The Queen and the Tower

by Shannon Page

  “And in the midst of our sorrow, new life blooms among us.” A few people turned to glance at me, while others gazed back at him, confused. I felt my cheeks reddening, and took another sip of Mead to cover my awkwardness. This was surely not how he had wanted to handle this; it was very gracious of him to be, well, gracious about it. “I know you will all join me in welcoming the forthcoming daughter of Calendula Isadora and my son Jeremiah Andromedus.”

  A small murmur of surprise and happiness rippled across the crowd. People nodded, smiled, raised their glasses to me. I smiled back, wishing hard for a change of subject.

  Gregorio obliged. “In addition to Calendula Isadora’s heroic efforts on our behalf, many others assisted in the fight against Flavius Winterheart’s attack on our community. The healers Nora and Manka put everything aside to help me build a clinic to care for the afflicted witches. My intern, Dr. Sebastian Fallon, has been by the patients’ sides day and night, bringing them warm and capable care. My son, who regrettably cannot be here tonight, worked long hours on a veritable multitude of tasks for the clinic, and is indeed following up on the larger conspiracy in the Old Country as we speak. The coven mothers…”

  My attention began to flag as he continued through a long litany of names and deeds. The Mead may have avoided my womb, but it looked to be taking up camp in my already-squeezed bladder. In force, and growing by the minute. I glanced around, looking for a bathroom. Ah—there was a door. I sidled over to it, whispering apologies to the witches and warlocks I brushed past on my way.

  I reached the door at last and slipped through just as I felt a hard knock of Mead hit me. I stumbled, recovering clumsily. Okay, apparently it wasn’t all in my bladder.

  After I regained my equilibrium, I pulled the door shut behind me and looked around. I was in a small antechamber; closed doors led off in several directions. The walls and all the doors were painted a deep black. Dozens of black-painted shelves held candles and sacred objects, like a hundred tiny shrines—amulets, snippets of lace, dried fruit, and many symbols representing the tarot suit Wands. How peculiar. How un-warlock-ish.

  Except for the ever-present stacks of books, of course.

  The floorboards were rough pine planks; the ceiling was very high, and also painted the striking black of the walls. Was this the entry hall for whatever this house used to be, before all of Gregorio’s additions and enhancements? The contrast with the party room, with all its heady illusion, was striking.

  I stood there, looking at all the images of Wands, remembering my mother’s lessons, and Logan’s. This was the suit of fire, creativity, action, and movement.

  Gregorio Andromedus, international man of action, I thought, making myself giggle.

  Or maybe I was only giggling because I was staring at a picture of the Ace of Wands. A hand, gripping a thick stick, knobbed at the end.

  Surely it wasn’t the Witches’ Mead that was making me this silly.

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. Bathroom, bathroom, where was the blessed bathroom? I chose a door at random. It led into a small, untidy kitchen—and ah, yes! There was a tiny water closet just beyond it. I gathered up my skirts even as I was pulling the door shut behind me.

  My business done, I stepped back into the kitchen. A very bright ceiling fixture illuminated every corner. Pots and pans crowded the stove; crucibles, not all of which had been cleaned out, littered the countertop. None of these containers held anything resembling food, and a strong scent of conjuration was in the air. Was this his home laboratory? It was such a different style than his Berkeley lab. Same degree of clutter, though.

  I walked over to the sink and looked closely at one of the crucibles, fascinated. It had to be at least a thousand years old. Older than this house, this city, this country. Older even than Gregorio. I wondered if experiments would run differently with such ancient equipment. Did they bring their immense history with them, even in some tiny way? Setting down my glass of Mead, I picked up a tall clay container and looked it over. Probably the precursor to our modern beakers.

  The spoons and stirrers were equally archaic: pewter, most of them, though some were solid gold. What a wealth of history here…

  I took a sip of Mead as I kept looking through the room, opening drawers and poking into cabinets. After a minute, though, I started feeling like a trespasser. I was clearly not meant to be in this room—the water closet I’d found was obviously not a guest bathroom. Well, there hadn’t been anyone to ask, I told myself. But it was time to get back to the party. Maybe the speechifying was done by now.

  I grabbed my glass of Mead, which had become full and smoking again, though I was sure I had drunk more than half of it. Okay, just this much more and that’s all, I told myself as I walked back through the black-painted entryway to the door I’d come through.

  Blinking in the lush, realistic sunlight, I again had to steady myself. Everything seemed exactly as I had left it: the guests in just the same places, Gregorio still warmly congratulating everyone who had had anything to do with the clinic, the research, and for all I knew, the price of periwinkle.

  I stood by the wall, trying to make sense of it. Yes, he was finishing the same sentence I had heard him start as I walked out. But time could not have stopped: that’s physically impossible, even using magic. When people experience frozen time, they’re really suffering magical manipulation of their memories and perceptions—not a lot different from what I had done to Raymond. Had I fallen afoul of someone’s spell? I was out of the room for five minutes or more, subjectively.

  I took another sip. It was soothing. The rush of the brew mingled with my own power. At least some time must have elapsed, because my bladder was happily empty. And here was my third glass of Witches’ Mead, somehow replenished once more.

  At last, Gregorio finished his speech. The crowd clapped politely. A few warlocks went up to have a word with him, while everyone else returned to the drinking, flirting, eating, and quiet negotiation that was the true business of any party.

  Gregorio again caught my eye across the room. A word, Calendula, if you please, he sent to me, while still speaking to the warlocks.

  Of course. He must have noticed where I’d gone.

  He gestured toward the solarium doors. We should be able to find a quiet table out there. I will join you in a moment.

  I nodded and made my way across the crowded room. Indeed, the solarium was much less populated; I easily found a small white table with matching chairs.

  Gregorio showed up a minute later, smiling as he took a seat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to snoop, I was just looking for the bathroom. I would never—”

  He waved my words away. “Goodness, Calendula, please do not apologize. It is not possible for anyone to enter parts of my house I do not wish entered.” He smiled once more as he reached into a pocket of his suit and produced a simple gold ring. “Even someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a member of my family.”

  He held the ring out to me. It glittered in the dappled “sunlight”. I took it; it felt good in my hand. It was thick and heavy, unadorned. I turned it over, looking for an inscription. There was a deep stamp inside, but too worn to make out. And I couldn’t get a reading of the ring’s age. Gold is quite inert, though it can also carry what is given to it.

  “What…is this?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “Please. Try it on.”

  I could feel that the ring wanted to be worn: it was a ring of power, to be sure. I slipped it onto the middle finger of my right hand, where it fit perfectly, seeming to snuggle into place, warm and comfortable, all rounded edges and solid, energetic gold.

  A warmth started inside me, in the base of my belly below the baby, radiating up through her and into my chest, down my legs, out my arms to my fingertips, encircling the ring again, and bouncing gently back to the middle of my body. A smooth unbroken line of powerful, vibrant energy. “Wow. That feels good,” I said.

  “I am
glad.”

  I took a sip of Mead. The warmth of the drink flowed down to meet the warmth from the ring. The two powers intertwined most agreeably, purring through my system. I felt alert, energetic, and lighter than I had for some time.

  “So…this clearly means something, but I confess, I’m not quite understanding what,” I said, as I tried to take the ring off. It wouldn’t come. I pulled a little harder: my knuckle hurt; the ring wouldn’t budge. It had slipped on easily, but now it was fixed, seemingly quite a bit smaller than it had been.

  I looked up at Gregorio again. He was watching me closely. “Yes, it does mean something.”

  “Um, it won’t come off,” I said, feeling flushed with curiously impotent power. It was like racing downhill with my eyes closed. “Can you help?”

  “I can, but I would rather not, just yet,” Gregorio said with a gentle smile. “It is an old family heirloom. I had been planning to have Jeremiah give it to you to symbolize your union, except…”

  “Oh, wow.” I felt deeply awkward. “Thank you, but…it doesn’t feel right. On me, I mean. It’s very strong.”

  “It is powerful.” He spoke gently, looking into my eyes. “I would be greatly honored if you would take it in gratitude for your efforts, at the very least. It will enhance your work in many ways.”

  I hesitated a moment. “This doesn’t mean I implicitly agree to any sort of—”

  “No strings attached,” Gregorio said quickly. “You are carrying my granddaughter: that alone would be reason enough for a gift. Of course I do hope that you and Jeremiah will come to terms, but if you never do, I would still want you to have it.” He smiled again. “Try it for a time? If you still do not like it, we can find a different symbol.”

  I took a breath. “All right.”

  His smile grew, and he seemed to relax. “Marvelous. Shall we rejoin the others?”

  “Sure.”

  He took my arm and escorted me back into the main room, where I saw that Sirianna and Maela had found their way to Marcus. I saw Maela struggle to captivate him, and I felt for her. I could see the arrogant young warlock idly scanning the room over her head. Already looking for a better offer, and not even bothering to hide it. Ugh, warlocks. Who died and made them kings of the universe?

  It could, I supposed, be argued that we witches had brought this on ourselves. Warlocks were far too rare; scarcity bred an entirely undeserved demand. We should probably have more sons, as troublesome as they could be.

  (And, though it was uncharitable for me to even think it, nice guys like Sebastian weren’t helping matters any, taking themselves out of an already sparse field.)

  I sighed as I thought about the consequences of more warlocks among us. The out-of-control male energy. The arrogance, the entitlement. While I did know a few decent warlocks, most of them were no great shakes.

  Maela continued to try, though even from here I could see her smile becoming strained. As unremarkable as Marcus was, everyone deserved a little flirtation at a party. Pay attention to her, you jerk, I thought.

  A sudden spark lit up in Marcus’s eye. All at once his body language changed. He turned directly to face Maela, tilting his head and gazing at her in apparent awe. He said something I could not hear; Maela blushed and laughed.

  The gold ring glowed on my finger. Did I do that?

  Maela laughed again, more deeply, and Marcus was ensnared. Everyone could see it, even Sirianna, from the depths of her Mead-head. Witches and warlocks parted around the two of them, stealing glances as they did.

  I cupped my left hand over my right, covering the ring. I had to put my glass of Mead down to do it. Fortunately, an illusion-nymph appeared with an empty tray. She stood by my side, also watching the flirtation.

  “Ah, to be young again,” Gregorio murmured beside me.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, turning to him. The nymph with my Mead glass moved, ghostlike, so that my glass would remain close. To steady my nerves, and to honor her skill, I took the glass again and sipped.

  The potion calmed me; the ring did feel right—energetically—even as it felt wrong emotionally. And still way too powerful, in a weird way. I didn’t understand any of it, couldn’t control it. Was I already into Mead-head? “I want to know what’s happening with Maela,” I said, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly.

  Gregorio and I both looked across the room. Maela and Marcus were just talking and laughing…but the energy coming off them was striking. And clearly, everyone who saw them could feel it. “It appears that Maela is going to, as your generation would put it, get lucky tonight.”

  I gaped at him, then turned away and muttered, “Marcus is the lucky one.” Maela was a smart, clever, level-headed witch—lovely, creative, and with a great sense of humor. She could see the future, and she made a mean guacamole. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen her go on a date.

  Gregorio chuckled and flagged down another passing pixie. “Have you tried the meatballs, Calendula? They are quite acceptable.” He took two of them; the pixie smiled and offered the platter to me.

  I was suddenly starving, though no less befuddled. “Thanks.” He was wrong: “quite acceptable” didn’t begin to describe them. They were amazing. The pixie offered a napkin as I felt the rich sauce dribble down my chin. She waited, so I snagged another meatball. “Yum.”

  “Ricardo!” Gregorio called out, then vanished into the crowd.

  “Go on, shoo,” I said to the pixie as I worked on the second meatball. “I’ll eat them all.”

  “That would be fine, Mistress Calendula,” the pixie answered.

  “No, seriously, scat.” I waved her away. She blanched and vanished even faster than Gregorio had.

  “Oops,” I said, looking down at the ring. It didn’t feel right to threaten to smack even illusory creatures. I tested the ring again, but it still would not come off.

  Even two meatballs threatened to fill my stomach to bursting, though the baby couldn’t possibly be taking up that much room yet. The Witches’ Mead was staying out of her bloodstream, even as it was coursing through mine, but I could feel that she was weary. Or maybe it was just me. I had to find a place to sit down. Much as I liked parties, this one was rather overwhelming.

  I scanned for empty chairs; the place was really filling up. People shrieked with laughter and hollered greetings over one another’s heads. The intoxication level of the room was almost visibly rising. I edged around the crowd, now recognizing nobody besides Maela and Sirianna. Maela was too busy, and Siri was too drunk.

  “There you are,” came Leonora’s imperious voice. I had stumbled across the table my coven had claimed, after all. “What is that you’re drinking? Witches’ Mead?”

  I sank into a chair. “It’s specially formulated for my pregnancy.”

  She raised one steely eyebrow and studied me, then gave a short, harsh laugh. “What does that mean? What kind of spell? I did not detect anything.”

  I smiled unsteadily; I didn’t know either. But I could feel it. It had to be true. “It’s safe. Gregorio Andromedus told me so.”

  “Oh, if the great Elder says so…” Niad broke in, her face a smirking mask in the strange light.

  “Hush, Niad,” Leonora said. Niad made an even worse face and mimicked Leonora’s shrill voice: “Hush, Niad.” I cringed, waiting to see what punishment Leonora would bestow for this shocking rudeness, but she did nothing. Very odd.

  I took another sip of the brew from my generously full glass. It was certainly delicious, and not really harmful. In fact, not harmful at all. Whatever spell Gregorio had put in it. On it. Whatever. I giggled to myself at the thought of his reassurance and my blithe trust in him. Spelled. Speld! Spellllllld. Hee hee. It was really a funny word, when you thought about it. Spell spell spill spull spelling bee blessed be… For all I knew, maybe the baby was half drunk already!

  Leonora was still studying me, and now I saw that her eyes were bleary. “You are such a silly little witch,” she finally drawled.


  None of my other sisters had said anything. Peony was flirting with a ghastly old warlock at the next table, who had sidled his chair close. Niad was making faces at Leonora behind her back. Liza and Ruth listed glassy-eyed towards one another, their pale hair coming loose from their matching updos.

  “Oh dear,” I said, belatedly getting it. The whole party was drunk. And it wasn’t just them. I was, too.

  I don’t remember a whole lot more after that. At one point, Niad and I were wandering around the room, suddenly the very best of friends, arms tight around each other…we were looking for my mother, I had to tell her something totally hilarious about the tarot and phallic symbols. We found Leonora, who had been with us all along, and I tried to tell Niad that she was my mother, but that wasn’t exactly right, we all knew that wasn’t right, but we didn’t quite know why. Later I was standing on the table where some of my sisters were still sitting, or slumping, trying to get my hands on that ugly, ugly chandelier so that I could do Gregorio a huge favor by pulling it down from the ceiling and sealing it in an airtight magic spell at the bottom of the ocean for all of eternity. But I could not reach the chandelier, even though earlier I could have sworn it was hanging so low it was almost sitting on the table, and my sisters cajoled me down before I hurt myself and the baby, and that was lovely, because they had more of that delicious Witches’ Mead waiting for me…

  — CHAPTER TWENTY —

  And then pain, nothing but pain. Elnor’s piercing howl, shrill in the dark. “Oh, shit.” Pain at the very thought of my words, pain at whispering them.

  Elnor again, demanding food.

  “Go ’way.” Burying my face under the pillow, pushing her off the bed. “Go kill something.”