Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  “Do you know what he means?” Rue asked, her voice low.

  Sigismund shook his head, but he was remembering the rumbling, hissing voice that he had heard talking to Flor, when he was trapped in the Margravine’s house. The voice had said that it would need gold to kill him, because Sigismund was kin of a sort. He had not understood then, but it was beginning to make sense at last.

  “Will you claim a blood price for this one then, Balisan the Red?” The earth serpent’s voice was the dull roar of earth sliding, the grating of rocks beneath the earth, but Sigismund thought the tone was respectful. The enormous head was still now, a flat-as-stone eye studying the dragon.

  “I will,” said Balisan. “But I will not accept gold, firedrake though I am. The blood of the dragon is at stake, so I will claim your life for his, as is my right.”

  The Margravine howled. “We have a bargain, Earth Worm! I have already paid you a fortune in gold for this boy’s blood, more even than you asked for!”

  The serpent’s head drew back, and the stone gaze turned toward the faie. “I will return your gold,” it said. “It is not worth the bargain that my red kinsman here would drive, which is of a harsher kind.” Its body had already begun to slide back into the mud of the lakebed.

  “A prudent course,” Balisan murmured, a sibilant hiss. He rose higher into the air, fire washing across his scales, until he was on the same level as the Margravine. “You might be wise, Faie, to reflect further on yours.”

  In the distance, people had begun to spill out of the palace onto the terraces, and Sigismund could see the small figures of Fulk and Rafe, who appeared to have mastered their horses. He was aware too of Flor, pulling himself up from the ground, but he did not take his eyes off the Margravine. She had retreated further from the dragon’s path, but lightning forked behind her head. “Do you think me done?” she hissed. A fireball began to spin between her hands.

  “I’ll kill him for you!” Flor had pushed to his knees and now wavered there, uncertain. Blood was still flowing from his wounded side, and his good arm shook as he drew it back and hurled a dagger at Sigismund. The dagger fell short.

  “You!” the Margravine snarled. “You promised me you could kill this whelp—easily, that was your boast. But instead you fail me at every turn!” The fireball burst from her hands and exploded into a torrent of lightning spears that rained down on the hilltop. Quickthorn flamed in answer, throwing a protective circle around the belvedere, but one of the lightning bolts struck the pulse of blue on Flor’s hand. He screamed, an inhuman sound, as the blue stone exploded, and both ring and wearer disintegrated in a blast of cobalt fire.

  Sigismund reeled back, appalled, and Rue had both hands pressed hard against her mouth, as though suppressing a scream. The next moment, the air in front of Sigismund split apart and Syrica stood on the topmost step of the belvedere. She extended both arms toward the Margravine, and her silver voice rang out. “Desist, Sister!” she cried. “You have warred directly against humans on this mortal plane and defied the terms of the magic set in place one hundred years ago. And now you have taken a human life. In the name of the Powers that rule the faie, I bid you cease!”

  The Margravine’s laughter cracked across the sky. “I, yield? To you? I defy you and your puling power, Sister.” The last word was a sneer.

  “Do you defy mine?” The voice that spoke was cold, but wild, and like the Margravine’s laughter, it filled the sky. A woman on a white horse rode out of the trees beside the belvedere and sat, looking up, as the wildfire died away.

  Was it a woman? Sigismund wondered. There was a shimmer around the edge of her form and he had to keep blinking, trying to focus on a shifting shape of energy and light. But she certainly looked like a woman whenever his vision cleared. He could see the great fall of her green sleeves, webbed over with gold, and the sweep of a green kirtle against the horse’s white flank. She did not move or extend a hand skyward as Syrica had done, but the figure of the Margravine dwindled and was drawn inexorably toward the ground.

  “Who is that?” Sigismund whispered to Rue, but it was Syrica who answered.

  “She is first amongst the Powers that rule the faie—what you would call our Queen.”

  A long line of riders was emerging from the trees, materializing somewhere behind the hill. Most were armed as knights, with glittering helms and weapons, although the light wavered and bent around them, much as it did about their Queen. They rose into the air and surrounded the Margravine, escorting her to the ground. Defiance glittered in her expression, as well as fury, but it warred with fear as the Queen gazed down at her.

  “So,” said the Queen. “You have overreached yourself at last, Farisie, and allowed me to intervene.” She looked around at the devastation caused by the storm and the passage of the earth serpent. “Which is just as well, since you have already done great harm here—and would have done more if left unchecked. You were a threat, in fact, to both our worlds.”

  “It’s a pity then,” Sigismund muttered, “that you couldn’t have done something about it sooner.”

  A ripple ran through the faie, and even Syrica looked alarmed as the Queen turned her golden head toward him. There was something about the way her head moved, and the fathomless green of her eyes, that reminded Sigismund of the dragon.

  “Do not look into her eyes.” Balisan’s voice was a whisper in his mind.

  The Queen laughed, a wild icy chime. “Hark at the Lord Dragon,” she said. “Who here would dare look into your eyes, Balisan the Red?” She did not, however, seem to expect an answer, but studied first Sigismund and then Rue. “So this is the Young Dragon and the heiress to the Wood, standing together as was foretold. As for the rest—once spell and counterspell were cast, one against the other, we had to let the magic find its own path. That too is part of our law. And until now, Farisie has always been careful to use human tools, or other agents that are part of this world, to avoid giving us cause for intervention.”

  The Margravine’s defiance flashed as she faced the Queen. “You let this mortal dare question you? You should strike him down, rather than finding fault with me. What have I done, after all, but champion the rightful cause of the faie, trying to maintain our rights and dominion here in the mortal realm—something you should have done, but would not!”

  Perhaps she’s mad, thought Sigismund. She doesn’t seem to realize—or care—that others don’t see things the same way that she does. And she killed Flor without a second thought because he was no longer of use to her.

  He shuddered, still hearing Flor’s scream, and felt Rue draw closer to him, but her eyes remained fixed on the Queen of the Faie.

  The Queen was studying the Margravine, her expression as fathomless as her eyes. “Do the faie have rights on this mortal plane?” she asked at last, her tone reflective. “It is not our world, Farisie, and you know the way our law has evolved: we have had the ability to travel at will amongst the planes but not to exert dominion over them. To do so would be to become Other to the core of what we are. Our law reflects that—and it may not be broken, either by you or by me, Farisie.”

  She leaned forward so that her eyes met the Margravine’s. “But you should be grateful that we intervene. Have you thought what your fate would have been, if your grand plan succeeded and the planes had torn apart, trapping you here? All your power would have dwindled to a candle flicker, no more than a will-o’-the-wisp seen in the forest by night.” The Queen straightened, sitting back. “So you might say that you have been saved from yourself, although whether you deserve saving is another matter.” She nodded to the knights surrounding the Margravine. “Take her,” she said, “and return to Faerie.”

  “As easy as that,” whispered Rue, “after all we’ve been through.”

  Sigismund thought about his fear that the Margravine would never give up, whatever the outcome of the spell. “It does seem to be over,” he murmured. “Really over…at last.”

  He stood back while Rue went to gr
eet Syrica, and watched as the Queen turned to Balisan. Sigismund could see their two heads inclined together and the flicker of their eyes, but any communication between them was silent. The faie knights behind the Queen maintained their line, but those surrounding the Margravine had already disappeared, taking her with them.

  Above their heads the storm clouds were breaking up, letting through a pale watery sunshine. There were more people now, gathered on the terraces outside the palace. They were all looking toward the belvedere, but no one seemed to want to come over. Well, he would hesitate too, Sigismund thought with a wry grin. A dragon and a small host of faie knights were a situation that needed to be fully understood before rushing in, especially after having been asleep for nearly a hundred years. He wondered what it would be like waking up after so long. Would the sleepers feel bewildered and disoriented, or simply take up their lives as though rising from an afternoon’s nap?

  Sigismund sighed and sheathed Quickthorn, he hoped for the last time that day, and when he looked up again he saw that Fulk and Rafe had started making their way back toward the belvedere. The rider in the lead had taken off his helmet, but his appearance kept shifting, so that at one moment he looked like Rafe and the next like…“Wenceslas?” Sigismund wondered aloud, staring hard as the second rider drew off his helmet too. The red hair that Sigismund was familiar with had become as fair as his own, and after another long, incredulous moment, he recognized Adrian Valensar.

  “Shape changing and illusion,” muttered Sigismund, still finding it difficult to believe—but it certainly explained why neither “Fulk” nor “Rafe” would ever look at him directly. They must have been afraid that he would see through the illusion.

  And I know who to thank for casting that, Sigismund thought. There were definitely questions he wanted answered, and not just by Adrian and Wenceslas. He caught Syrica’s eye, watching him over Rue’s shoulder. She smiled, but Sigismund thought she looked tired, rather than triumphant.

  “It worked out,” he said, a little awkwardly. “Your counterspell and the end to the Margravine’s plotting.”

  “Thanks to you, Sigismund.” Her smile was as sweet as his first memory of it, her voice a shimmer of silver. “And to Rue. No magic is ever certain, as I told you long ago. It takes courage and commitment to bring it to a good end.”

  “Although not an entirely happy one for you,” Rue said softly, and Syrica sighed.

  “No. Farisie had to be stopped, but she will always be my twin. And there were long ages, both in this world and the realm of Faerie, when we were closer, each to the other, than to our own shadows.”

  “What happened?” Sigismund asked. She had said in the West Castle that it was an old sorrow, but looking at her face now he wondered if so deep a grief could ever fade. Syrica sighed again, her expression pensive.

  “Is it ever possible, in cases such as this, to point to one specific incident or moment and say—there, that was it, it was then the change began.” Syrica shook her dark head. “We followed different paths, Farisie and I, but as to when the first small steps were taken—that I do not know.”

  They were all silent, and Sigismund suspected that he was not the only one reflecting on where the Margravine’s path had led and the grief it had brought to so many. “I thought,” he said at last, “that she might be mad.”

  Syrica’s mouth twisted, as if she had tasted something bitter. “When pride and the lust for power grow to such an extent that a person disregards all law, and cares nothing for the consequences to others, then that may well be a form of madness.”

  “Yet in the end,” Rue said quietly, “it was Farisie’s undoing. She allowed her rage to govern her, blind to everything but the fact that we dared to thwart her will.”

  Sigismund nodded, and saw that the sky had grown blue again. The last of the thunder was rumbling away westward and there was a rainbow above the white towers of the palace. “Well, it’s done now,” he said, and stretched, sighing. When he dropped his arms again, he saw that Syrica was watching him, the rainbow reflected in her eyes. She smiled from him to Rue.

  “From the beginning,” she said, “I had the highest hopes for both of you. You have disappointed none of them.”

  Rue smiled too, but shook her head. “If you had not come here, a century ago—” She broke off, then added quickly, “They’ve finished speaking. The Queen’s coming over here.”

  They all watched, silent again, as the white horse approached the belvedere. “Our work here is done,” the Queen said to Syrica. “Do you stay or ride with us?”

  Syrica held out one hand to Rue, the other to Sigismund. “If I stay,” she told them, “I too will dwindle, as Farisie would have done.” She turned to the Queen and bowed. “I ride with you.”

  “It is well,” said the Queen, and one of her knights led forth a dappled horse, garlanded with lilacs. Syrica took the rein he held out, then turned back into her goddaughter’s embrace.

  “Thank you,” Rue said. The words were simple, but her expression, and the clasp of her hands, said a great deal more.

  “It is well,” said Syrica, echoing the Queen. Already, thought Sigismund, she seemed less human, her form growing translucent and beginning to fray.

  “Do not be sad,” she said, kissing them farewell in turn. “I have done what I came here to do, and now you may live out your lives untroubled by Farisie and her plots.” Her smile was sunshine and shadow at the same time. “Use the years well.”

  The Queen had already turned her horse and the cavalcade was moving. Syrica mounted too, and the dappled horse followed the rest of the faie as they flowed to either side of the green hill. There was a shimmer around them, a glow, and it was hard to tell whether the horses were touching the earth or floating through the trees. Syrica waved once, smiling, and then they were all rising up, much as the faie hunt had done on the night of the storm, and riding into the face of the sun. Sigismund suspected that Balisan could still see them for quite some time after that, tracking their path with his dragon’s sight, but for everyone else there was just the sun’s dazzle and a residual brightness in the air.

  Everything was so fresh, even the air felt clean and new. Sigismund could see raindrops sparkling on every leaf, brighter than the jewels in Rue’s hair, which had become tangled again during the storm. There was a twig caught in the golden net and leaves plastered against her skirt. He reached out and removed the twig, and Rue turned her head, smiling. From the corner of his eye, Sigismund saw that Adrian and Wenceslas had finally arrived. They must have walked up the hill, leaving their horses well away from the dragon.

  Soon, Sigismund thought, it would be time to speak with Balisan and thank him, but also to insist on answers to his many questions. He smiled a little crookedly as he looked from Adrian to Wenceslas and back again.

  “I imagine,” he said, “that the two of you have some kind of explanation for your masquerade?”

  “I thought that you could use some company on the road.” Balisan’s voice was a hum in his mind. “And I didn’t want you to send them away. Besides, Adrian was also the person most likely to see through Ban’s illusion.”

  Adrian smiled, and spread his hands wide as if to say that he was not to blame. “It was an adventure,” he said, then seeming to recollect himself, he bowed low to Rue. “Princess,” he murmured, a courtier’s hand over his heart. Wenceslas, however, was still staring in the direction that the faie had taken.

  “I’ve seen the Queen of the Faie, She-of-the-Green-Gold-Sleeves, with my very own eyes. And you’ve spoken with her, Sigismund, yet still live.” Wenceslas squared his shoulders, the dawn of a story in his eyes. “So what happens next?”

  Ever After

  A great deal, Sigismund thought later that evening. The rest of the afternoon had been turmoil with the whole palace woken from sleep. The first thing Sigismund noticed was the noise. The silent castle had become a cacophony of voices as everyone greeted everyone else, and hugged and cried and kissed. And absol
utely everyone, it seemed, had wanted to hug and kiss and cry over Rue. Except that they didn’t call her that.

  That was the second thing Sigismund had realized as they made their way through the outstretched hands and all the smiling, crying faces outside the palace. There was no Rue. All around him people were calling out to their princess, but the name they cried was Aurora. Shortly afterward, when the tide of people swept them into the great hall and the heralds there had blown a triumphant blast on their silver trumpets, the whole awakened gathering had cheered for the Princess Aurora Elisabeth Irina Anne, Heiress of the Wood.

  They had cheered for him too, Sigismund recalled, leaning his elbows on the parapet of the tower to which he had retreated and gazing east toward where his own gray castle lay. His bruised shoulder was aching again from being thumped so often, friendly-wise, and having to shake so many hands. The King and Queen of the Wood had been both gracious and grateful, but Sigismund had seen the way they clung to Rue when she first reached them, and how their eyes kept going to her even while they were talking with him. It was plain that they wanted time with their daughter alone, and Sigismund had understood that. It had been hard, in fact, not to compare their welcome, a little wistfully, with the stern remoteness of his own father.

  “But,” Sigismund said aloud, “does she have to have quite so many cousins and schoolmates and childhood friends?” They had kept coming forward, all eager to introduce themselves and to thank him, as well as to hug and cry over Rue—except that they all called her Aura—before her parents swept her away.

  “Aura. Aurora.” Sigismund sighed deeply. He couldn’t help feeling that somewhere in the noise and press of people he had lost Rue. It was like watching someone carried away from you by a current, except what could you do when the river was the love of family and friends? He had been disconcerted, as well, to find out just how many of those cousins and childhood friends were young men.