by PAMELA DEAN
“I bet he can’t tell us whether this is real or illusion.”
“Shan,” said Ted, goaded into desperation, “could call the winds and make floods and control dragons.”
Patrick shrugged again.
“Well,” said Ted, “I’m not wearing jeans.”
Benjamin was, after all, far more formidable than Patrick. Ted sat down and sifted through strange soft fabrics, and finally found a sort of tunic, made of what he thought was linen, which had a minimum of embroidery. He found himself a belt and some sandals (“You could at least wear your tennis shoes,” said Patrick), and ventured with the disapproving Patrick into High Castle.
People were astir already, pages and guards and servants. As Ted and Patrick made their way down and north, they began to smell food. It did not smell like breakfast particularly: no coffee, no toast, no bacon. But it smelled wonderful. Patrick wanted to stop and have breakfast, but Ted would not.
“How can we fight when we’re faint with hunger?” demanded Patrick.
“We can’t fight anyway.”
“Well, I’d like to be able to dodge,” said Patrick.
“You’ll be lighter if you don’t eat,” said Ted, absently. He felt a little light in the head himself, but his feeling resembled the detachment of the dream he hoped to recapture when he faced Randolph. He did not want to do anything which might disturb the feeling. The dream seemed their only hope.
The place for fencing practice was just where Patrick had thought it was, and he was pleased enough to have been right that he stopped muttering about food. It was at the northeast corner of High Castle, between the second white wall and the second pink wall, and between the rose garden and the lake. It consisted of a large circle of sand surrounded by drystone walls, along which were ranged racks of weapons and masks and gloves. The sun was not up, and the air was a little chilly and very clear. The lake lapped lightly against the eastern wall, and over the western one trailed white and yellow roses. They looked very bright in the gray air. Ted firmly turned his back on them. He did not want to look at the rose garden.
They had only been in the practice area a few moments, and were examining the weapons with some dismay, when Ted experienced a creeping feeling on the back of his neck, and looked up.
“Here he comes,” said Ted.
“How can you tell?” said Patrick, squinting at the advancing figure.
Ted did not answer him. He had not seen Randolph since the King’s council, but he knew, as he had known then, that this was Randolph.
“He’s too tall,” said Patrick critically.
Lord Randolph strode briskly toward them across the flattened grass of the yard. He was dressed much as Ted was, except that he had on his head something that caught the early light. As he came closer, and smiled at them, Ted saw that it was a circlet of silver set with three of the blue stones.
“Good morrow,” called Randolph.
“Good . . .” said Ted, and stopped.
Randolph and Patrick were staring at one another. Randolph looked taken aback and caught, somehow, between anger and amusement. Patrick stood where he was; he looked as if he were waiting to be executed.
Randolph came right up to Patrick, disregarding Ted, and took hold of the sleeve of Patrick’s T-shirt as if to make sure it was there. He looked at Patrick’s jeans and raised his eyebrows.
“So,” he said, “these are the garments which so galled Benjamin.”
Patrick did not seem disposed to reply, so Ted did. “Yes, sir.”
“Whence came they?”
“We were in the West Tower,” said Ted, truthfully.
“Where else?” said Randolph. “But what hath preserved them? They are not old, yet it must be that none hath worn them since before the West Tower tapestries were woven.”
His speech was harder to understand than it had been at the council, and Ted had not followed the second part at all, but he answered the question. “We don’t know, sir,” he said.
“And wherefore did they gall Benjamin?” said Randolph, letting go of Patrick, who still looked stunned. Randolph stepped back from him a pace and looked him over with a gaze which would have made Ted squirm if it had been directed at him. Patrick just stood there. He began to look a little less stunned, and to examine Randolph in his turn. Ted, afraid of what Patrick might say, spoke himself.
“The only ones he really saw were mine, and they were much dirtier.”
Randolph laughed, not looking away from Patrick. “What is that to Benjamin?” he said. “No, it is, I think, that this one knoweth more than a telleth.”
A cardinal hooted in the fir trees that bordered the yard. Ted and Patrick both jumped. The cardinal settled into a series of whistles. Randolph put one hand to his circlet; he looked a little sheepish, like someone caught stealing the cookie dough.
“Thou too?” he said to Patrick, who nodded gravely at him. Randolph waved his hand with its silver ring at the fir tree. “I cry you mercy,” he called, and the cardinal shut up instantly. Randolph turned to Ted.
“Well, then,” he said, “shall we begin?”
Ted’s stomach clenched itself, but he nodded.
“Mark us well, young Patrick,” said Randolph, reaching for the racks of swords. “The day cometh when I shall require these things of thee.”
“Is he that good?” Ted asked Randolph, stalling for time. If he could see how Randolph chose a sword, perhaps he could avoid at least one of the mistakes awaiting him.
“Think’st thou he is not?” said Randolph, rattling a sword out of its housing as if it were an umbrella he did not think he needed. Ted, craning his neck, saw that although it did not have the plastic button on the tip, it did not look very sharp. “He is very nearly thy height,” said Randolph, “though I had not noticed till today, and he is no less quick than thee.”
He tried the grip of the sword and seemed displeased. “Hast been at these in thy play hours?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” said Ted, meekly, and then reconsidered. Randolph had not treated him like a child at the council, and Ted had liked that better than he liked this.
“And if I had?” he added.
Randolph cocked an eyebrow at him, but answered readily enough. “Why, then I should know what this sinister grip does among the right ones,” he said, and tossed the sword to Ted. Ted caught it clumsily, by the guard, but Randolph had already turned and was rummaging among the swords again.
Ted tried the grip in his hand. It did not seem to fit. And then, as Randolph turned around, sword in hand, smiling, Ted remembered what sinister could mean. He took hold of the sword with his left hand, and it fit very well. Ted tried to remember his dream, and almost groaned aloud. He remembered perfectly that he had held the sword in his right hand.
“Pat, come here,” he called. He had the beginnings of an idea.
Patrick trudged over to them. He still looked a little glazed.
“Where did I hit you?” Ted asked him.
Patrick, looking surprised, put a hand up to the left side of his face.
“What’s this?” said Randolph. He put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and looked at his face. “A pretty bruise,” he said, frowning, and wheeled on Ted. “Faugh,” he said, “to strike from behind.”
“He didn’t,” said Patrick.
“I used my right hand,” said Ted, the idea settling into his mind.
Randolph looked the way Ted’s mother had when Ted told her that the cat had had five kittens in the linen closet, on the Christmas tablecloth.
“Faugh,” he said again, “practice on thine own face.”
“No, no!” said Ted. “He woke me out of a bad dream, and I hit him without thinking. See, Randolph, I’m trying to learn to use my right hand as well as the left, and—”
“I have told thee, to use the left is great advantage,” said Randolph.
“But to use both—” said Ted.
“Thy ambition leadeth thee astray,” said Randolph. “One day, perhaps. But�
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“But can I show you?” said Ted, trying to sound like someone who is dying to show off, rather than like someone in a panic. He had never used his left hand much. He could not possibly fake a fencing match using his left hand, and the dream would not help him with a left-handed match. How could Prince Edward be left-handed?
Randolph was looking taken aback. After all, Prince Edward was meek and biddable.
“Do so quickly, then,” said Randolph; he sounded half grudging and half pleased.
Ted got himself a right-handed foil from the rack. He did not bother to choose it carefully. He had no idea what he should look for, and Randolph wanted him to hurry. He wondered about masks and gloves, but Randolph was wearing neither.
He turned around with the sword, and Randolph saluted him with his. Ted copied the gesture, not too awkwardly. It had not been in the dream. His memory of the dream began when they were already in the middle of something. So Ted waited for Randolph to begin.
The moment Randolph moved, Ted knew what to do. The sword seemed to be the same weight as the dream sword. It did not fit his hand as well, but it fit well enough. Whatever Ted had done had made Randolph retreat. Ted, following him, realized that his feet were wrong and quickly arranged them correctly. Before he had finished this, Randolph’s sword bounced into his shoulder. It came with surprising force; it actually hurt.
“One-love,” said Patrick, perkily, from the edge of the yard. Ted would have liked to hit him.
“Hold thy tongue,” said Randolph.
Then they had to stand apart and salute and begin again. Ted thought this was silly, but he did it. This time he had his feet right at the beginning, and he and Randolph fell quickly into the fight of the dream.
Ted could not find the names of his moves flickering in the back of his mind, but they worked well enough. He was getting much tireder than he had in the dream, and there was sweat in his eyes, and the grip of the sword was becoming slippery with it. Suddenly, he knew he had Randolph, and before he could remember that this part of the dream had not worked, he had slid Randolph’s blade out of the way with his own and lunged straight at him.
He felt much more foolish this time. Randolph did not look disappointed; he rolled his eyes.
“Thou wilt do it,” he said. “I am sorry thou art not so tall as would like thee, but an imagined height winneth no duels. I have told thee, learn to work close in. It discomposes many.”
Ted, wobbly with relief and exertion, tried to get to his feet and sat down on the ground. Randolph, smiling, came across to him and helped him up. He froze, his hand suddenly hard on Ted’s arm.
“What’s this?” he said. “Prithee stand a moment.”
He measured Ted against himself. The top of Ted’s head came to a little below Randolph’s shoulder. Randolph put Ted away from him, holding on to Ted’s shoulder with the firm but delicate grip that Ted had been taught to use on small animals to keep them still without hurting them. Ted felt as perfectly trapped as a frog in a cupped hand.
“What sorcery is this?” said Randolph, so quietly that Ted could barely hear him. “Thou art precisely the height of my shoulder. Not a sennight ago we found ’twas so.”
Ted felt the heaviness of panic spread through his chest. With it came, more sharply than before, the feeling of betrayal. He looked like Edward. He sounded like Edward. He knew, if he thought about it, how to act like Edward. He could almost fight like Edward. He even, like Edward, wished to be taller. But Edward was left-handed, and Ted was shorter than Edward. What sorcery was this, indeed, thought Ted, and both panic and resentment were swallowed in a deeper fear.
He looked at Randolph, who was waiting patiently for his answer.
“Perhaps . . .” said Ted, creakily, and cleared his throat.
Randolph did not really look as if he thought the answer would be any great matter. Maybe people here said “What sorcery is this?” without meaning anything by it. Randolph looked patient, speculative, and a little amused.
“Perhaps I was wearing different shoes,” said Ted, still creakily. He wondered if Randolph, who still held his arm, could feel his pulse pounding. He wanted to go home.
“Very different they must have been,” said Randolph; he sounded as if he knew what Ted was going to say, as if he were trying to help out.
“You might as well tell him,” said Patrick at Ted’s other side. Ted, who had not heard him come up, jumped violently, and Randolph let go of him.
“You tell him,” said Ted, with a sulkiness that was only half put on. Patrick was altogether too fond of taking over, so let him worry about it.
“Oh, yes, they were very different,” said Patrick.
“The West Tower?” said Randolph to Ted.
“Uh,” said Ted, who was discovering a disinclination to lie to Randolph, and finding it very inconvenient.
“They were enchanted—or at least they might have been,” Patrick said hastily, “and they made him look taller.”
“Not so much taller,” said Randolph, dubiously, and Ted began to regret his vengeful impulse. He would have to remember that what got Patrick in trouble could get him in trouble too. “Had not Lord Andrew in what he was pleased to call a jest,” Randolph was saying, “asked me when His Highness would be of a height to wear the armor the dwarves forged for him at his birth, I had not known Edward was the height of my shoulder.”
“But that was enough,” said Patrick, with an audacity that stunned Ted; it was far more likely that Edward had been discovered not to be tall enough for the armor.
“Aye,” said Randolph, “and how, Edward, gotst thou wind of Andrew’s intentions?”
This stumped Patrick, which made Ted so furious that he spoke immediately.
“I didn’t,” he said, trying to undo Patrick’s damage. “I wanted shoes to make me much taller, but I thought I should work up to it, you know, get used to a little difference, then a bigger one, like that. It was just luck with Andrew.”
Randolph shook his head. “The adage, my lord,” he said, formally, “is, ‘Be what you would seem to be’; it is not ‘Seem to be what you would be.’ That is the way of Andrew; that was the way of Shan. I beg you,” he said, quite seriously, and as if he were addressing another grown-up, “let it not be your way.”
Ted was too astonished to reply.
“Dost thou understand the difference,” said Randolph after a moment, “between this matter of thy shoes, and this matter of learning to fence with thy right hand?”
Ted, thinking frantically, was a little surprised to realize that he did. “The matter of the shoes is the way of Andrew,” he said, “but the matter of the hands is the way of the adage.” He saw Patrick wince, and thought that it was too easy to pick up the way Randolph spoke.
“Remember it, then,” said Randolph.
“So what about the right hand?” said Ted hopefully.
“Thou hast the right of me,” said Randolph. “I had no conception that that hand could serve thee so well. Not so quick, not so elegant, but serviceable. Thou dost repeat thy earlier blunders; have a care. But ’twas well done.”
Ted, wiping a sweaty hand across his sweatier forehead, grinned and was silent.
“Patrick,” said Randolph, “what surprises hast thou in store?”
“None, my lord, save that I have not practiced,” said Patrick. Ted could tell by his tone that this was one of his lines; somewhere, sometime, they must have played a lesson in which Randolph asked Prince Patrick that question.
“Do so now, then,” said Randolph, a little grimly, and tossed Patrick a sword.
Patrick caught it neatly and then stood at a loss. Randolph went toward him. Ted stood where he was, equally at a loss. Their masquerade would not survive Patrick’s failure any better than it would have survived Ted’s. Patrick was beginning to look a little sick; perhaps he could use that as an excuse. Or perhaps Ruth could wriggle out of an accusation of sorcery better than Patrick could explain a display of ignorance. Ted was not ev
en sure that a sorcerer of the Green Caves could make anyone forget something. He should have asked Patrick instead of arbitrarily dismissing the suggestion. Now that the dream had done its job, he realized that he had expected too much of it. It had solved his problem; it had not solved theirs.
Randolph’s sword achieved a whistle as he saluted Patrick.
“Well?” said Randolph.
And the cardinal whistled yet again from the fir trees.
“Oh, come on!” said Ted, involuntarily, as if Laura or Ellen had suggested this way out and he thought it was too easy.
Randolph merely rolled his eyes again. “I knew ’twas folly to allow rival magics in this castle,” he said. “Patrick—”
“I didn’t ask them to!”
“Canst ask them not to?”
The cardinal sang shrilly.
“Next time maybe?” said Patrick. He looked half unbelieving and half smug.
Randolph fixed him with a look not at all angry, but worse than a glare. “There will be war in this kingdom,” he said, “long ere thou canst so much as call the winds. And if thou spendest thy time on learning to call the winds, thou wilt have neither sorcery nor swordsmanship that shall survive that war. If thou canst forget thy sorcery, thy sword may be good enough.”
“When?” said Patrick. “By when?”
“September at the latest,” said Randolph.
“How do you know?” said Ted.
“Thou’lt know that when thy father does.”
“Does he know this much?”
“Oh, aye,” said Randolph; he sounded as if he would have liked to add, “For all the good that does.”
“Well,” said Patrick, “I’ll remember that, but for today I think—”
“Go thy ways,” said Randolph.
Patrick put the sword back. Randolph stopped Ted as he went to do the same.
“For the next lesson, pray, the left hand,” said Randolph. Ted stared at him, formulating wild plans for spraining his left wrist, and Randolph added, “Thou canst no more spare time for the right than thy brother for his sorcery.”
“What about your sorcery?” asked Ted, who was immensely curious about why Randolph had worn the circlet to a fencing lesson but not to a king’s council. The circlet meant that he was a journeyman wizard; in High Castle, that meant he was of Fence’s party. Wearing the circlet to the council would have been another way of defending Fence, but wearing it to a fencing lesson would only, as far as Ted could see, make it harder to fight.
