in all the stories.”

  “There’s no arguing with a storyteller,” Sigismund murmured, but his lighter mood didn’t last. The lack of real information in the books only added to his general frustration over the situation with the Margravine. He resented cooling his heels in the palace when he knew that she was out there somewhere, regrouping.

  There must, he thought, be a way for me to force her hand or at least keep her off balance. It’s what I would do if we were fighting with swords. I wouldn’t stand around waiting for my opponent to make all the moves.

  It didn’t help when he found out that his father really had asked the chamberlain to prepare a list of princesses and noblewomen who might make a suitable crown princess. Sigismund protested, but his father cut him off with one of his quick abrupt gestures.

  “As far as the world is concerned you’re eighteen now,” he said, “even if you don’t feel like it because of the business in the Faerie hill. And it’s traditional for the crown prince to marry once he turns eighteen, especially when he’s the only heir the kingdom has.”

  Sigismund said nothing, but thought of the golden-haired princess in his dream and then of Rue. The princess was beautiful and that promised romance in every story Wenceslas had ever told, but Rue—despite the danger, she had found him inside the Margravine’s hill and helped him to escape. She was brave, Sigismund thought, just like the princess in the old tale of the dragon, and how could any “suitable” young lady compare with that? As soon as his father left he tossed the chamberlain’s list of potential brides on the fire, his disposition gray as the year outside.

  Not for the first time since his return from Thorn, he was sharply aware of the gap left by Flor and his lighthearted friends. Adrian Valensar and others of that group were still in the palace but Sigismund felt no inclination to seek them out. From what he could see they were living much as they had two years before, with no idea of what had really happened after the Thorn hunt. He was amused, however, the day Adrian Valensar thanked him for taking Ban with him on his grand tour.

  They had met by chance in one of the light-filled galleries in the new palace, and it was Adrian who initiated the conversation and the subject of Ban. “Our grandfather knew of his gaming debts, despite Flor Langrafon having paid them back. I think he would have disowned Ban if you hadn’t taken him into your retinue. Our grandfather,” Adrian said, with a wry twist to his mouth, “does not like gamblers.”

  “No,” said Sigismund. Hearing Flor’s name spoken so casually, as if he might come sauntering into the room at any moment, had hit him like a fist in the stomach. He saw the puzzlement in Adrian’s gaze and tried to smile, although his face felt stiff. “I suppose you know that Ban is at the West Castle? My father felt he would benefit from training with Sir Andreas.”

  Adrian’s puzzled expression vanished in a grin. “Of course, and our grandfather was hugely gratified by this sign of the King’s favor. Ban actually wrote him a letter under Sir Andreas’s seal—even his mother has never had so much as a note before.” His grin faded. “But I suppose you were thinking about Flor just then. It was cursed bad news, what happened to him.”

  “Yes,” Sigismund said, knowing that Adrian would never take the double meaning. “You must miss him here.”

  Adrian sighed. “It’s definitely not the same without him, but we do our best.”

  Sigismund was not quite as diligent in avoiding Adrian and his former friends after that, and discovered new faces amongst them, young men who had served as squires with his father in the south. He soon learned too that those who had been in combat brought a new dimension to their weapons practice. As the weeks passed, he even found himself liking Adrian Valensar more. Adrian was a quieter and more thoughtful personality than Ban, and like many of the young men had been overshadowed by Flor’s more flamboyant style. Sigismund began to see that he was well intentioned, but was still surprised when Adrian sought him out on the anniversary of the Thorn hunt.

  Sigismund was alone in the gallery above the palace herb garden, watching rain and autumn leaves spatter against the windows. It was a day for thinking of lost friends, like Rue and Wat and even, in a twisted way, Flor. He heard someone come in, but didn’t turn his head until Adrian stood beside him.

  “It is exactly two years today,” Adrian said, “since the Thorn hunt.”

  Adrian had been one of those who had fallen behind, Sigismund remembered, and come up just after the end. “Yes,” he said, neither encouraging nor discouraging. He was wondering what Adrian wanted.

  “Things happened so quickly after that,” Adrian said. “You were gone, and Flor and Ban. But I always intended to say, when the time seemed right, that I was sorry for the death of your huntsman. I am not sure I could have acted with his courage, or yours, if I had been in either of your places.”

  Sigismund traced the lead between the panes and watched the rain splash into the garden below. “Thank you,” he said, when he was sure his voice would be steady.

  “There’s something else I’ve always wanted you to know,” Adrian said after a moment. “Flor was my friend and in most ways I admired him. But in Valensar we still hold to the old ways and do not hang or mutilate our people for taking game from the forest.”

  “Even when the forest belongs to the Crown?” Sigismund asked, remembering that brief conversation from two years before. He half thought Adrian might back away from this question, but the other’s eyes continued to meet his.

  “We do not encourage poaching,” Adrian said quietly, “but in lean years, when the harvest fails, taking game may be the only thing that stands between the poorest people and starvation.”

  Sigismund nodded, because Master Griff had already taught him this, but he was pleased to learn that not all his companions were as unfeeling toward the common people as he had once thought. Perhaps that too had been Flor’s influence at work, overshadowing those around him so that they hesitated to express a contrary view.

  If so, thought Sigismund, then their reticence was un-helpful, since it gave me a false impression of who and what they were. He was certainly revising his opinion of Adrian Valensar, even if his ability to trust would never be the same as before Flor’s betrayal. Wat and Rue had both proved that there were those who did and would keep faith, but he would always be more reserved from now on, a little less willing to accept friendship at face value.

  And then word came that the southern provinces had flared into revolt again.

  “You will ride with me,” his father said. They were in his study and the table and floor were littered with all the maps and lists needed to get the royal armies into the field. “I’m not waiting for the spring. I’m going to take the rebels by surprise with a winter campaign and put the zu Malvolin in the south down, once and for all.”

  Sigismund looked at his harsh expression, and then away. “That’s what she wants, of course,” he said. “The Margravine, I mean. She wants us distracted in the south while she moves to achieve her ends in the west.”

  His father frowned. “You may be right, but there are still three years left until the spell reaches its hundredth year and can be undone. And the faie has no power base in the west anymore, now that her castle there has been destroyed.”

  “She may rebuild one while we are tied up in the south,” Sigismund pointed out. “You should send me there to make sure that doesn’t happen. I know the country and I know what the Margravine is after.”

  “Other than you?” his father inquired heavily. He had been lea
ning over his desk but now he straightened, his mouth a grim line. “If you are right, I would be sending you straight into her arms again. And I doubt there is much you could do there that Sir Andreas, as steward, cannot do equally well. Besides, you are the crown prince and my only son. This time I want you safe under my eye.”

  “But the danger in the west is real,” Sigismund persisted, “and we can’t afford to ignore it.”

  The King rolled up a map with a snap. “I am not ignoring the west or this old business of the Wood. We will deal with it in three years, which all our information suggests is the only right time, and with an army if that’s what it takes to cut our way through.” He held up a hand as Sigismund tried to speak again. “No arguments. You ride south with me and that’s final.”

  Sigismund was tempted to demand how many years his father had been fighting in the south without success, or to simply storm out in exasperation. But even in their short time together, he had already learned that it was futile to argue once his father had made up his mind.

  Yet if only, he thought, frustrated, we could deal with the Wood and the Margravine’s ambitions there, I’m sure the situation in the southern provinces would resolve itself.

  But he also knew that his father still thought of him as a boy, dreaming of Parsifal and high deeds of errantry, deeds the King saw as misguided in the modern world. Conflicts, in the King’s view, were decided by the best-equipped and best-organized army, not by a single hero with a sword. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to persuade him otherwise.

  Sigismund lay in bed that night, his arms behind his head, and thought about that long-ago day when he had stood on the very edge of the Wood. He remembered the listening quiet and how not even the wind had stirred beneath the canopy. The place had been heavy with magic, and he could not even begin to imagine what would happen to an army that tried to march its way through.

  As for the Margravine, thought Sigismund, staring into the night, I have to either take her by surprise or anger her enough that she starts making mistakes.

  There must, he reasoned, pursuing this line of thought, be some way around the hundred-year limitation on the spell, so that the Margravine isn’t just sitting there at the appointed time and place, waiting for me. He frowned, trying to recall exactly what Balisan had said that night on the tower when he spoke of Sigismund’s faie inheritance—that the flow of magic was two-way, that was it. And Syrica had said that no magic was entirely certain once a spell was set in motion.

  “So if I am the chosen prince and therefore part of the spell, then perhaps I can influence the magic as well as be influenced by it—including changing the time when the spell can be lifted.” Sigismund sat up in bed, unfolding the possibility out loud. “I should be able to go into the Wood now and shape the magic there to my will.” He locked his arms around his knees. “And it’s already very close to the hundredth year of the spell. That should help.”

  It was a course, Sigismund decided, that he had to attempt, even though it would be difficult without his father’s support. In fact, the only reason he could think of for holding back was because to act meant deliberately disobeying his father.

  We’re only just starting to get to know each other again, Sigismund thought. If I disobey him now, it might damage our relationship beyond repair.

  But what, he wondered, was the alternative? His father had been locked into the conflict in the south for so long that he couldn’t see what was clear to Sigismund, which was that it was a symptom rather than the cause of their problems. And I must deal with the cause, Sigismund thought, no matter how much it angers or disappoints my father—especially as failure to do so is likely to result in his death as well as my own.

  He sighed deeply, still not happy, but spent some time after that thinking of ways and means of returning to the west. He would have to go in secret, which meant acting alone, since anyone who helped him would have to face his father’s anger as well as the Margravine’s enmity. Besides, if no one else knew what he planned, then he could not be betrayed.

  The best time to slip away, Sigismund decided, would be on the eve of his father’s departure for the south, when there would be so much happening that his absence might not be noticed for some time. His plan was to head north first, disguising himself as a servant riding a common hack, and hope that the first pursuit would head west, searching for a prince on a fine horse. He would only turn west later, when the initial hunt had died down.

  Sigismund knew that the likelihood of being found and brought back was high. But I’m still going to try, he thought. I’m done with dancing to the Margravine zu Malvolin’s tune.

  This spirit of resolve stayed with him over the next few weeks as he gathered together the things he would need, and was with him still as he crept out of the palace on the final night. His father was still closeted in his study, going over plans and supplies, and the palace was so full of soldiers and the noblemen who had answered the King’s summons that no one paid any attention to one more servant, cloaked and hooded against the autumn cold. Sigismund picked up the saddlebags and travel roll that he had hidden earlier in the day and slipped into the stable where the palace hacks were kept. These were horses that could be used by anyone with a commission, or a servant with an errand to run.

  It was dark between the stalls and Sigismund could smell horses and hay and oiled leather. The horse he had chosen was a strong bay, just ugly enough to discourage theft, but without being distinctive. It turned its head as he entered, ears flicking back and then forward again in doubt, but it stayed quiet as he drew on the bridle and settled the saddle on its back.

  “Going somewhere?” asked Balisan, out of the darkness, and Sigismund jumped with shock. He said nothing until his heart calmed, letting his hands continue with the business of tightening and buckling the girth. “North—and then west,” he said finally, turning his head toward the deeper shadows. “But I expect you’ve already guessed that, since you knew to be here.”

  “Your father told me what you said to him. And I know you.” Balisan stepped out of the shadows and Sigismund’s hands closed on the saddle.

  “I’m not going to let you stop me,” he said. “I’m going whether you and my father like it or not.”

  Balisan stopped at the entrance to the stall. “What makes you think I want to stop you?” he asked mildly.

  Sigismund opened his mouth, then closed it. “I thought—well, you serve my father, don’t you?”

  “Do I?” Balisan’s tone, like his shadowed expression, was enigmatic.

  “Don’t you?” Sigismund echoed, uncertain.

  Balisan moved into the stall and Sigismund caught the gleam of his eyes across the horse’s back. “I am pledged to guide and teach you,” the master-at-arms said softly. “And since I believe that you are right in this case and your father wrong, I feel at liberty to honor that pledge by helping you.”

  “Oh,” said Sigismund. He had not sought Balisan’s approval or assistance, but his spirits felt lighter all the same. “So how are you planning to do that? It won’t stop the hue-and-cry if we’re both missing.”

  The bronze eyes shone like jewels, and the smile was back in Balisan’s voice. “But we won’t be missing. I thought we should put Ban Valensar to good use, since he’s still wearing the illusion of your face.”

  The horse must have felt Sigismund’s surprise because it shifted uneasily, tossing up its head. “Easy,” said Sigismund, soothing it automatically. “Easy, boy. I thought that must have worn off long ago,” he added, once the horse was quiet again. “Besides, isn’t he in the West Castle?”

  “The Margravine’s magic is enduring,” Balisan said. “And at first we needed to preserve the likeness for our own purposes, as you know. Once Ban was safely in the west there was no pressing need to lift it, especially while we were unsure when you would return and whether we would need to perpetuate his masquerade. More recently—” Balisan’s shadow shrugged against the wall.

  �
�You foresaw this, didn’t you?” Sigismund said, shaking his head. “How soon did you send for Ban?”

  “Soon enough,” said Balisan, “to serve our purpose now. He will ride south with me tomorrow, so as far as the world is concerned we will both be where we ought to be. And you are free to ride west tonight.”

  Sigismund shook his head again but had to admit that it was a clever plan. “How did you get Ban to agree to this?” he asked after a moment. “Why would he risk the King’s anger a second time?”

  “Let us say,” Balisan replied, “that Ban Valensar hopes to redeem former errors and earn a place in your service, and I have persuaded him that it is worth enduring the King’s displeasure in the short term. As for your father, I will tell him in due course, when it is too late for him to turn back or thwart your plans.”

  “He’ll be furious,” said Sigismund, thinking that was probably an understatement. “Aren’t you afraid of what he might do?”

  “No,” said Balisan. “He will be angry,” he added, as though sensing Sigismund’s doubt, “but he has known from the beginning that I serve you, not him. He will not harm me, Sigismund.”

  Will not, Sigismund wondered, eyeing him across the horse’s back, or cannot? “What about Ban?” he asked quietly.

  Balisan’s eyebrows flared. “Do you really think your father is the kind of man who would harm Ban Valensar for something he knows to be my responsibility? He is not vindictive, Sigismund, or even unreasonable. It is just that this long conflict in the south and his fear for you are clouding his judgment at present.”

  Sigismund was silent, sensing the truth in what Balisan said and knowing the ruse with Ban would give him a far greater chance of reaching the Wood undetected. He was grateful, although more than a little bit sorry for Ban, caught between Balisan and the King. “If we win through,” he said, thinking out loud, “I really shall have to take Ban into my service. He will have more than earned it by then.”