Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  “It should not be too great a hardship,” said Balisan. “The boy means well, even if he is not very bright.”

  Sigismund grinned, because it was an apt description of the Ban he remembered. But thinking of Ban meant that memories of Flor were never far behind, and that brought him back to the Margravine and all that lay ahead. For a moment Sigismund felt very much alone, but then his hand closed on Quickthorn’s hilt and he felt the rising tide of adventure.

  I’ve always known, he thought, that it’s the chosen prince alone who must lift the spell. This is my quest. It always has been.

  There was a burst of laughter and shouting from behind the stable and Sigismund’s head turned. “I’d better go,” he said, and Balisan nodded. Neither spoke as Sigismund led the bay horse out, and he half expected the yard to be empty when he paused at the gate and looked back. At first nothing moved, but then a deeper shadow stirred in the darkness cast by the stable door, and the night lantern caught the outline of a hand raised in farewell.

  “Good-bye,” Sigismund whispered, but there was no answer, just the echo of his horse’s hooves as they passed beneath the gate and into the night.

  The Road West

  The Wood was bright with spring by the time Sigismund saw it again. There was a high pass where the road gave a fine view of the western provinces, all fading into the green mist of the forest. It was empty country, with vast stretches of wild land between scattered patchworks of farm and field, but the pass was too far east for Sigismund to make out the squat gray towers of the West Castle, even when he shaded his eyes against the spring sun.

  His journey west had been slow, with winter blowing in hard in a series of snowstorms that blocked the road for weeks. Even when the weather cleared, the melting snow and backlog of travelers quickly turned the road into a quagmire, slowing progress even further. Sigismund found that it was a very different matter traveling the road as a serving man on a common hack, rather than as a prince for whom all the world gave way. He became used to being passed in a shower of mud and curses by young noblemen, and pushed into the ditch by merchant caravans anxious to reach home before the winter storms swirled in again.

  The delays caused by the weather meant that every inn was full to overflowing with frustrated travelers, tempers were volatile, and rooms in short supply. Sigismund soon learned to count himself lucky if he could sleep in a stable or beside a forge fire, and he spent three days crowded into a drafty woodshed with his horse, waiting until the worst of the snowstorms blew itself out.

  The inns where he did manage to find accommodation were frequently small and mean, little better than alehouses set at the crossroads between major towns. But whether the lodging was large or small, isolated or standing on a busy market square, the talk was always the same. Travelers reported an increase in outlaw bands, brought down from the hills by the severity of the winter, and there were darker tales too, of fell beasts and night creatures that lived on blood and human souls. Some said that the winter was behind this incursion, while others maintained that it was because the bulk of the fighting men had been drawn away to serve in the King’s war in the south. The consensus was that it was only safe to travel the road in numbers, and it was this that led Sigismund to sign on with the horse copers.

  He had seen them first in a town not far from the capital, two men who made their living traveling the countryside, buying and trading horses. He met up with them again after his three days spent sheltering in the woodshed, in a small walled town where the main road turned west. Sigismund was wet, cold, and hungry, and the horse copers were frowning over the stories of outlaws and night beasts. It was agreed, in the way that happens over beer and hot food, that they would take on extra men before the road became wilder and more isolated, and Sigismund was quick to put himself forward.

  Martin and Bror, as the horse copers were called, were both middle-aged men and spoke with a recognizable northern burr. They had, they told Sigismund over a second beer to seal their bargain, spent most of their lives traveling the kingdom’s circuit of horse fairs and markets. Although mainly taking on men for security, Martin made it clear that anyone who joined their party would be helping feed and groom their string of horses, as well as keeping them together on the road and clear of other travelers.

  “Fair enough,” said Sigismund. He took another long swallow of the beer. “I can mend harness as well, if you need help with that, and I know how to shoe a horse if I have to.”

  “Do ye now?” said Martin. “Well, that’s handy to know, although we mostly do our own shoeing, Bror and I. You stick with the grooming and feeding for now, and we’ll see how we go with the rest.”

  “Weather’s clearing,” said Bror, who had finished his beer first and gone to check the sky outside. He came back in on a gust of bitter air. “We’ll be on the road again tomorrow, I reckon.”

  Another two men had joined their company before the night was out, and Sigismund guessed that they must be brothers, or at least close kin. They were both lean and ragged, with the red hair and blue eyes common in the western reaches of the kingdom, and said that their names were Fulk and Rafe. In the days that followed they would never quite meet Sigismund’s gaze directly, looking away whenever he spoke to them. He suspected that they might easily turn cutthroat if opportunity arose and he wished that it was customary for serving men to carry swords. The only weapon he carried openly was his servant’s dagger; and Quickthorn was trussed into a bundle on the bay horse’s back. Martin and Bror had bows and staves, which made Sigismund feel a little safer, but he took to sleeping lightly all the same.

  In the end they made it through the wild country without incident, although a flooded river and swept-away bridge held up their journey for several more weeks. The snow was melting in earnest by then and everyone agreed that it was spring. The milder weather meant more travelers on the road and news from the capital caught up with them as the snow disappeared. There was a great deal of rumor about the war in the south, although most stories agreed that the King had moved fast in the autumn, crossing the Vara river by night and occupying Varana citadel while the rebels were still recovering from their surprise. Prince Sigismund, it was said, was with the King, news that seemed to please most hearers.

  “Here’s to the Young Dragon!” one man shouted, in a wayside alehouse. “And to the honor of the west country, where we had the raising of him.”

  Sigismund raised his tankard with the rest; it would have been unwise not to. It was good news, he thought, that the ruse with Ban was working and that as far as the world was concerned he was still in the south. With luck, the Margravine would believe it too.

  The alehouse was at the foot of the pass that led to the high saddle, and the view of the western provinces. The road dropped quickly after that and Sigismund lost sight of the Wood but was aware that it was there—like a sailor who smells salt on the breeze, long before he catches his first glimpse of ocean between coastal hills. Martin and Bror were planning a long circuit through the countryside and it would be several weeks before their route brought them close to the Wood. Sigismund contemplated leaving them and riding on alone but decided he was less conspicuous in their company. He doubted that the Margravine’s agents would spare a second glance for a dirty, travel-worn groom working for an equally shabby band of horse traders. He felt certain too that there was no need to hurry. He was not yet nineteen and the Margravine would be biding her time, thinking she had three more years before he could make any move to lift the spell.

  It was nearly summer before the horse copers’ circuit brought them to Westwood, a half day’s journey from the West Castle and just over a mile from the Wood. The town was small, but the mayor had ordered a riding horse from the capital and Martin and Bror thought that more business might be done there. They would stay a few days and then turn east again. Fulk and Rafe planned to continue further on, and the copers asked what Sigismund intended. He would be welcome to stay, they said, given that he knew horses and
looked after them well.

  Sigismund shook his head, unsure of his best course. He longed to go to the West Castle but suspected that it would be better to head straight into the Wood, making his departure from the horse copers as unobtrusive as possible. He was mulling over these thoughts, and a beer, in the dark reek of the local alehouse when Fulk and Rafe ducked in. Sigismund sighed inwardly, knowing that appearances would demand that they sat with him.

  “Sleepy place,” commented Fulk, when he had taken his first long draft of ale, and Rafe nodded. He rarely spoke, leaving any talking to Fulk. “’Cept for the knockin’ down of some castle near here. Last year, that was.”

  “Magic,” said Rafe, his eyes glancing off Sigismund and sliding toward the low door.

  “So folk here say.” Fulk took another deep swallow from his tankard, then wiped his mouth reflectively. “All they say, in fact. It’s prob’ly the only thing that’s happened here in a hundred years.”

  “What castle?” asked Sigismund, knowing what was expected of him, although he already knew the answer. The Margravine herself had told him that her castle of Highthorn was located near Westwood.

  The upshot of the conversation was that they would ride out and see it the next day. Rafe and Fulk were fascinated by the prospect of a castle that had been brought down by magical energy, and it would have been unusual, Sigismund suspected, if he showed no interest in what was clearly a local phenomenon.

  It was strange, he found, to look at a wreckage that was raw and new, with jagged walls and broken roofs gaping to the sky, rather than the ancient ruin that Balisan had shown him in his dream. The moat, where the Margravine had once told him that swans floated, was choked with fallen debris and the first weeds were springing up out of the scarred earth. If there had been swans, they were long gone, and it was hard to accept that he and Quickthorn had been responsible for so much destruction.

  Sigismund shivered, but not just because of dark memories and the sight of the ruin before him. A cold wind had sprung up, and what had been a bright, sunny day quickly became overcast as clouds boiled up fast out of the east. They turned their horses into the gale, trying to return to Westwood, but the wind howled, blowing rain and then hail into their faces. The horses were forced backward, and then sideways, until they turned their tails to the stinging blast. Lightning slashed the sky as the full force of the storm struck. Thunder boomed overhead and the hail became torrential rain, plunging the day into darkness.

  Sigismund could see his horse’s neck and ears, but Fulk and Rafe had disappeared and the wind snatched his voice away when he called to them. He didn’t see the Wood until he was in it, his horse stumbling and crashing its way through thick undergrowth and the canopy closing overhead. It shut out the worst of the wind and rain, but not the heavy crash of thunder or the lightning, which turned the understory blue-white. Every strike made Sigismund’s horse shy and quiver with fear, then plunge deeper into the Wood.

  The storm was driving them and for a while all they could do was run before it, helpless as a rudderless ship, until the wind’s ferocity began to lessen. The thunder and lightning came at less frequent intervals and the rain stopped, but there was still no sun, just a deep twilight beneath the trees. Sigismund peered around, looking for a path or any clue to his location, but there was nothing except tree trunks in every direction and a tangle of undergrowth so thick that even the horse would find it difficult to force a way through.

  Lost, thought Sigismund, and sodden to the skin!

  He shook his head, aware that this was no ordinary storm, and wondered what had triggered it: whether the Margravine had become aware of his presence once he came to her fallen castle, or whether it was an automatic defense against any intrusion into the ruin. Either way, he could not see his danger lessening now that he had crossed into the forest, and there was a shrill note in the wind that made him uneasy.

  The bay horse plodded on and the gloom beneath the trees began to thicken, heralding night. The whine in the wind had intensified, becoming urgent, and Sigismund thought he heard the faint distant winding of a hunting horn. It reminded him of the forest of Thorn, which was hardly reassuring, and he wished he had brought the bundle with Quickthorn in it, rather than leaving it at the inn.

  The horse stopped with a snort and Sigismund blinked, then blinked again when the wall of blackness in front of him did not shift or fade away. It really was a wall, he realized after a moment, but one that stirred and whispered to itself as though alive. A hedge, he decided, straining his eyes to make out details through the thick dusk, but one that was high and thick as a castle wall. He stretched out a hand, then snatched it back, cursing. A thorn had pierced him through the leather of his glove. “A hedge of thorns,” he muttered, and then, realizing: “The hedge of thorns. This must be the heart of the Wood.”

  He began to ride slowly round it, looking for a way in, but the ground was so thick with briars that it was difficult to move without being caught fast or slashed to ribbons by the long, vicious thorns.

  If only I had Quickthorn, Sigismund thought again, I’m sure I could cut my way through. He cursed himself for leaving the sword behind, aware that the wind was strengthening and there were other noises in the darkness around him. He could hear a slithering from the undergrowth as though some creature moved there, dragging itself on its belly, and a beating like great wings in the trees overhead. He saw the white roll of his horse’s eyes, the flare of its nostrils as it sidled, wanting to run—and the sound of horns was louder now, a rising clamor.

  Lightning flashed, cracking the sky open, and a throng of ghostly horsemen poured through. They hovered above the treetops, twisting in and out of shape, and the eyes of both horses and riders flickered with the same lurid glow as the lightning. They reminded Sigismund of the dancers in the Margravine’s hall, except that their appearance was wilder, fiercer, and he could see the glint of spear tips and the curve of bows. They cried out to each other in high cold voices as Sigismund stared up, and several of them put horns to their lips and blew. Then the whole hunt turned as one and swooped, a ribbon of fire and darkness hurtling toward him, down through the trees.

  Sigismund’s horse turned tail and ran, a headlong flight away from the thorn hedge with the faie hunt baying at its heels. An arrow hissed past Sigismund’s ear and he crouched low against the bay’s neck as it twisted and dodged, hoping that its maddened rush would save them both. But a quick glance back at the trail of light streaking after them, curving first one way and then another to avoid every obstacle, was not encouraging.

  Another arrow zipped past him like a hornet. Sigismund wondered if these were followers of the Margravine, called up to defend her interest in the Wood, or another group of faie altogether, who only saw humans as prey. Either way, it seemed that hunting humans must be different from going to war against them, since the wild band behind him showed no signs of wanting anything but the kill. Sigismund could hear the exultation in their alien cries and the wild horns blowing as they gained on him with frightening speed. The bay must have heard them too, for its muscles bunched, gathering for a last frantic effort as Sigismund strove to clear his mind and tap into the power of earth and air around him, drawing it into a protective shield.

  Something rose up out of the darkness ahead of them, a black and jagged bar blocking their way. In the split second that it took Sigismund to realize that he was looking at a fallen tree, the bay horse had lifted itself in a wild leap. For a moment he thought they were going to make it, but the bay was no hunter, trained to jump. Its back legs caught the fallen trunk and it pitched forward, crashing down onto nose and knees, and threw Sigismund into the unyielding blackness of the forest floor.

  Syrica

  It was a dream, thought Sigismund, all a dream: the sickening plow into the ground and the crushing pain in his shoulder and arm. What else could it be but a dream when the trunk of the nearest tree yawned open and a hand reached out, hauling him inside? He heard the click as the trun
k closed again behind him, and felt cold dry earth and the roughness of tree roots beneath the pain that was his body.

  The strangest dream, he thought, as a hand rolled him over and a face peered down into his, a seamed and weathered face with bright blackbird eyes.

  “Impatient ’ee is,” husked a voice out of memory. He remembered the pipe too, the glow of bright coals in the small, flat bowl and the lazy curl of smoke. “Ye canna’ stop an’ think, or wait an’ look afore rushin’ in.”

  Sigismund tried to protest, but no words came out. The crone tilted her head to one side, unblinking as a bird, and a knotted hand reached out, cupping his face. Coolness flowed out of it, and a slow green peace.

  “Bairn, ’ee is,” the old voice said. “An’ healin’s what ’ee needs now—” She broke off, cackling around the pipe stem. “An’ a mite more wisdom, if’n ’ee wants to find a safe way through these woods.”

  A dream, thought Sigismund again, drifting on that plume of smoke, but Balisan will find me. He always does.

  “Dreams, is it?” Auld Hazel’s tone was sly. “Is that what ye thinks? But ye be with Auld ’azel now, so don’ go troublin’ t’ Lordly One, or worritin’ ’is dreams.”

  The Lordly One? wondered Sigismund, and then reflected that dreams were strange by their very nature. You couldn’t expect rhyme or reason to them, or things to work by the same rules as in the waking world. He thought Auld Hazel cackled again, but already the dream was changing, the trunk of the tree splitting open again behind her twisted head. There was a path there, flagged stone stretching into an infinite distance, pale with moonlight and dizzying with the scent of flowers.

  Lilacs, thought Sigismund, and heaved himself up onto one elbow, biting back a cry as fire pierced the coolness left by Auld Hazel’s touch.

  “Hush now.” The voice fell like silver through the pain and another hand clasped his. There was light, white and clear, but he couldn’t see through it. Syrica’s voice, he thought, and those are her lilacs, but what is she doing in my dream?