by Helen Lowe
There was blood in Sigismund’s mouth, but what he tasted was the bitterness of failure. How could I not have foreseen that happening? he wondered. And Syrica too—she must have known that was exactly what the Margravine would do. “Futile!” he whispered, and closed his eyes.
It was easy to give in and just lie there, drifting between the darkness and the pain, but something niggled, nudging at Sigismund’s awareness. The lights behind his eyes coalesced until all he could see was gold, the color of sunshine and Flor’s hair—the princess’s too. He could see it still, spilling across the coverlet and onto the floor, and the coverlet was golden as well, with gold thread stitched into the cloth.
Sigismund’s eyes flew open and he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Gold, he thought, trying to remember what Syrica had said to him the previous night. He frowned, because she had said so many things and his head hurt. Something about curtains, he thought, and how those on his bed had been the princess’s once, but her servants had removed them when the sleeping spell first took hold: They tore down the curtains from the princess’s bed, laying one across the pallet they lifted her onto and covering her with another….
Sigismund raised his head and stared at the golden fabric on the bed. Not gold, he thought. Rose brocade with silver thread woven in, but definitely no gold. There had been no cover over the sleeping princess either, he realized, staggering to his feet. And there was no pallet in this room, just the four-poster bed. “Not here,” he said aloud. “Not her. All—a trick.”
Syrica, it seemed, had been cleverer than the Margravine anticipated.
It was amazing how his head cleared then, despite the pain and the blood in his mouth. He remembered the last mirror on the twisted stair, and his brief glimpse of some other place before the image shifted to show him the white tower and concealed chamber. There had been trees tossing and a curved roof with wooden tiles…or was it the tiles that were curved? Sigismund shook his head, reflecting that at least they did not have the real princess yet. And if what the faie had said was true, that meant he could still do something to thwart the Margravine’s plans.
But I don’t have much time, he thought. It won’t be long before the Margravine realizes that she’s been duped.
He felt a brief stab of pity for the substitute princess, knowing she would be unlikely to survive that realization. “So think!” he admonished himself savagely, and his hand clenched on Quickthorn’s hilt.
Fire blazed against his hand, and for a split second he was no longer standing in the tower chamber, but in a wooden belvedere with trees pressing close on every side. It was night, a great wind howled, and in the darkness a pale figure stirred, gagged with thorns and bound about by cables of vine. Then the vision faded and Sigismund reeled back, one hand still fused to the sword hilt, the other flung out to retain his balance.
“Layer on layer,” he gasped, “time and the planes overlapping each other at certain nodes. Strongpoints, beachheads—what a fool I’ve been, thinking I understood but never comprehending the truth. Until now.” And then, very softly: “Rue.”
He strode to the window and stared out. There were the two belvederes, the marble summerhouse on the lake and the second one further away, its wooden roof rising through green trees. And the roof, thought Sigismund, narrowing his eyes on that distant point, was curved at the eaves. But how to get there? His enemies had used a spell to seal him in, but he suspected that would prove ineffective without the real princess in their thrall.
“And I have Quickthorn,” Sigismund said, still very soft, “and a sprig of rue in my pocket.” He had put it there just before his last conversation with Syrica, and now he drew it out. The leaves had started to wilt, but the aromatic scent was strong as he held it to the light. “Rue,” he said again, speaking in a clear, resolute tone, and crushed the herb between his fingers.
The world shivered, then shook, and Sigismund thought that the tower was falling, or perhaps it was he who was falling, and the clouds of plaster and dust and the voices crying out were just a dream, or someone else’s memory. But the world was definitely spinning, although the masonry had become trees and branches now, the voices no more than the wind sighing. Sigismund drew a steadying breath and stepped forward, into the belvedere on its wooded hill.
The first thing he noticed was that it was very quiet. The world had righted itself again and there was no wind, just sunlight and leaf shadow speckled across the wooden floor. The second was the pallet, set in the middle of the belvedere, but it was empty except for a fall of rose brocade across it. Sigismund turned slowly, wondering, as the last of the herb slipped between his fingers and something stirred in the deeper shadows. He blinked a little, because the light seemed so bright after the tower, but decided that the movement was just another shadow. Then he blinked again and saw a silhouette against his closed lids, an outline that was still there when his eyes opened. Leaf and shadow stirred as a young woman stepped forward, her dark eyes lifting to meet his.
“Welcome, Sigismund,” she said, and held out her hands to him.
He did not recognize her at first, she was so richly dressed. Her gown was velvet over silk, and there was a golden fillet around her brow, a net of jewels and gold wire lying across her hair. Sigismund thought that the hair curled, though, the brown touched here with red lights, there with gold—and there was something elusive and familiar and bewildering about that tangle of lashes, and the gold flecks glimmering in the dark eyes.
It must, Sigismund thought, be the blow to his head, because his vision had blurred again and the outline of her outstretched hands wavered, becoming brown and scratched. He could see bare brown legs now too, and feet shoved into wooden clogs below a ragged hem. Then a sparrow flew into the arched roof and clung there, chattering at him, and the world cleared. The hands held out to him became smooth, the ragged skirt was a sweep of silk again, and Sigismund realized that what he had thought was a mantle, draped over one arm, was in fact a curtain of rose brocade.
He must, Sigismund thought, seem very stupid just standing there, staring at her. After a moment her hands fell, but her smile remained warm, her voice low.
“Don’t you recognize me, Sigismund?” She stepped close, lifting her hands to frame his face, and kissed him.
The touch of her lips was soft as rose petals, their taste rose water as Sigismund folded his arms around her and returned the kiss. He could feel the wing beat of her heart against the rapid hammer stroke of his own as he tightened one arm and lifted the other, tracing the fall of her hair beneath the jeweled web.
“Rue,” he murmured, struck by the wonder of it, when for so long she had been little more than a shadow. She smiled and answered him with another kiss.
“I feel as though there are stars,” she murmured, “shooting in my blood.”
The flecks in her eyes, thought Sigismund, unable to look away from them, were like torchlight on midnight water. Deep water, he added, feeling slightly off balance, as if he might fall in. He thought that he could stand like this forever, that he would never let her go.
“And you can speak,” he said, feeling the wonder of that too.
“I can now. I tried before, but the magic was too strong.” Rue’s tone was soft with regret, her eyes shadowed, remembering. “I could never quite break through it.”
Sigismund shook his head and realized that the pain from the blow had eased. “All these years I’ve thought of the sleeping princess as someone remote, distant as a dream, when all the time it was you.” He kissed her again, slowly, and they smiled into each other’s eyes. “That was you, wasn’t it, standing in the ditch the very first time I saw the Margravine? You did something when she tried to give me the blue ring?”
Rue nodded. “Syrica worked loopholes into her counterspell, to give me a chance to remain aware of the world outside the magic and to work against Farisie’s ambitions—if I could.”
It was strange, thought Sigismund, to hear the Margravine referred to by name. It made
her seem less remote, if not less dangerous. Rue’s expression was turned inward, looking back at those dark days. “But we didn’t know how the loopholes would work, so Syrica placed objects in the world that could act as reference points for me.”
“Like these curtains,” said Sigismund, touching the brocade lightly, “and the rue planted in the palace herb garden.”
“Yes,” said Rue. “Your great-grandmother planted that, I think, with cuttings from our garden here, and scattered the briar seeds in the ditch where you first saw me. But initially, when the spell took hold, I was completely disoriented, lost beneath the weight of enchanted sleep. It was many years before I could locate any of Syrica’s reference points, let alone find my way to them, years in which Farisie had been busy building her strength. I had to be very careful that she never suspected my presence, even for a moment, or my small workings to thwart her will.” She shivered, although the sunlight streaming into the belvedere was warm.
Sigismund remembered the blue ring spinning into the white dust of the road, and their flight through the Faerie hill. “What would have happened if she had suspected?”
Rue looked away, a slight frown beneath her slim brows, then she shrugged. “She could have trapped my spirit, so that I would have been hers, body and soul, as soon as I woke up. Or she could simply have extinguished me, like someone snuffing out a candle flame. But,” she added, the frown easing, “I was both careful and fortunate, and she never found me out.”
“And now we’ve won,” said Sigismund, and felt joy break inside him, like a bubble. “I’ve undone the spell, and the Margravine has lost.” He shivered, thinking that it seemed too easy after so long and bitter a contest. He could not help wondering how long it would be before the Margravine tried to seize another strongpoint, and if he and Rue would ever truly be safe. Then he frowned, remembering Flor and the blue ring.
“They still have your friend,” he said, “the young woman who slept on the bed in your place. Flor knocked me out as soon as I woke her, and then put that cursed ring on her finger.” Sigismund threaded his fingers through Rue’s, watching the sun dapples on her skin. “We must do something, make him let her go.”
To his surprise, Rue smiled and shook her head. “She’s not real, Sigismund. Do you think I would allow anyone to run such a risk, knowing Farisie’s malevolence? The princess you woke is a simulacrum, woven of sunspells and daydreams and the roses that are the symbol of my House. She will dissipate before the rest of the castle wakes.” Her fingers tightened around his. “The only connection between us was that once you woke her, I too began to wake.”
But she spoke to me, Sigismund thought, amazed at the intricacy of Syrica’s working. “So when did the last knot unravel?” he asked. “Was it when I found my way here?”
Rue nodded, but her face clouded, the happiness of only a few moments before draining away. She turned to study the dreaming palace, a crease between her brows.
“But—” She pressed her fingertips against her lips, and Sigismund saw the slow dawn of fear in her expression. “That wasn’t the last knot. It will still be some time before the others wake, just as it took longer for them to fall asleep when the spell took hold. Until they do…” She stopped, shaking her head.
“The magic won’t be fully undone.” Sigismund spoke slowly, every word falling like a weight. “So we haven’t won yet.”
“No,” said Rue. “But the Margravine will still have to move fast.” She looked around, her expression intent. “This hill is at the heart of the power that fills the Wood—that is why I was placed here when the sleep took hold. To win, Farisie will have to seize it before the last of the magic dissipates.”
A wind had sprung up, cold off the surface of the lake, and the day was growing dark. Sigismund shivered, feeling the wind’s chill. “Surely Syrica must have foreseen this,” he said. “She must have had some kind of plan.”
Rue’s smile was a little crooked. “We are her plan, Sigismund, the hope on which she based her counterspell. She foresaw that the blood of the Wood and the blood of the dragon, brought together and drawing on the strongpoint here, could thwart even Farisie’s power.”
“The blood of the dragon,” whispered Sigismund, wondering if that was simply a figurative way of referring to his House or meant a great deal more. But clouds were beginning to pile up above the towers of the palace so he forced himself to focus on more immediate concerns. “I suppose she’s still bound by the law of the faie, but that didn’t help you last time round.”
Rue nodded. She was frowning too as she continued to watch the sky. “But things are different now,” she replied, low-voiced. “Last time she still had her strongpoint at Highthorn, but you destroyed that with the sword.” Her fingers found his and squeezed briefly. “And there’s no time for her to try and gain control of the West Castle node, not with all the wards that guard it. So she will have to cross fully over to this side if she wishes to move against us, either that or use an agent that is part of the mortal plane.”
The look that Sigismund slanted at her belonged to Balisan. He could feel the familiar lift of his brows as the first lightning crackled across the sky. “Do you really think we can withstand her?”
“An excellent question,” drawled Flor’s voice, out of the air, “although I’m surprised you have the wit to ask it.”
Quickthorn
Lightning seared again, and when the dazzle cleared Flor was standing outside the belvedere, a sword held ready in his hand. Gold light swam along its blade, turning to indigo flame at the edges, and blue fire blazed on his gloved hand. The ring again, thought Sigismund, unsurprised, as he stepped into the entrance.
Flor smiled, his blue eyes bright. “You have outlived your usefulness, Prince Sigismund,” he said. “So now I have the pleasurable task of killing you.”
Sigismund watched him carefully, making no move to draw Quickthorn. “Only you?” he inquired. “Do you think that will be enough?”
Flor shrugged, still smiling. “If not—” he said, and let the words hang as ten black-clad forms unfolded out of the trees, floating down behind him. Their faces were bleached bone in the lurid light, their pupil-less eyes elongated and black. Two of them held nets, Sigismund saw, while another bore a long narrow pipe on his back.
“But I think,” Flor continued, “that I should be more than a match for you, Prince Sigismund. What are you, after all? Little more than a bumpkin, raised by a provincial steward.”
“There was also Balisan,” Sigismund pointed out quietly. “Be careful,” he added over his shoulder to Rue. “This is probably a distraction of some kind.”
“No,” said Flor, “it isn’t. My grandmother has instructed me to kill you, and as I’ve already assured you, and her, it’s going to be a pleasure. As for your Balisan, you yourself told me that he was not one of the paladins, wherever he may come from. And I, after all, was taught my swordsmanship by the faie.” He made a few cuts with his sword, making it whine against the wind. “Now are you going to continue to hide in there, or come out and fight me like a man?”
Sigismund did not allow his expression to change, knowing what Flor was trying to do. “We don’t have to fight,” he said calmly. “This is the Margravine’s battle, not yours. And since we both seem to be related to her, that must make us cousins of some sort, which is another reason not to fight.”
Flor laughed on a wild mocking note, his eyes brighter than ever. He thinks I’m afraid of him, Sigismund realized, and that excites him. He believes he’s the cat, playing with a mouse.
“Florizal zu Malvolin,” the golden youth said, with a flourish. “At your service,” he added, with a sneer that gave the lie to his words. “And second cousins, as it happens—but with no reason at all not to fight, or for me to hold back from the kill once I have you at my mercy.”
“If,” Rue said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was clear and very cold.
Flor turned his smile on her, his tone all silk. “My grandm
other will deal with you afterward. You’ll sing a different tune once you wear this jewel on your finger.” He held up the blue ring, then tugged the glove from his other hand, hurling it to Sigismund’s feet.
“I challenge you to meet me in single combat, Prince Sigismund, to answer for the wrongs your family has done to my grandmother and the zu Malvolin family. Meet me,” he cried, his voice rising, “or be named a coward as well as a fool.”
“Don’t!” whispered Rue, standing at Sigismund’s shoulder. “Farisie just wants him to draw you out and kill you.”
Sigismund shook his head. “I must,” he said gently. “There is no knight or prince sworn to the code of chivalry who could refuse such a challenge. You know that, and so does Flor.”
Rue looked from Flor to the faie with their nets. Her lips were compressed, her eyes bleak. “Just don’t let them get you away from the entrance to the belvedere,” she whispered, “or they will use those nets to trap you. And you need to be able to retreat in here if she comes.”
Sigismund glanced at the faie. “I imagine they’ll only use those if Flor can’t best me outright. He wants the pleasure of the kill.”
Flor too was looking around the half circle of faie behind him, a sneer twisting his golden face. “This prince is a coward. He won’t even pick up my glove.” He turned back to Sigismund, the sneer becoming a jeer. “Shall I help you, Prince Sigismund? If knightly honor is not enough, what about family feeling? Don’t you want to avenge yourself on the person who poisoned your mother?”
For Sigismund, it was as though the day had grown very still again, despite the gathering storm. He felt his heart begin to pound as he stooped and picked up the glove. “What had you to do with my mother’s death?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet.
