“I am taking this seriously!”
“Look at you,” said Drosselmeyer. “I have done my utter best to stand as your father and raise you as a true emperor and you won’t even bother to sit up straight!”
Nikolai sharply stood, almost overturning the chair, his face burning.
“Well, you are the regent,” he said in a very even, formal voice. “I have no say, after all, until I am coronated, of course. Send telegrams, call in the regiments, do what you see fit. As will I.”
“Nikolai, I am not finished!”
Yes, you are, thought Nikolai, storming from the room without a look back. He had work to do, and would do it, with or without the General.
The mantle clock struck nine, startling Clara. It took her a moment to grasp her bearings as the world around her focused, and she realized she was still in the drawing room at home, with the little scrubby tree and the spinet. Fritz had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Mother was blinking to stay awake. The hearth fire had dimmed. Clara’s hands were holding the book so tight they hurt. She released and shook them out.
“It’s late,” she said. “Should we finish the book tomorrow?”
“That’s a good idea, liebling,” said Mother, standing to kiss Clara on the head. “Such an interesting story! We must find who sent it.”
Clara nodded, thoughtful, as Mother helped Fritz up the stairs.
Interesting, to say the least. The words had risen, real, from the pages. Mother and Fritz hadn’t seemed to experience it the same way Clara had. She had actually felt it when Prince Nikolai had been riding through the mountain forest. The bitter cold air. The smell of soft pine. The thud of Kriket’s hooves. When the prince strode through the Palace, Clara inhaled the musty scent of old furniture and incense, and saw the glisten of chandelier prisms reflecting across the walls. There was magic in this book, and it gave Clara shivers.
Clara undressed in the drawing room, quickly pulling a nightgown over herself and wrapping a thick shawl around her shoulders. She kept her warm boots on, because she was still a bit shivery, and sat at the spinet.
Time to practice. She had maybe two hours of good practice time left, enough to keep her fingers springy for the concert tomorrow. She placed her hands on the piano in the first chord of Johann Kahler’s Sonata, but didn’t play. She glanced over at the nutcracker, leaning against the sofa leg, and the intricate book open beside it.
Clara strained to read the next words.
Erik Zolokov, they said.
Clara glanced at the spinet, then back at the book, yearning to know what happened next.
“Oh...cabbage,” said Clara, and for the first time in years, she left her thoughts of Johann at the piano, picked up the book, and snuggling into the sofa, began reading again.
* * *
Erik Zolokov.
Across all the expanse of the empire, the telegraphs clicked that name, click, click-clack-click, click-click, through the cities of Krasno-Les and Derevo and Belamore, Krystallgrad, and hundreds of the smaller towns, the wires live with excitement.
Records were searched; inquiries made. There were many Eriks; there were a handful of Zolokovs. But there was no Erik Zolokov.
“Here is one,” said Officer Petrov, who regulated the telegraph office located near the Palace gate. Nikolai had been with him all afternoon, the clicks and clacks washing disappointment over him with every dead end. Now, Nikolai perked up.
“There was an Erik Zolokov, in Lesnov,” said the officer as he wrote and listened to the clacks that filled the office. “D...e—D...i—died in...eighteen eighty—no, just eighteen eighty. Died twelve years ago. In the Lesnov volnakrii that spring. His family, too. He was—” the telegraph officer pursed his lips and looked upward, listening. “Six. He was six years old. Stop. Hm. Well. Fair to say, that’s not our magician.”
“No,” Nikolai agreed, lost in thought.
A volnakrii. Rat surge. It only happened once every few years, when the rats would lie low and breed and breed until there were thousands of them, and all of them hungry. They would rise up from the forests and wash over the mountains like raging rivers, destroying everything in their path. It would happen suddenly, and if the farmers and wood cutters couldn’t get within the city walls quickly enough, they would be overrun too.
A lot of people had died in the Lesnov volnakrii, even the city’s baron. Nikolai remembered it. He had, in fact, been there. So had his father. They had been touring the country together when he was seven years old, reviewing the regiments. That evening, it was like the forest was holding its breath. Nikolai and his father had been out riding together, and everything went eerily silent. Nikolai remembered the stifling silence even now, years later.
Those were the signs of a volnakrii. Nikolai’s father rushed to warn the nearby city, and Nikolai rode to warn the nearby soldiers, who immediately regimented for battle. Because of their quick work, the city of Lesnov was saved. The rats had been stopped before they broke through the wall. There was a panicked, bloody rat battle and trees and small farms were torn all across the mountainside; but they had kept the rats back. Nikolai and Emperor Friedrich were considered heroes.
That was, of course, back when his father was alive and he was actually trusted to do emperor work.
* * *
Sun set early in Imperia, and by five o’clock the Palace windows glowed in long rows, warm against the starlit dusk. Prince Nikolai left the telegraph office empty-handed and anxious. News of the magician had swept through the Empire as fast as the wires allowed, and Nikolai could feel the taut hope hanging in the air. Whispers of the servants. The prince would make the magician turn the toys back into the children. He would fix it. That’s why he was the prince!
The Trans-Imperian railways lined with steaming railcars, the Imperial Station bustled with men dressed in red and gold. Soldiers filled the Palace, stretching their legs after a full day on the train, drawn from all parts of the Empire. They laughed and joked in the halls, their horses pawed the gardens, and Nikolai’s frustration and anger dissolved at the sight of them. All the soldiers from the Northeast borders were here, including his own regiment! With the jovial humor of his battle comrades, Nikolai didn’t feel like a failed prince. He felt like...himself.
Nikolai quickly changed into his uniform. He wore a ceremonial shashka at his side, two stripes on his sleeve, a medal on his chest for when he was wounded in a border skirmish, and the insignia of the Office of the Krystallgradian Horse Guard Regiment Number 18. Nothing high-ranking but he had earned it all himself, eight months ago, and he wore it with pride.
When Nikolai had turned sixteen and had reported at the bunker near Derevo, the soldiers had either been afraid to speak to him or had teased him mercilessly. Nikolai managed both—their fear and mocking—with his broad smile. He awoke before dawn and trained long after sunset on his own, and when battle came, he fought enough rats that when his comrades teased him now, it was with slight tones of admiration.
Stars were just prickling the sky over the Palace when Nikolai joined his regiment stationed at the front gate. The courtyard was a sea of soldiers. Nikolai saluted the colonel and captain and mounted Kriket beside them, squeezing and twisting the reins around his fist. The freezing air had a snap to it, a fizz of nervousness and excitement, and the horses all in a row pawed and shifted. Nikolai warily regarded the lineup of regiments behind him, stretching all the way up the stairs and around the Palace, into the gardens. His regiment had been stationed at the front gate. The front gate! Nikolai hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t even seen General Drosselmeyer since that morning. Yet here he was, right in front of the swirling black iron gate with gold tips, the city before him. When the magician arrived, the gates would open and Nikolai would be right there.
Could it be possible, Nikolai thought, the General felt bad about that morning? That he had given it some thought and agreed that Nikolai should be a proper emperor? It certainly didn’t sound like Drosselmeyer, but the thought mad
e Nikolai giddy. Now, at last, he would finally have a chance to prove himself!
“Highness.”
Nikolai turned awkwardly on Kriket to see Drosselmeyer behind him, flanked with the army’s second-in-command and other soldiers. Nikolai, confused, dismounted and saluted smartly.
“There are some matters of strategy we need to discuss with you in the Gallery.”
Nikolai hesitated, and glanced at his captain, who gave him a curt nod. Handing his rifle and Kriket’s reins to the soldier next to him, Nikolai hasted after Drosselmeyer, who strode up the Palace promenade, through the Palace lobby and endless enfilades filled with red-uniformed soldiers.
“Do we have new information?” said Nikolai. “What are the wires saying?”
Drosselmeyer was silent. The soldiers remained behind as Nikolai and the General swept into the empty Gallery. Nikolai’s eyes had several seconds to adjust to the unlit room and...
...Drosselmeyer turned sharply about and strode back out of the room.
He slammed the 14-foot door behind him.
Darkness drenched Nikolai. The door locked with a click-click.
“What?” said Nikolai. “What what?” He loped to the doors and jiggled the gold latch. “General!”
There, of course, was no answer. Drosselmeyer had gone. He heard the stifled laughter of the soldiers in the hall beyond. They were no help.
Nikolai flushed hot, wrenching the unmoving handle until his hand throbbed. He had been locked in. Locked in! Nikolai refrained from kicking the doors, and considered the moonlit windows. It was physically possible to break them, but they’d been built two-hundred-and-eighteen years ago. Glass like that couldn’t just be replaced.
Nikolai returned to the door and fumbled with the handle, examining the bolts. He could very probably disassemble it, but he needed a proper tool. Surely there was something here that could grip a bolt head. Potted plants...War Table...polished wood chairs...large, ugly piano...
Nikolai was seriously considering taking apart the monkey skeleton when a musical sound resonated through the room.
It wasn’t just through the room; it was through him. His heart jolted and settled in a beat to the melody. His bones felt as though they were vibrating with the thin flute timbre. Nikolai’s lungs expanded with the melody’s crescendo.
The song faded as quickly as it had entered, ending on a high-pitched whole note with crystallized harmonics. Nikolai looked around, rubbing the prickling hairs on the back on his neck, with the distinct feeling that he was no longer alone in the Gallery.
“Who’s there?” Nikolai called out.
His voice echoed through the large hall. Every muscle in him tightened as he surveyed the dimly-cast shadows. His eyes stopped on the piano, where the shadows seemed thicker, almost man-shaped.
A piano chord sounded, and Nikolai started. If he had known anything about music, he might have recognized it as an A sharp diminished seventh. Since he did not, it sounded like a jumble of notes.
“Hello,” said Nikolai, reaching for his rifle, and realizing it was back with Kriket. Instead, Nikolai slowly reached for the hilt of his sashka. In the shadows of the piano, a slip of hand withdrew from the ivory and ebony keys. A smiling voice pierced the silence.
“Your piano is one-eighths of a whole step flat,” it said.
Nikolai paused. The voice was both pleasant and...ice. It made the hair prickle on the back of Nikolai’s neck. He slowly withdrew the sword with a velvet shing.
“I shall certainly let the Gallery attendant know, thank you,” he said, cautiously drawing nearer to the figure.
Closer, and he had a better look at the musician. He was neither short nor tall, muscled nor thin, and wore nothing but a common suit with a tie, and he looked to be about Nikolai’s age. A glimpse of gold hair. A glimmer of blue eyes. A smiling face. And in his hand, a rosewood flute.
Nikolai immediately knew that this was the magician. There was something about that cocky, odd smile...something that said I’ve got you, and it annoyed Nikolai. That off-putting smile with off-putting eyes that did not blink as Nikolai drew nearer. He was very handsome, oh yes, if you could look at him long enough to tell. He reminded Nikolai of the angelic saints in the Ascension Cathedral windows. But slightly...off. Cracked stained glass windows, maybe.
“Who are you,” said Nikolai, sword still raised, about five strides from the piano. “How did you get past the guards?”
The musician smiled broadly, sending a shiver up Nikolai’s back.
“I?” he said. “Why, I am your guest. Did you not receive my letter?”
“Ah,” said Nikolai. “Yes. Several of them, actually. You are Erik Zolokov?”
“None other.”
“You turned the children into toys?”
“Just.”
Nikolai hesitated. Of all the scenarios that had run through his head that day—from men dressed in rat skins to wizards with sparks between their fingers—he hadn’t thought of this one. He certainly hadn’t expected someone his age. And he certainly hadn’t expected to face him alone in a locked room. Nikolai almost wished it had been someone more intimidating. He nearly sheathed his sword...
...but kept his grip, for Erik Zolokov kept smiling. It was an odd smile. Very bright, but brittle, as though it would shatter any moment.
“Why did you turn the children into toys?” said Nikolai.
“To see if I could,” said Erik Zolokov.
Nikolai’s spine prickled.
“And, of course, for you.”
“For me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“If you wanted to get my attention,” Nikolai snapped, “you could have sent a telegram like a normal, decent person—”
“Prince Nikolai Pyotr Stefan Volkonsky,” said the magician. “You will become the Emperor of Imperia very, very soon. Do you really deserve it?”
Nikolai was struck speechless, and he nearly dropped his sword. How did the magician know how his mind? Nikolai’s face flushed hot.
“I, personally, don’t think you do,” said Erik, coolly. “But to destroy you without a chance to prove yourself, that would be unfair, wouldn’t it?”
“I beg your par—”
“I devised a test,” said Erik, still smiling. “A situation where you could prove yourself.”
The magician strode from the shadows to the War Table, where his hand hovered above the rat and soldier figures.
“Let us imagine, for a moment, that everything around is in shambles. Your kingdom is in chaos. The children are gone. Their parents are grieving. Rats are breaching the walls with nothing to stop them. And you, stripped of your stately title and appearance, are you enough of a leader to stand up and restore order to the Empire?”
“What?”
“Within one day?”
“A—what? I—”
“Here is how we play the game,” said Erik Zolokov, his face radiant. He began moving the figures on the War Table, turning soldiers over on their sides. “The children have been turned into toys, and there is chaos and confusion inside the walls. More of this ensues when all the soldiers who have been guarding the country—all the outposts and towers and barracks and trenches and gunneries—all become toys. Rats attack the walls, perhaps even breaking into the cities.”
“You—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Erik Zolokov snapped. “This is important.” He picked up one of the toy soldiers and placed it squarely at the top of the map, on the little icon marked The Imperial Palace, and continued: “And the most noble sovereign of the country, the fairy-chosen monarch, where is he? He cannot be found, for he has been turned into a toy as well—almost.”
Nikolai was frozen, staring at the toy soldier that Erik Zolokov had pressed against the glasstop table.
“He will still be able to move and talk and think,” said the magician, “after all, he still needs to prove himself. But certainly no one would recognize him as a prince. In such circumstances, a true emperor would rise
up, rally his people, and restore his kingdom.” The magician’s eyes were two chips of ice. “But are you a true emperor?”
The anger that Nikolai had been holding back flared fiery hot and with the piercing thought: Drosselmeyer was right, Nikolai dove at the magician with his sword raised.
A flash of rosewood and the magician brought the flute to his lips, played two notes—
—and disappeared just as Nikolai brought his sword down. He sliced air.
“Where—?” Nikolai began.
“See, you’re really not impressing me,” came a voice from behind him.
Nikolai reeled around. The magician stood at the door, his flute grasped in his hands and wearing that same annoying smile.
“Guards!” Nikolai yelled. “GUARDS!”
The magician immediately brought the flute to his lips again, played three notes, and vanished as Nikolai loped to the doors. A susurrus sounded from outside.
Nikolai spun around, spotting Erik Zolokov, now standing at the piano. He had removed several pieces of sheet music from the inside of his vest, and was now leafing through the music on the bench. Delicately removing a piece of sheet music and setting it in front him, he brought his flute to his lips as Nikolai bounded at him with raised sword.
“GUAR—”
The music cut the word short, but not just with sound. It engulfed Nikolai, as though he had just been dunked in water. He couldn’t breathe. The swift march of a tune played up his spine, vibrating through his veins. His heart started beating in time with the flute melody, and each bound seemed slower, and harder. He couldn’t hear his footfalls.
The melody prickled over him, sweat shining on his forehead, on his last bound to the piano, he stumbled and hit the ground at a clatter.
And it really did clatter. Nikolai’s body had turned hard. Wooden, even.
With difficulty, Nikolai raised his hand to his eyes. As the flute played lower, his fingers stiffened and swelled together, transforming into paddles. His thoughts became blurry and stiff, and he was only vaguely aware of the Gallery doors bursting open and the yelling soldiers running in, shots firing, gun smoke clouding the room. At the forefront was General Drosselmeyer, cold and confused as his eyes caught Nikolai, who had been transformed into an eight-foot wooden nutcracker. The General paled.
The Enchanted Sonata Page 4
