Song of Sorcery

by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

  Regaining her composure, she slowly opened her eyes again and found herself staring into the open door of the establishment on the opposite side of the street. Her hand went to the bear’s shoulder. “Your Highness, isn’t that the inn from the vision?”

  “Hmph?” asked His Highness, allowing his snout to protrude slightly as he stood more erect. “I can’t tell for sure. Haven’t seen many inns lately, and, to tell the truth, we bears are a trifle near-sighted, but I’d say it is.”

  Maggie took a deep breath and held up crossed fingers to the bear before they entered the common room of the inn.

  “Good day, good folk,” said the same woman who had been so polite to Uncle Fearchar, sounding as though neither they nor the day actually met her specifications. She cast a critical eye over the scruffy girl and the great, hairy pilgrim, sniffed, and continued in a businesslike manner to set the table for her lodgers’ evening meal. When she had finished and they still stood there, she said, “If you’re looking for a place to stay, I’d think the Lorelei would be more to your liking. It’s cheaper, and anyway, we’re full up.”

  That was a fine way to talk to an enchanted prince and a semi-powerful witch, Maggie thought. She certainly hoped the woman would display more courtesy to other peculiar-looking travelers, or in this country she might find out how difficult it was for a toad to polish cutlery. At least she had been polite to Uncle Fearchar, which reminded Maggie of why they were there. “Thank you for your counsel, ma’am,” she said with all the mildness she could muster, “but actually we were looking for a relative of mine.”

  “Oh?” said the woman. “We have few strangers here. Who is this relative?” She set down the rag and pitcher she had been using to clean the table and placed a fist on each ample hip, devoting her full steely-eyed attention to the bothersome intruders.

  “My uncle, Fearchar Brown. I—er—was told he had been stopping here.”

  “Master Brown is a relative of yours?” The woman’s lower jaw dropped as recognition of the common familial characteristics between niece and uncle began to redden her face. “Oh, do pardon me, Miss. As I say, we get so few strangers!” She hurried around the table to pull out a bench. “Pray, seat yourself and rest. I’ll bring you a mug of tea and a bit of bread I baked this morning and send my boy around for Master Brown.”

  She called to the boy, who came running with much show of adolescent knees and elbows, and sent him on the errand, then turned anxiously back to Maggie and the bear, saying, “I’m sorry there’s no butter today. Like all else in this town it goes bad very quickly. It’s a pity the food we have to waste! There was a good catch this year, too, but how we’ll get through the winter I don’t know, I’m sure…”

  “Doesn’t salting and drying keep it well enough?” Maggie asked, more to stop the woman’s babbling than because she was really interested.

  “Salt!” snorted the wife, whose stare regained its former piercing severity. “I wouldn’t poison my family and customers with that! It wrecks one’s health, didn’t you know that? And it has that horrid aftertaste, besides.”

  “It does?” Maggie’s opinion that the woman was extremely peculiar and changeable and generally not much worth bothering about was confirmed. Even the bread she baked was absolutely tasteless, no doubt due to the woman’s prejudice against salt, and with no butter to put on it Maggie thought she might have as well eaten a piece of the table instead. “You wouldn’t happen to have a place where my companion and I could wash, would you?”

  The woman’s grimace of distaste said that no number of celebrated kinfolk could make up for the mess they would leave her washing all the grime from themselves. Of herself Maggie thought that that was probably correct, but it was unfair in the bear’s case, since none of him was visible outside his cloak. “I’d have to charge you, Mistress,” the woman said finally, “as that would require the use of one of my rooms.”

  “I’ll trade you a preservative spell for it then,” Maggie offered with exaggerated patience, “to keep your dismal fish fresh.”

  Making sure that Maggie kept her end of the bargain first, the woman supplied her with a bowl, pitcher, towel, and a scrap of homemade soap. She did not offer to heat a kettle of water, so Maggie had a wash no warmer than those she’d had since Castle Rowan.

  She realized she had given the innkeeper’s wife far more than fair value for her facilities, but she felt better when she came down the steps and saw the boy escorting a man into the room. The bear joined her silently at the foot of the steps and together they stepped forward to meet Fearchar Brown. Like Granny Brown and Sybil and Maggie herself, Fearchar was clothed in brown, but with a difference.

  His britches and jacket were of the finest cocoa-colored velvet, lavishly trimmed with gold embroideries of intertwined and elongated animals and intricately interwoven knots and lacings. His shirt was a shining cinnamon silk. Maggie and the innkeeper’s wife curtsied. The bear pulled at the hood of his garment as though he were tipping a cap.

  “The boy said a lady was inquiring for me, claiming to be some relation of mine,” began Uncle Fearchar, speaking to the innkeeper’s wife. She nodded at Maggie. Fearchar crossed to meet her, a smile lighting his face as he took her hands in his own well-kept and lavishly jeweled ones. “She is most certainly kin of mine! You must be the baby Bronwyn was about to have before I left!” he cried. Maggie thought she saw pleasure in his preliminary survey of her.

  “Yes, Uncle. Maggie, sir.”

  “I gave them my best bread and tea,” chirped the proprietress, “and they’re all washed and rested and comfy.”

  Fearchar turned to her coldly. “You may leave us now, madam. But a bottle of wine to celebrate our reunion would not be amiss.”

  They sat sipping the wine while they talked. His Highness drank nothing, but did join them at the table, slumping somewhat, as his bear’s anatomy was not well suited to formal dining. As Fearchar began to talk, Maggie had been surprised to hear the beginnings of a growl rumble within the cloaked figure.

  “Now then, dear girl, what brings you so far from Fort Iceworm? Your—ah—your mother and father are well, I trust.”

  “My mother is dead, Uncle.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear it. Your Grandmother? How is dear Maudie?”

  “She’s fine, Uncle. Actually, what we came for I mean—I—” she was distracted and forgot what she was going to say as the growl from the bear built to the point that Uncle Fearchar tried to peer into the cowl.

  “Excuse me, good pilgrim. I didn’t quite catch that?” he said.

  The prince threw back his hood and jumped up on the bench, grabbing Fearchar by the jacket with his great front paws, “Prepare to die, varlet, or hand over my boy’s heart! For eight long years your hateful voice has been ringing in my ears.”

  Maggie tried to drag the bear off her uncle by pulling on the cloak the bear wore, but it came off as she pulled, and she fell backwards.

  Uncle Fearchar seemed to have regained control of the situation, though the bear still had him in hand, or paw. “I beg your pardon, my dear bear,” he said into His Highness’s snarling maw. “Would you perhaps be the Prince of Ablemarle come after the remedy for your enchantment?”

  Maggie thought that even His Highness felt the strong, compassionate sincerity in her uncle’s voice, for he was lowering him to his seat even as he growled, “Come to you for one last drink of the marrow of men’s bones if you’re not quick enough about doing as I say, sorcerous scum.”

  Unruffled, other than his clothing, Uncle Fearchar smoothed his lapels and clucked over a wine stain where his coattails had dragged in his cup when he was hoisted aloft. He returned his attention to the bear. His expression was one of mingled martyrdom and pity.

  “My dear bear, it is true that I cast a spell upon you and procured for Xenobia the spell to remove young David’s heart, but let’s be gentlemen about this, shall we? You must realize that even a sorcerer of my stature has a living to earn.” The bear’s growl ha
d died down to a grumble again but he didn’t appear particularly impressed. The sorcerer continued. “It was for your own character development that you had to be transformed; surely you can see that now? In abusing the faith of poor Xenobia, you transgressed, betraying not only a woman who loved you, but your own principles. In your feckless fickle state you would hardly have made a good ruler for your country or a decent father to your son. I simply aided the lady in providing you with an object lesson. The removal of Davey’s heart was part of the plan. Through the whole procedure we were only thinking of the ultimate personal growth you would achieve by the time you got to this point. We felt that in observing Davey relating to others with no regard for their emotional safety, you would come to understand how reckless and unworthy such behavior is. Obviously we were correct, or you would not be here now, waiting for me to institute the last of my remedial conditions to the spell.”

  To Maggie’s surprise, the bear had by now ceased growling, and after listening quietly for a moment or two had begun nodding happily. “Yes, yes, I see it all now. How stupid of me to think that there was anything wicked in such a valuable lesson. Are you sure I’m quite worthy now to regain my human form?”

  Fearchar nodded gravely. “You can be helped, yes. If you and my lovely niece will be so kind as to accompany me…”

  The bear brushed his snout with a front paw. Maggie recognized the gesture as one of embarrassment. “Of course. Whatever you say. Hope I didn’t hurt you there, sir,” he added sheepishly, for a bear.

  “Wait a moment,” Maggie said, bewildered at all the revelations and sudden attitude changes taking place. “Maybe both of you understand all of this, but…” Her uncle turned a look of deep concern and interest on her, mingled with avuncular pride, and she stumbled through the rest of her phrase. “If you’re the sorcerer who has caused all of his problems, then you must be the one who’s caused mine too, and you must know where Winnie is, and…”

  He patted her hand and looked deeply into her eyes, smiling reassuringly. “Of course I know where she is, dear child. She is at my home, an honored guest. She will be so thrilled to know you’re coming to see her. When my trusted servant, known to you as Hugo the Peddler, found the poor girl in her sad state, he naturally brought her to me.

  “Although Lord Rowan and I are, as you may or may not know, both contenders for the throne, Lady Amberwine is, after all, related to my family. I wished to spare her further pain and humiliation, and let her have her baby far from those who would chastise her for her girlish folly. Hugo feared if she knew he represented me, she would not come with him, so he instead allowed her to believe he came from your father. I hope we were in time. Hers is a delicate nature, and I fear her recent experiences may have caused her lasting harm.” He tapped his head with a forefinger.

  Maggie found herself nodding agreement and promising to do whatever she could to help. She could see now that Fearchar had only been trying to save her sister, and a lucky thing it was, too. “That was so kind of you, Uncle. When is she to return to Lord Rowan?”

  “To Rowan? Oh, Maggie, surely you must realize by now that while I bear him no malice, I do feel that Rowan is a dangerous and unpredictable man. I had hoped you would help me persuade your sister to accept the hospitality of my castle until her babe is born and they are in condition to travel with you to your father’s home again. Perhaps you, too, would grace my castle for a while? To keep His Highness company?” His Highness bowed, and Maggie nodded her head.

  Uncle Fearchar had told them the trip from Dragon Bay to his castle on Evil Island would be novel, as it was. His boat was not propelled by means of the wind, but was elegantly pulled by three giant swans, black as the pupil of an eye, the same that Maggie had seen flying over the Northern Woods.

  Hugo had met them at the dock and helped them aboard and made them comfortable, but in spite of what she now knew, that the peddler was her Uncle’s major-domo and confidante, she still disliked him. There was the mysterious matter of the rabbit and the arrow he saw being fired at her father that hadn’t yet been explained to her satisfaction… perhaps she’d have an opportunity to talk to Uncle Fearchar about it privately. Twice the peddler touched her, once in helping her to climb into the boat and another time in settling a soft velvet robe over her shoulders to keep off the chill from the Bay. Both times she failed to suppress an involuntary shudder.

  As the swans pulled them noiselessly through the water, Uncle Fearchar pointed out the barge load of animals making its way across the Bay in a course that was at an oblique angle to their own. “Ah,” said Fearchar. “There’s a colorful local sight for you. Our beast barge on its way to the feeding grounds.”

  “Why’s that?” the bear asked. “Do you take it upon yourself to feed the beasts the stockmen have no food for?”

  “Hardly that,” he laughed. “The animals are part of my Dragon Days program.” He waited modestly for them to ask about it, but when they didn’t, continued. “Dragon Days is a little project of mine, you see, to rid the area of the marauding of the monster. All it took was having a heart-to-heart chat with him.”

  “It seems to me, heart-to-heart chats with dragons could be a little risky,” commented His Highness.

  “I am fortunate enough to be exceedingly brave,” admitted Fearchar, “and just happened to have along at the time a powerful sleeping powder, in case he proved nasty.”

  “So how does this Dragon Days business work?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s a simple arrangement. I persuaded the dragon that it would be less trouble all around if we, the citizens of Dragon Bay, supplied him with a diet filling and nutritious enough to meet a dragon’s requirements, to be delivered to a certain place every month in time for his feedings. That way, he ceases snatching children and prize livestock, and we are no longer subject to his depredations. He also doesn’t have to risk getting skewered by some knight errant abnormally strong and abysmally stupid enough to try to beard him in his den, as it were.”

  “Brilliant,” agreed Maggie and the bear in unison, watching both Fearchar and the disappearing barge with such avid new interest that they failed to notice when the boat landed.

  “You must get a lot of exercise climbing up and down this path just to get to your own front door,” observed Maggie. Although she was used to the rigors of travel, or so she told herself before undertaking new ones, she found the almost perpendicular trail from landing to castle gate severely taxing.

  “As I recall, “said the bear, who had shed the pilgrim’s robe and dropped to all fours for more comfortable climbing, “that’s the way of castles. You must keep in mind, gurrrl, one usually wants to keep one’s own folk in, while discouraging the rowdy element without. Wouldn’t do to make it easy, would it?”

  “I seldom use this route, actually,” said Fearchar. “Generally one of my familiars,” he indicated the swans, now unharnessed from the boat and gracing the Bay, “flies me wherever I wish to go. Since Dragon Days takes place so close to home, however, I feel that when I go to the village to act on its behalf as the event’s sponsor, it is incumbent on me to travel more or less in the mode of the local people.”

  The bear nodded gravely. “The common touch. Very wise of you. My father used to tell me that was a very important asset to a king.”

  Maggie murmured between labored breaths that it must be lovely to fly through the air like that, though she recalled the similar flight she and Colin had taken on Grizel’s back with something less than relish.

  The path went up even more steeply at that point, and their breath was required for climbing.

  The front gate was surrounded by carved stone, and its wood was embellished with carvings as well. Fearsome creatures scowled down at them, goblin guardians frozen in stone, permanently, Maggie hoped. She was considerably taken aback by its ugliness, but the bear sniffed appreciatively the work on the door, a pictorial panel dramatizing the exploits of several of the horrific creatures.

  “Hmm, interesting. I s
ay, Brown, this is quite old, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Uncle Fearchar with a put-upon sigh. Hugo opened the door, and they started up a flight of stone steps that led through myriad carved archways. The shadows in these arched passages seemed to harbor chill and gloom. “It was built before Argonia was properly settled, I believe, as an outpost for the ancient Drumclog civilization. That’s all I can get out of it.”

  “All you can get out of it?” Maggie asked, continually astounded by the sheer breadth and miscellany of what proved to be her uncle’s magic. “You mean you can talk to the walls?”

  He led them through a dank gray hallway and to another carved door. “No,” he said, “but there are these runes, as you see here.” He indicated the characters on the carving. “Shortly after I took up residence here I noticed them and, as soon as I was able, secured wax impressions. The princess was able to—er—enlighten me regarding their meaning.” Their steps made hardly a patter on the bare stone floor of the great, high-ceilinged entrance hall.

  Maggie looked up, turning on her heel to catch the last rays of sunlight shining on the walls high above them. The windows were set high and narrow, a wonderful source of light for the dust motes and any possible bats, not much use for people. At least she couldn’t see any bats in the plasterwork.

  “You know the princess?” she asked, belatedly tagging after them.

  “My goodness, yes, child.” He ushered them ceremoniously through a hall, a sharp left turn, and at last they found themselves in a room the size of Maggie’s village.

  “My study,” said Fearchar. “Drafty at times, but it has enough space for my projects.” His projects, the ones they could see displayed, included a complete dragon’s skeleton, maps of every imaginable place made into tapestries and hung from the walls, a model of the capitol city and the palace, complete with pull away walls to display the rooms’ interiors (“I’ve been planning how to decorate—just in case”). Another entire wall was composed of pigeonholes containing scrolls and parchments, presents from the princess, “all beautifully illuminated, of course.” High above the scholarly materials, metal cases shaped like men caught the bear’s attention and Fearchar explained. “Those were given to me by the wizard who originated the spell for turning you into a bear, Highness. Met him at the World-Wide Wizard’s conference right after I moved south. We’ve corresponded since, and I’ve visited him swanback once or twice. Those cases are used to protect the bodies of the soldiers in his country from their enemies.”