Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  Sigismund shook his head, thrusting the sword back into its scabbard with a small definite click. He wished again that he knew who Rue was and what hand she was playing in this game. I need to see her, he thought, and work out whatever it is that she’s trying to tell me.

  He plucked a sprig of rue in the garden that evening, rubbing it between his fingers as soon as he returned to his room. A shadow moved by the window and for a moment his breath caught, but then he saw the candelight touch a coronal of flowers. “Oh,” said Sigismund, and pushed the rue into his pocket. “It’s you.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?” asked Syrica, her dark brows crooked as she watched him.

  Sigismund shook his head, not wanting to raise the subject of Rue again, and Syrica drifted across the room. She paused by the bed and ran a hand down the old brocade of the curtains, as though her fingers could unravel any secrets hidden in the weave. Her frown was replaced by a slight smile. “Ah. I had forgotten these.”

  “Forgotten?” Sigismund echoed, and her smile deepened.

  “Yes,” she murmured, “forgotten. It has been a long time, after all, even for me. The spell of sleep did not take hold at once, you see. It came on the rest of the palace gradually. Some amongst the princess’s attendants, who came running when she first fell, were adamant that she must be taken to a safe place and made comfortable. But they were distraught, panicked, and tore down the curtains from the princess’s bed, laying one across the pallet they lifted her onto and covering her with another.”

  Her hand stroked the faded fabric again. “These two they thrust at me, thinking I was just another attendant, a bystander. Afterward I came straight here to speak with your great-grandparents, still with these curtains in my arms. It seemed right that something from that palace should carry on outside the Wood, but I never asked what your great-grandparents did with them.”

  “So these came from the enchanted palace,” Sigismund said, touching the fabric himself. He was glad he had never let Annie arrange to have them replaced, and wondered if their presence might explain the clarity of his early dreams of the Wood.

  Syrica gave herself a little shake, as though sloughing off memory. “It’s why they smell of roses.” But her voice was sad now and full of regret.

  Sigismund studied her, his expression intent. “There’s something,” he said slowly, “that I’ve never really understood. I know the palace in the Wood is built on a node of great power, but why does a faie as powerful as the Margravine need it? Can’t she just come and go and wreak her havoc wherever she pleases?”

  Syrica went back to the window and looked out at the moon’s slender crescent, rising above the castle wall. “It is the Margravine’s nature to desire dominion,” she replied quietly. “She longs to be free of the laws that trammel her here, especially those that prevent her from ruling openly or killing mortals who stand in her way. But to be free of these constraints she will have to be strong enough to withstand the Powers that govern Faerie. The Margravine believes that controlling the strongpoint in the Wood will give her the strength she needs, but unfortunately there is more to it than that.”

  She half turned to look at him again, and her voice deepened. “The worlds are changing, Sigismund, and have been for some time. The planes are drifting apart and the paths between this world and Faerie are becoming stretched, more difficult to follow; some of the weaker nodes have already begun to fragment. It may be that the worlds will come together again in some distant future, but no one knows, and the Powers have determined that it is best to minimize traffic between our two planes.”

  “But the Margravine won’t accept that?” Sigismund asked, beginning to understand.

  “Refuses to accept it,” Syrica said, shaking her head. “She believes that if she can control the Wood, joining its power to hers, then she can hold the realms together. This would give her dominion here and continued access to the source of her power in Faerie, but—” Syrica paused, shaking her head again.

  There’s always a “but” to these schemes, thought Sigismund, always—and it’s never good.

  “What we fear,” Syrica continued, “is that if the worlds are held together artificially, then the strain of the separating planes, concentrated through the node, may result in much wider damage. It is even possible that the ripple effects may become uncontrollable, destroying both this world and Faerie, and others we know nothing of.”

  “So why don’t your Powers intervene?” Sigismund demanded. “Why don’t they stop her?”

  He thought Syrica smiled, but could not be sure in the shadowed light. “They sent me,” she said softly. “But even the Powers are bound in terms of how they may intervene on other planes, or in our magic once it has been set in play. The Margravine has exploited this to full advantage.”

  Sigismund was silent, thinking about that. The scent of lilacs had grown stronger, dizzying rather than elusive, as though he stood in the middle of the lilac walk. “So I have to stop her,” he said after a moment. “That’s it, isn’t it, part of how the spell is working itself out?”

  Syrica bowed her head. “None of our magic, once cast, is ever entirely certain. And in this case there are two spells at work. My counterspell is bound into the Margravine’s original working, turning it to another end, but the two magics have continued to act and interact within the one binding, increasing the element of uncertainty.”

  “And I’m part of the spell too,” Sigismund said, coming to stand beside her at the window. “If Balisan is right and the magic is two-way, then that should give me some ability to shape it to my will and away from the Margravine’s.” He realized that he was frowning again and eased the expression out.

  “So that is why you went into the Wood,” said Syrica. “I did wonder.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my choice, this first time,” Sigismund said, and explained about the storm and how it had brought him to the hedge of thorns. It was encouraging, he supposed, that he had got that far, since it suggested that he was right—he did have influence over the spell.

  “But what I don’t understand,” he said, “is how that faie hunt got in there if the Margravine can’t? And despite what both you and Balisan have said about the law of the faie, they showed every sign of intending to kill me.”

  The moon was higher now, pale gold fading to bone as it climbed away from the earth. It reminded Sigismund of Balisan’s first night at the West Castle and another moon rising, half full above the garden wall. They had been waiting in the lilac walk, and soon Syrica had appeared to speak to them of the Margravine and a hundred-year spell. But it also reminded him of another conversation, earlier that same evening.

  “You can’t wall out what’s already in,” he said, before Syrica could speak. “The hunt must have been in the Wood when the spell took effect, and all this time it’s kept them trapped.”

  Syrica nodded. “And unlike Auld Hazel, they do not belong there. From what she tells me, they are not the only ones caught in the Wood, a little like insects in magic’s amber. They may not be the most dangerous either. But this particular hunt is known for its wildness, and now they are very angry.” She paused, her expression troubled. “They may also be afraid of what will happen if the magic goes awry and the spell is not lifted at the end of the hundred years.”

  “Could that happen?” Sigismund asked, startled. “What would that mean?”

  “If the chosen prince does not come, or if he fails—” Syrica sighed. “I’m not sure. The Margravine’s original spell could take over. Or my spell could begin another hundred-year cycle. The hunt will fear that, and the possibility of being trapped on the mortal plane forever. Given this, I suspect they are beyond caring about the law, especially if killing a human might persuade our Powers to intervene—for at least then they would be free of the Wood.”

  Despite the terror of that wild chase through the forest, Sigismund could understand how the faie hunt felt. He shook his head, frowning. “So the chances are I’ll meet
the hunt again, or something worse, when I go back into the Wood?”

  Syrica nodded. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, as he let his breath out on a short sigh. “But there was no time, a century ago, to ensure an elegant solution. Farisie had already begun her working when I arrived here and I had no choice. I had to act.”

  They were both silent then, watching the moon. Somewhere in the night a cricket chirped, and beneath its voice Sigismund could sense peace unfurling its tendrils into every crack and cranny of the West Castle. Then his attention sharpened again. “What did you say?” he asked slowly. “Just now. You called the Margravine something, some other name?”

  Syrica seemed lost in thought and for a moment he wondered if she would answer. When she did, her voice was no more than a thread, spun out of moonlight and the spring night. “Farisie. That is the name by which we know her on the other side.” She moved slightly, the candlelight catching in her dark eyes. “The Farisie, she was called here once, before the word became general for our kind. But she likes titles, and the Margravine zu Malvolin is a useful mask.”

  Sigismund remembered the belvedere. “She said she was the princess’s godmother. Is that true?”

  Syrica smiled. “No,” she said gently. “I am. It is one of the reasons I was sent across. As for the other—Farisie is my sister, my dark-hearted twin.” She read his face and her fingertips touched his cheek. “It is an old sorrow, Sigismund. Do not let it grieve you.”

  She turned as if to go, but he made an abrupt movement and she stopped, her expression a question.

  “A magic of twins,” Sigismund said finally, struggling to come to terms with its implications. “Spell and counterspell twisted together but working in opposition. How could anyone outside of yourself and”—he hesitated—“the Margravine, hope to influence such a knot?”

  Syrica considered this, her brows crooked together. “It is strong,” she said at last, “but I feel you may be right in what you have argued tonight. You are part of the magic now and that will give you power over it. Action and reaction,” she murmured, “ebb and flow. It is part of all magic, but especially ours—and you have power of your own. That too will affect the weave.”

  She paused, studying Quickthorn, which Sigismund had propped back against the wall. Her hand went out, but withdrew without touching it.

  “The West Castle too stands on a strongpoint. It is nothing to the one in the Wood, but it has concealed me from Farisie all these years. And you have this sword, the one the dragons made for Parsifal. Like you, Sigismund, it has power of its own. Use it,” Syrica said, and vanished.

  The Hedge of Thorns

  Sigismund stared at Quickthorn, his eyes growing wide. “Dragons?” he whispered. “Dragons made you?”

  He found it impossible to stand still and began to stride up and down the room, trying to understand what it all meant. Had Balisan known? he wondered. The master-at-arms had told him that the sword belonged to Parsifal, but would he have known who made it?

  “And why,” Sigismund asked aloud, “wouldn’t he mention it if he did?” He paused, staring down at the sheathed sword. The dragon on the scabbard gazed back at him with the same enigmatic eye as the dragon above the fireplace of his suite in the Royal Palace. A breath of wind strayed through the open window, and Sigismund could have sworn the dragon’s eye winked as the candlelight flickered. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself.

  “Because I was supposed to find out for myself why the crown prince is called the Young Dragon,” he said, dredging up the old memory. He began to pace again.

  “That must have been what Rue meant, that gesture with her hands. She was drawing a sword. And the other part, pointing to the walls and floor—like Syrica, she was trying to remind me that this castle too stands on a place of power.” Sigismund caught the blaze of his eyes as he passed the mirror, amber in the half-light thrown by the candles. He stopped, watching the eyes narrow and then flare as realization struck home. “Of course! I don’t need to go into the Wood again and contend with whatever’s been trapped in there. I am standing on a place of power and I have the sword.” Sigismund drew another steadying breath. “I can use it to cross from one strongpoint to the other, just as Rue and I did when we escaped from the Faerie hill.”

  He picked up the sword and drew it, and this time the jolt of power was lightning up his arm. “So you agree, do you?” he whispered, turning the blade so that first ice and then fire glinted along its edge. Flame flickered from the dragon’s jaw and burned in its eye as it caught the light.

  Had dragons really made it? Sigismund wondered. Could possession of the sword, together with the dragon symbol of his House, mean that his power was connected to theirs?

  He angled the blade again, remembering the dragon that he had seen after his encounter with the earth serpent, just before he stepped back into his own world. “Is that why I could see it?” he whispered. “Because of Quickthorn, or my own power, or both?”

  He went to the window and gazed into the night, wondering if it really mattered. The connection to the dragons was exciting—alright, very exciting, Sigismund amended with a half grin—but it didn’t seem to have any direct bearing on the business at hand. He had the sword and the ability to use it; that was what mattered.

  “And once we get there,” he said, speaking as much to Quickthorn as himself, “then we’ll find out whether I’m right about being able to influence the hundred-year spell—or not.”

  There was no reason to wait, Sigismund decided. His shoulder was already much better and he had his supplies from the road. The longer he waited, the more room he gave the Margravine to maneuver. “No,” he said, buckling on the sword. “This is it. We’re going tonight.”

  He waited until the castle was fully asleep, watching until the only lights were the night lanterns glowing above the hall and the main gate. There were guards on watch; he could hear their regular up-and-down tramp and low-voiced confirmations that all was well. Mist rose out of the damp ground and thickened as the night grew colder. Sigismund could see it lying in banks across the park as he finally drew his curtains closed, wrapped himself in a thick cloak, and let himself out of the room. He had decided to make for the topmost tower, because of its privacy and clear view of the Wood, and was confident that no one saw him as he traversed the dark silent corridors. Nothing moved and the only sound, other than the guards on their distant round, was the melancholy hoot of an owl.

  The tower had a cool dusty smell, as though it had not been used at all since he and Balisan left the West Castle, but the trapdoor onto the roof opened without a creak. The mist was thinner here, the stars closer, and Sigismund could see the dark bulk of the nearby Wood, with the moon sailing westward above it. When he peered down, he could make out the sunken garden and the lilac walk, leached of color by night. The whole world was quiet, so still that he could imagine he heard the earth turning beneath his feet—but now he had to step outside that safe circle and cross the Wood.

  Sigismund shivered and drew the sword, which glowed with the same pale light as the moon. He let his breath slow, attuning himself to the rhythm of the earth and the stately wheel of the stars. Quickthorn’s power hummed, deepening until they became the pivot around which planes and time revolved. Sigismund stared straight ahead, eyes wide as he breathed in night and the darkness broke apart, reforming itself into the same herringbone pattern as the path through the lilac garden. This new path began at Sigismund’s feet and flew, straight as an arrow through the wall of the castle and into the Wood. It cut across the tangle of magic like a sword, its hilt resting on the star-crowned tower, its tip piercing the hedge of thorns.

  Sigismund lifted Quickthorn and extended it along the path of magic, one blade overlapping the other as he stepped forward into a great bending of energy and light. Substance and shadow rushed by him and he was blinded, the breath knocked out of his lungs and torn away. He felt impossibly stretched, little more than a ribbon of energy and thought extended along a r
ushing tunnel, spun out further and further between the place he needed to leave and the one he sought to reach. The pressure in his ears became a thunder and there was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth.

  The tip of the red and white sword touched something solid and twisted. Pain lanced back up Sigismund’s arm, but he tightened his grip rather than letting go. The thunder in his ears exploded and the tunnel became a wheel of spinning fragments. There was light, energy, and sound, with Sigismund spinning at the center, tumbled this way and that until he had no sense of up or down. It was all he could do to hold on to the sword: there was no more breathing, no more thinking, just a wild chaotic spiral—and then his whole body was flung down onto something solid, the last breath pushed out of his lungs.

  He was still alive. That was Sigismund’s first thought. The second was that he needed to breathe, and he sucked in air with a gasp. The first breath was fire, the second a little deeper, and by the third he could hear the wild pounding of his heart. He felt like he had run a race, but the surging of his blood was urgent, telling him there was no time to waste. Sigismund seized a few more ragged breaths, then opened his eyes. For a moment he thought that he was blind, then he realized it was still night and he was lying on his back, staring up into a thick canopy of trees.

  When his eyes adjusted he could make out stars through the leaves, and when he tipped his head further back, he could see a sheer black wall behind him. His right arm was stretched out above his shoulder and Quickthorn was plunged hilt-deep into the wall—except that this was no wall, and Sigismund had seen it before.

  “The hedge of thorns,” he said, and scrambled to his feet, then swore as pain stabbed in his shoulder and arm.

  Just the recent bruising, Sigismund reassured himself—and not helped by that last wild tumble. He pulled Quickthorn out of the hedge and swung his arm, rotating the shoulder joint. He didn’t think there was any new damage, just the muscles protesting at more rough treatment, so he looked around. The sky through the trees seemed to be growing paler, but it was hard to be certain. Daylight would help, Sigismund decided, remembering the tangled briars and vicious thorns from his last visit, but the sense of urgency was still with him. If he was going to find a way through, he wanted to begin at once.