Marabel and the Book of Fate

by Tracy Barrett

  Marabel looked down at her lap. She didn’t want to see her nervousness reflected, even in this ordinary mirror.

  Ellie gave Marabel a comforting smile as she patted a stray lock into one of Marabel’s braids. “What do you think?” she asked.

  Marabel thought she looked better than usual in her new clothes and with her hair pinned up out of her face. But then she thought of the other princesses who’d been invited to the party. They would certainly be wearing something much fancier than a Magikian garb, and their hair would be adorned with diamonds and emeralds instead of the flowers Ellie had woven into hers. Marabel was usually asked to other princesses’ birthday parties, but she had the feeling that their parents included her merely to be polite. The other girls mostly ignored Marabel while they chatted among themselves, only occasionally seeming to remember she was there. Marabel dreaded having to talk with them even more than she dreaded being ignored.

  She shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. It’s not like anybody will be looking at me.”

  Ellie’s face fell.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that you didn’t do a good job,” Marabel said hurriedly. It was bad enough being a second-rate princess—what must it be like to be the maid of a second-rate princess? “You did. You always do. And I know you know how it feels to be ignored.”

  Ellie looked a little less hurt.

  Encouraged, Marabel went on, “If only you could come to the party! It would be so much fun if you were there, too. Remember that state banquet when we were five? You got me into trouble by making faces at me every time that silly princess from Norumbega said something mean—”

  “And you laughed each time, and everyone thought you were laughing at her!” Ellie said, smiling at the memory.

  “That princess got so mad! And remember—”

  The tinny blast of a trumpet from the banquet hall interrupted her. Ellie gently pushed Marabel to the door.

  “It’s all right. I’ll come to the hall to help my mother with the little ones after your father gives his speech. I don’t want to have to sit through that!”

  “I’ll take notes on the speech and recite it to you before bed tonight,” Marabel said. “That will be sure to put us both to sleep!” And she hurried down the corridor, feeling cheered by the sound of Ellie’s warm laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.

  arabel looked down the lofty stairway into the banquet hall. The spacious room was filled with highly polished long tables, hundreds of glowing candles, and towering flower arrangements that scented the air with heavy perfume. Groups of people dotted the floor, talking and laughing.

  Marabel overheard snatches of instructions as guests waited to make their way through the magic detector at the door: “Use up any magic you brought with you before you get to the front of the line.… Shoes off, please, madam.… Please deposit that charm in the tray and come through again.…” The detector was intended to keep out magical beings, and from what the guards were saying, it also kept out anything magical that a non-magic person might be carrying, such as a potion or a wish.

  A confused-looking old man—tall and very thin, with white, wispy hair, his long black shoes clutched in one hand—triggered the detector. Lights flashed and a horn sounded. A guard lifted his voice over the alarm. “Sorry, sir, no magic allowed in the palace except charms and spells weighing less than three ounces.”

  Suddenly, Marabel noticed a woman in a green garb. The woman snuck around the crowd and slipped into the hall, bypassing the magic detector. Nobody else seemed to notice her. It was probably nothing—the woman was probably just impatient and wanted to get to the party. But just in case something wrong was going on, Marabel hurried down the staircase to warn the chief guard.

  His expression showed a hint of impatience as Marabel lamely finished her account with, “I thought maybe someone should know.…”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” The guard bowed. “We’ll be sure to look into it.”

  Marabel could tell he hadn’t taken her seriously, and for a moment thought of reporting it to Lucius. But he was busy, and the guard knew what he was doing—didn’t he?

  She glanced around the room and spotted the Princess Table, draped in royal blue and gold, a crown of lilies in the center. Four princesses were seated near Marabel’s throne at the head of the table. They leaned close together, whispering about something that made their eyes shine with glee. Marabel tried to relax as she headed in their direction. She felt a pang of envy as she passed her little half brother and half sisters giggling with their nanny, Ellie’s mother, Poppy. The children were thrilled to be up past their bedtime.

  As she reached her throne, Marabel smiled nervously and said, “Welcome!” The conversation stopped abruptly and all four princesses jumped up and dropped into deep curtseys. Marabel did the same gracefully, silently thanking Poppy for the endless drills in curtseying and dancing that had started when she and Ellie were so young they had barely been able to walk.

  Marabel inquired politely after her guests’ journeys. Magikos was on a peninsula jutting out westward into the Purple Ocean. The Impassable Forest cut it off from the Barrens and the rest of the mainland to the east. The princesses had all come by sea, except Princess Ginevra of Norumbega, who’d flown in on an enchanted swan.

  Once pleasantries were finished, Ginevra continued the story that Marabel had interrupted. “And so when the prince arrived, she took one look at him and said, ‘It’s true he looks like a frog, but I’m certainly not going to kiss him to find out what happens!’” The three other princesses burst out laughing.

  “Didn’t that hurt the prince’s feelings?” Marabel said.

  An uncomfortable silence fell, until Ginevra said stiffly, “If he couldn’t take a joke, he should have stayed home.”

  It didn’t sound like a joke to Marabel. I wish… she started to think, but hastily changed her thought to: If only I could leave.

  Everyone in Magikos knew better than to say, or even think, “I wish.” Instead, children learned to say “If only.” But people sometimes forgot. Once, Marabel was invited to Norumbega for Princess Ginevra’s birthday. She gave Ginevra a present that, it turned out, Ginevra didn’t want. Ginevra lost her temper and said, “I wish I just had people I liked at my party!” Instantly, Marabel found herself back home, a bite of cake still on her fork, a party hat still balanced crookedly on top of her crown. Her only comfort was that someone must have purchased that wish at great expense, and Ginevra had wasted it on sending Marabel back to Magikos, which was where she wanted to be anyway.

  One of the girls asked Princess Felicia, “What ever happened with that curse on your little cousin?”

  “Your cousin was cursed?” Marabel asked Felicia.

  “Why, yes, at his baby shower. Don’t you—oh, that’s right. You weren’t there.” Marabel tried not to feel hurt by this reminder of how she’d been left out. It wasn’t like this was the first time, after all.

  “You see,” Felicia said, “my aunt and uncle have only twelve golden goblets, and they had invited thirteen fairies. They never thought all thirteen would accept, but they did.” She put on a look of false modesty, but it really was impressive that thirteen fairies would attend a baby shower.

  “Oh! It was so scary when the thirteenth one appeared!” one of the princesses added.

  “Anyway,” Felicia went on, “at first she didn’t seem upset about having to drink from a silver goblet instead of a gold one, but once the rest of the fairies had given their presents, she said, ‘Here’s my gift to the child, and one that will surely gladden his parents’ hearts. The baby will never cry.’”

  “That doesn’t sound like a curse to me,” Marabel said.

  “Oh, but it is.” Felicia looked dubiously at the food in front of her. “My aunt and uncle never know if he’s hungry or tired or wet, or if he’s woken up in the night, because he never makes a sound. So they have four nursemaids who take turns with him around the clock, and they’re always trying to feed
him or change him or put him to bed in case he’s unhappy and they don’t know it. They can’t wait until he learns to talk.”

  Servants crossed the stone floor with the birthday cakes, each adorned with thirteen long, flaming candles, and deposited them on the tables. The huge one set in front of Marco was covered in white icing.

  A maid placed a second cake, also frosted in white, on the Princess Table.

  The king’s chancellor read a proclamation from a long scroll. He declared to great cheers that, henceforth, the thirteenth day of the thirteenth month would be a national holiday. A group of blue-garbed priests recited the portion of the Book of Fate that prophesied the coming of the Chosen One. The words were so familiar that all the Magikians followed along, even though it was written in an ancient language that hardly anyone understood anymore:

  For, lo! When the Chosen One is recognized, what was broken shall be repaired and harmony shall rule o’er the land. The Chosen One’s valor will turn a great threat away from the kingdom and all shall rejoice.

  Familiar though the text was, the words had a special meaning on this fateful day. Marabel glanced at Marco. He listened, his eyes shining.

  The passage from the Book went on and on that way, talking vaguely about peace and unity. Nobody was sure exactly what it meant, although everyone agreed that the “all shall rejoice” part sounded pretty good.

  Prince Malcolm, Marabel’s little half brother, whined to Poppy, who tried unsuccessfully to keep him quiet. Poppy had her hands full with Maisie and Maria, the younger princesses, so Marabel motioned for the boy to join her.

  Malcom trotted over, his hard little boots rat-tatting on the stone floor, and Marabel lifted him onto her lap. She bounced the squirming boy on her knee, whispering in his ear that he was a brave knight galloping through the forest.

  Malcolm usually loved when Marabel played with him, but this time he wriggled out of her hold and nearly fell. He sent up a piercing wail that made the priests fall silent, her stepmother half rise from her throne, and every eye in the room turn in their direction.

  Or almost every eye. Even in her embarrassment, even as a wailing Malcolm went running to Marco, who pulled the little boy on his lap and kissed the top of his head, Marabel noticed something odd at a table in the farthest corner. The bumbling old man and the woman in the green garb were engaged in a private conversation. Their concentration was so intense that Marabel could swear the air around them crackled and sparked.

  She glanced at the huge countdown clock that had been set up to mark the exact moment Marco turned thirteen, just as King Matthew stood up to make the final speech. Only thirteen minutes left.

  “As you all know,” the king began, “no one expected Marco to be born on this day, thirteen years ago. There was still more than a month left before our first child was supposed to arrive, so Queen Marianna was alone in her chamber with the royal nanny.” Poppy stood and curtsied, and then took her seat again. When Marabel’s mother had died a few weeks after their birth, Poppy had practically raised the twins herself.

  “As soon as the royal doctor realized what was happening, we hastened to the chamber, and at exactly thirteen minutes past thirteen, Prince Marco appeared. So there can be no doubt”—the king looked around sternly, as though daring someone to contradict him—“that Marco is the Chosen One foretold by the great Magikian Book of Fate. His dear mother…” He choked a little, and Queen Maggie laid a gentle hand on his. Marabel blinked back a tear. After a moment, the king continued, “His dear mother would be so happy to know that he has grown to be all that a parent could wish.” He raised his head and his voice strengthened. “And tonight, at thirteen minutes past the thirteenth hour, we will celebrate my son’s thirteenth birthday and his destiny as the next leader of our great kingdom.”

  Everyone cheered and leaped to their feet, Marabel shouting the loudest of all. Marco would be a wonderful king. He was kind and gentle and honest. He would rule justly and everyone would love him, just as Marabel did, and she would do her best to be his most loyal subject.

  Marco looked up at their father and said something quietly. The king leaned over. “What? Oh yes, of course. I was just about to say that.” He straightened and faced the crowd again. “Today we also celebrate the coming of age of my oldest daughter, Princess Marabel.” Marabel stood and curtsied, waving to the guests as they clapped politely. Her father smiled vaguely in her direction, and she sat down again.

  “And so,” King Matthew said, raising his glass of bluefruit wine, “please join me in congratulating Marco, my dear son and your future king, on his coming of age and the expectation of fulfilling the great prophecy.” He raised his glass, and so did everyone else.

  Marabel glanced up at the high dais where her brother sat between the king and queen, with Malcolm on his lap. The little boy was sucking his finger and leaning against Marco contentedly, his eyelids drooping in sleep. Marabel couldn’t bear the look of pride in her father’s eyes, a look that she never saw when he was talking about her. She abruptly stood, and the other princesses looked at her in bewilderment. “’Scuse me,” Marabel mumbled. “I’ve just got to—”

  She bolted for the grand staircase. She didn’t know where she was going; she only knew she had to get out of that hot room, heavy with the smell of spice cake, the room where she was reminded that she was nobody.

  She had almost reached the top of the stairs when a scream rang out from the banquet hall and a green light exploded behind her.

  Marabel whipped around in shock.

  A sickly color bathed every inch of the hall. Everyone and everything had stopped moving. The candle flames were frozen on their wicks, and a stream of water, half-poured from a silver pitcher, remained suspended over a goblet. It looked like a greenish crystal waterfall. People were trapped in whatever position they had been in when that light flashed. Marco sat with his head bent over Malcolm’s. A little dog balanced on its hind legs, its mouth open and ready to snap at a bone that hung in midair.

  The countdown clock had stopped just short of the thirteenth minute of the thirteenth hour.

  What could have happened to make even time stand still?

  Were people even breathing? Marabel couldn’t tell from this distance. She put her hand over her mouth to hold back an anguished cry.

  Then two figures rose from the table in the far corner: the woman in the green garb and the old man, his bewildered expression replaced by a look of lively intelligence. Marabel cowered at the top of the stairs and prayed they wouldn’t notice her.

  The woman dropped an exaggerated curtsey to the royal table. “It appears that my invitation to your son’s birthday party got lost in transit,” she said to King Matthew, whose eyes flashed in unmistakable rage, even while he remained frozen in place. “I took the liberty of coming anyway, and I’ve had such a lovely time.” She strode up to the dais and threw back her hood. “Excuse me if I gloat, but you’ll have to admit that I’ve won this time, Brother.”

  Brother? Marabel clapped her hand over her mouth to keep in a yelp. It dawned on her who the woman must be: her aunt Mab, her father’s older sister, who had been banished from Magikos when Marabel and Marco were babies—for what crime, Marabel had never been told.

  Now Mab ruled the Desolate Barrens. The Barrens had been created thousands of years earlier by the great wizard Callum. He built a magical wall to separate the Barrens from the western part of the country, where the royal family lived. He exiled the Evils—witches, magicians, ogres, and the like—to the other side of the Wall. Though most people still considered the Barrens a part of Magikos, no member of the royal family had ever showed much interest in that side of the kingdom—until Mab took over and proclaimed herself their queen.

  “Mab,” the old man said urgently. “Save your triumph for another time and grab the boy. The spell will only last another few minutes, and I won’t be able to recharge for at least an hour.”

  The woman ignored him and kept her focus on King Matthew.r />
  “You know what I want,” she said to the king. “You have a thrennight to give me rule over all of Magikos. I will consider your refusal to do so an open declaration of war—and, Brother, you don’t want to go to war with me. You’ll never win and you’ll never see your son again—at least not in any form that you’d recognize.”

  Marabel felt her blood run cold.

  Her aunt went on, “My friend Veneficus here is quite adept at turning boys into frogs and toads, and he’s been looking forward to a chance to branch out into something else. How do you think your firstborn would look as a snake?”

  What? Turn her brother into a snake? Declare war on Magikos? It was too horrible even to imagine.

  Marabel thought fast. Her father was frozen, and so were all the soldiers. It was up to her to find some way to stop Mab from taking her brother and starting a war.

  With her heart thumping so loud she was sure the people below could hear it, Marabel crawled out of hiding. She kept low to the ground to stay out of sight.

  The king’s hand twitched—slowly, with obvious effort. The strange green light was starting to thin, like a morning mist burned off by the sun.

  As Marabel crept down the stairs, Mab jumped lightly onto the dais. She pried Marco’s arms open and removed little Malcolm from his hold. Veneficus climbed up next to her, and together they picked up Marco. His head tilted forward as though he were still whispering to Malcolm, and his knees were bent at right angles. Despite her threats, Mab handled the prince gently. The two intruders carried Marco down the steps. The magic that had made everyone freeze in place must have been starting to fade, because one of his arms flopped down and swung back and forth. As Mab and Veneficus turned to get through the door, Marabel caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes held confusion, which was swiftly replaced with anger and determination.