by J M Sanford
“Not from you, you great furry fool,” said Meg, mildly. “Those deer we saw. Horses, hunting dogs and the like, the usual playthings of men with too much time and money.”
The door opened again as two blond golems steered in an enormous trolley, laden down with silver domes covering as-yet untold culinary marvels. “Please, take your seats,” said one of the golems, and the guests obliged as the servants speedily arranged the dishes on the long table.
One of the golems struck an enormous gong, drawing everybody’s attention to the prince as he arrived on the threshold of the hall. A dragon in human form, dressed in bloody red, he was even more handsome than Amelia remembered, with the light of the myriad candles carving out his perfect marble features and shining in his copper-coloured hair. A tall and beautiful young woman hung on his arm, her white gown sweeping the icy floor, and Commander Breaker kept close to his master.
The last reverberations of the gong slid into breathless silence, although Amelia could have sworn she heard Bessie hiss quietly: Prince Archalthus’ beautiful companion wore the crown of the Dragon Queen pinned amongst her perfect black ringlets, where it would have shone like a galaxy of stars in the night sky, were it not for the fact that every last one of the stones in it had turned from a diamond to a ruby at the touch of the candidate Red Queen’s hand.
“His Highness the Red Prince Archalthus,” one of the golems announced, “and the esteemed Lady Rose Hartwood, Red Queen.”
Archalthus escorted his chosen Queen to her seat at one end of the table, pulling out her chair and making a point of getting her safely and comfortably settled before making his way to the other end. There he stood, his chest puffed out with pride, and addressed the assembled party: “Welcome, one and all, to the world of Archalthia, and to the winter palace of the Red Queen. I thank you for joining us this evening, and compliment Miss Lamb and Miss Castle on their grace in defeat. May I express my dearest wish that you will soon join the Lady Hartwood and I again, as guests at our wedding, where you will be greatly rewarded for your submission to the rightful Queen. And after that…” His golden eyes shone, “ a return to the old world, where it is my plan to reunite a thousand scattered squabbling kingdoms under the banner of the Dragon Lands; a million people united in love for my beautiful Queen and for myself.” There then followed an uncomfortable hesitation, as if in his excitement the prince had said more than he’d intended. Without another word he sat down, the signal for the two blond golems to resume their work of setting out even more food. Venison and pheasant, crisply roasted parsnips and potatoes that were perfectly fluffy on the inside, a dozen different kinds of sauce… there was more food than everyone at the table could possibly eat.
There was no talk of Ilgrevnia’s destruction, by general unspoken agreement. Conversation began tentatively with ‘please pass the salt’ and went from there, with the guests all realising to differing degrees that they must play their correct parts here. After all, a king without any subjects would be a pitiful thing, and Archalthus plainly meant his guests to fill that deficit. Amelia, however, was lost for words, and knew that she’d have to raise her voice uncomfortably loud to speak to anyone other than her direct neighbours, for there was plenty of space, no jostling of elbows for guests at the royal table. Prince Archalthus looked rather small and uncomfortable sitting by himself at the head of the table, empty seats to either side of him, but at the opposite end of the table, the candidate Red Queen couldn’t have looked more at home. Sitting straight and regal, she was as perfect as the finest porcelain doll, her smooth white skin in striking contrast to the glossy black curls of her hair, her features as perfect as the best artists in the world could have made them. The dainty tiara looked as if it had been made to encircle that perfect lineless brow, the rubies echoed by the cascades of tiny jewels dangling from her ears and contrasting her snow-white gown like drops of blood poised to fall on fresh snow. The sight made Amelia feel dreadfully foolish for ever thinking she would wear the crown. The Lady Rose Hartwood had been born to play the role of Red Queen, and it was all too easy to imagine a million people falling in love with that face.
“We’ll get your crown back,” whispered Harold, nudging Amelia’s elbow. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“Thank you,” said Amelia, distractedly. Thoughts of crown and poison aside, the presence of the golems pressed into service as butlers had sparked yet another unwelcome thought in her mind: “Have you seen the griffins?” Amelia mouthed at Bessie across the table.
Bessie scowled, giving a tiny shake of the head that barely flicked her hair, and resumed her efforts to engage Bryn on the safe topic of his travels before they’d met. Amelia really hoped the absence of Scarlet and Sable meant that the two shape-shifting griffins had escaped to safety before the destruction of Ilgrevnia.
“Miss Lamb,” Rose Hartwood’s voice rang out like a silver bell as she turned to Amelia, “How pretty you are. I never imagined. From what I’d heard, I kept picturing you as some wild girl all covered in dirt, running around biting and scratching,” – and here she cast a glance at Bessie – “But here you are, with your dainty manners, and your hair done up so elegantly. You could make a lovely courtier, you know.”
Amelia stammered a thank you.
“There’s no need to be so shy, Miss Lamb,” said the Lady Hartwood, smiling amusedly. “I’m sure we’ll be good friends in no time at all. One can grow weary of the company of men. Oh! We could take walks around the grounds together, when the weather is more clement. I could show you so many wonders here, if we were good friends.” Her regal mask slipped, just a fraction, giving a glimpse of something that would have inspired a pang of sympathy in anyone who’d ever been friendless. “Miss Lamb really must see the winter garden,” she said earnestly, glancing up the table to where her fiancé sat. “At the first opportunity. So pretty.”
A golem arrived suddenly at Amelia’s elbow, making her flinch. Not so long ago those things had been hunting her through the streets of Ilgrevnia, but this one bowed elegantly to fill her glass to the brim with bubbly white wine, never spilling a drop.
“Thank you,” she mumbled to him, focusing painfully hard on remembering her manners.
The wine glasses had been crafted from ice – a surprise that almost caused Amelia to spill her drink before it even reached her lips, but otherwise had no deleterious effect on the taste. It was, to Amelia’s unrefined palate, the best drink she’d ever tasted. The same couldn’t quite be said for the food. No matter what delicious-looking thing Amelia tried, it all had the same faint bitter aftertaste, left the same crackling sensation on the roof of her mouth, and prickled at her gums. She glanced down the table at Meg, who approached the meal with none of her usual enthusiasm for good food, picking at it in a way that might have been mistaken for ladylike daintiness, as if the witch cared about such things.
“Eat up, dear,” she encouraged Amelia. “You won’t get many chances in life to taste the likes of this.” She raised her own ice glass to her lips, adding barely audibly: “Now you see why we don’t prepare food by magic.”
Amelia had to agree. Did the overburdened table hold any real food at all, or had it been conjured out of thin air? If so, would it do anything more than fool the mouth and stomach into thinking they’d had a good meal? She didn’t like the thought of eating umpteen enchanted courses a night and wasting away for lack of real nourishment. A good host shouldn’t let them starve, and a bad host ought to poison them quickly and have it over and done with.
“Do try some of this sauce, Sir Percival,” said Bessie, passing the bowl across the table. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Percival dutifully spooned a thin smear of something purple-red onto a slice of venison. “Delicious,” he said with convincing enthusiasm, but without actually trying it. Poor thing, Amelia thought. He must have been terribly ashamed, to have kept his story secret all that time. He looked uncomfortable now, and although he’d managed to force down a couple of
mouthfuls of food, he was beginning to look a bit green for his efforts, and had resigned himself to pushing the rest of his meal uncertainly around his plate, looking for an opportunity to be rid of it. Bryn had eaten even less, though he had distractedly sipped from the water provided for washing one’s hands, something that thankfully nobody at the table had been ill-mannered enough to point out. Oh for a conveniently placed pot plant or a hungry hound nosing around underfoot… They might have managed to sneak their unwanted food onto Harold’s plate, if the hosts would only look the other way long enough, because despite Sir Percival’s considerable efforts along the journey to improve his young apprentice’s manner of speaking, Harold kept determinedly silent in the presence of the future Red King and Queen, only opening his mouth to shovel food in with almost mechanical regularity.
Amelia was prepared to keep just as quiet, protected on either side by Percival and Harold, but Bessie opposite her had been casting about for an interesting topic of conversation to make a good impression.
“Forgive my impertinence, Archmage Morel, but is that a Mermaid’s Tear on your right hand?” she said, talking across Master Greyfell as she indicated the Archmage’s many conjuring rings. Bessie and Amelia had both removed their own sets before dinner.
The old man looked at his hands as if to say ‘oh, this old thing?’ “Why yes it is. Well observed, young lady. And do you know what it is for?”
Curious, Amelia leaned in as well. She couldn’t get a close look – certainly not close enough to identify a Mermaid’s Tear, whatever that was – but enough to see that her own conjuring rings would look paltry next to the Archmage’s. Hers were a bare bones kind of a set, befitting a beginner.
Bessie was nodding knowledgeably and quite possibly buying herself time to dig through the archives of her brain. “For amplifying the currents of magic in water. I thought such stones were typically worn on the left. But, ah: I see that your left index finger is quite full. And what is that beautiful black stone?”
Again, the Archmage held out his hand so that the many jewels flashed in the candlelight, the black stone in question throwing sparks of purple and pink. “Now that is a black opal.”
“Beautifully set,” said Bessie, visibly admiring it. “I’ve never seen that design before.”
“Nor will you see it again on any other Mage’s hand. It was given to me by the Sylph-Sovereign of Galehi. Remarkable girl, tall as a tree. Stunning. Had I only been a hundred years younger at the time…” He gazed at the black opal ring. “No other like it in the world, and there never shall be,” he said again, “the secret goldweavers of Galehi all being long dead. A sorry business, all that…”
Bessie might have been an apprentice goldsmith herself, for the fascination she showed with the topic. “Do you think their skills might yet be rediscovered?” she asked. “There are some extremely talented goldsmiths in the Flying Cities, and what can be discovered once can surely be discovered again.”
Morel turned to Master Greyfell, who had been keeping quiet on subjects well beyond his limited knowledge of magic. “And this inquisitive snippet of trouble is your student, is she?” said the Archmage. “Teaching such a pupil must keep you busy. Young lady, you have a quick mind, and sharp eyes to go with it… Of course, an eagle's eyes are far superior. I think I have some, somewhere about. Would you like me to find them for you? A young lady with eagle eyes would grow up to have the most striking good looks, don’t you think?”
“Oh.” Bessie’s easy confidence dropped away in an instant. “Thank you for your most generous offer, but I must decline, Archmage.”
“You're not afraid, are you?” he asked, gently. “You'd be surprised how easily an eyeball can be popped in or out. And magic can overcome the size discrepancy without the slightest bother, if that worries you.”
“Thank you, Archmage, your offer is most kind, but I'd rather not. I have this sentimental attachment to my own eyeballs.”
“But of course. You are young, and your body has yet to betray you.” He sighed. “I suspect you will come to feel differently, given time.”
As he began to describe the procedure to Bessie and Master Greyfell (so simple, so neat, he’d done it more than once before, with great success) Amelia made an effort to tune out and find a different conversation. She was almost surprised at Bessie’s refusal. It wasn’t like the young assassin-in-training to turn her nose up at the chance of an advantage.
Sir Percival came to the rescue with a well-timed question about the artificial world: how does one go about creating the heavenly bodies for such a place?
And at that question, the Archmage forgot all about eyeballs. “Ah! Yes!” he thumped his elbows onto the table, his long white beard draping into his dinner. From the head of the table, Archalthus watched peevishly, but the Archmage scarcely noticed or cared. “This world runs on the magic of its own sun! No more of magic welling up from the ground at random, never where you need it most… And many Devices can be adapted to work flawlessly here. Even this ice palace relies on the rays of the sun! Of course, those of us who are too long used to our magic flowing through leylines may find it hard to adapt, but I have confidence that a new generation of Mages, raised as natives to this world… well, they might do very nicely. Have you any training in magic, Mister…?”
“Sir Percival Wintergard,” the knight supplied, without resentment. “I have studied magic in the greatest depth I could manage by myself, but regret I have no formal training.”
“Any Mages in the family?”
“I believe a cousin of mine joined the Halls when I was only a lad, although I’m afraid I can’t remember his name.”
Morel tutted. “A Mage’s name is everything – your cousin would be mortified to hear you now. But you may have it in you to learn real magic… with time and proper tutelage, of course… Of course…”
Bessie, her food forgotten, could only watch in envy as Archmage Morel seemed about to offer Percival an apprenticeship on the spot. But then the moment passed, the Archmage becoming lost in his own thoughts.
The banquet went on into the darkest hours, two blond golems constantly in and out of the dining hall as they replenished the plates along the table with so many courses that Amelia lost count: cheeses to suit every taste, with fresh-baked warm bread, preserves, pastries, biscuits and sweets. As soon as one bottle of wine gave up its last drop, a new one arrived to take its place, and the fire kept on roaring in its peculiar icy hearth. Meg had been full of questions on how that and the chandelier worked, but the Archmage had brushed her off, saying that the advanced magic involved was not the kind of thing one would ever encounter in hedgerows and farmhouses. Instead he began to give Percival a detailed account of how he had linked false stars to the golems’ script modules… or something like that. Prince Archalthus put an end to that conversation as soon as he noticed it going on, but Amelia had to admit that the magic was far over her own head. Besides, by the time it was suggested that the guests withdraw to their private rooms for the night, she was half-asleep with food and wine, not fit to learn new things. Along with her companions, she followed the blond golems back to the allotted guest chambers, meek as a lamb and without a thought of escape. Percival had become more than weary, finding it a battle to make it as far as the guest chamber. He might have hoped to recover some of his strength from what little he’d managed to eat, but now his fatigue was painfully evident in the dark circles under his eyes and the heavy way his feet dragged along the corridors. Bryn drooped as well, making uncharacteristically rude comments about the stodginess and greasiness of the food provided. Only Meg, who had been yawning at the dinner table while Percival and Archmage Morel talked in-depth magical theory, was not so sleepy as she’d appeared just a few minutes ago.
“Did you hear that?” she said, as soon as the golems had disappeared. “Our gracious host, calling himself the Red Prince in front of everyone? He didn’t do that before, did he?” She appeared to have forgotten her own warnings that they s
hould all watch their manners even when they were alone.
“Perhaps he feared the disapprobation of those who devised the Queen’s Contest,” said Percival wearily, fixing his helmet back in place. “Or the ire of his brothers. Now, however, he and the Lady Hartwood have the crown, and he believes his victory is assured.”
“More fool him,” said Meg.
“Hmm.” Percival obviously had his doubts, even if he was too exhausted to voice them.
“And Devices can be adapted to work here?”
“Flawlessly,” Percival quoted the Archmage.
Meg took this in; what it might mean for Percival’s armour. “Amelia? Are you still with us, dear?” she prodded. “I had a think about it during dinner, and given where we are and whose place this is, if you feel like you’re in danger and you need to use a spell, go ahead and do it.” Absently she twisted her bracelets on her wrist. Some of them were part of her conjuring set, some were not. “But stick to things like fireballs if you can. You heard what the Archmage said about the sun, didn’t you? Fire and light spells might fare best here, once you can get the hang of the differences.”
Amelia woke up a bit at this, nodding to show that she was paying attention. There was some magic in this world, but even if Bryn’s initial assertion that it was ‘all wrong’ hardly covered the enormity of that wrongness, Amelia had made use of the long slow walk to the ice palace in starting to get a feel for it. At the banquet, staring at the icy fireplace while the others talked, she’d almost been able to see the flow of magic around it, if she squinted. Think of the magic as having a shape, that’s the key. Layers of it, like Percival had said. Theory didn’t necessarily mesh neatly with the practical application of magic, though. Percival’s Planes (as Amelia had come to think of them while squiffily turning over the problem in her head) had been hard to handle when she’d tried her light spell. Slippery like raw egg and just as unpleasant to the touch. Despite Meg’s permission, she didn’t like to envisage what she might do with a fireball here.
