LATE IN THE DAY, MEG WENT INTO THE EDGE OF the woods to walk back to her tower. The sight of it still made her shudder, even though she reminded herself she had a way in and out.
“There you are!” Nort said when she came cautiously around the tower wall. “I was getting worried!”
“I spied on the princes and talked to the witch,” Meg said. She had to tell somebody, and Nort was the only person around.
“Hurry and climb up,” he fussed.
“Don't you want to hear about it?” Meg asked.
Nort looked surprised and pleased. “Of course. But Arbel will be here any minute. Can't you tell me from your window?”
“All right.” Meg grabbed for the rope and began trying to haul herself up the tower. Instead, she slipped and fell back. Nort snorted.
“I'd like to see you try!” she told him.
“Watch,” he said, taking hold of the rope. “You have to plant your feet against the wall and sort of walk on it.” Nort demonstrated.
“Oh.” Meg waited for him to come down and then tried again. It wasn't easy. When her toe slipped, she scraped her knee and dangled, but eventually she caught her footing and slowly made her way upward, until finally she clambered over the ledge into the tower room. Meg pulled the rope through the window, wishing she were still at the pond, at the witch's cottage, even in the castleâanywhere but here.
“Well?” Nort called.
Tomorrow Meg would be free once more, searching for the dragon with Cam. And, Meg promised herself, no matter what any of them said, this was the last night she would spend in the tower. Having caught her breath from the climb, she leaned on the window ledge to tell Nort the Short about her day.
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The next morning dawned clear. The sun shining down on the gathered princes picked out heraldic devices sewn in threads of gold and silver. King Stromgard and Queen Istilda sat on a dais, with Garald beside them. The courtiers were clustered up front on actual chairs borrowed from the second-best dining room. Most of the guards and castle servants milled about behind them, and at least three hundred townspeople had turned out from Crown. A smiling farmwife was selling caramels,
and a chubby boy was vending ballad lyrics about a prince who wasn't even in the contest.
Nort had really wanted to be there. It was with some difficulty that the others had persuaded him to stay and watch the empty tower. Today Dilly had brought Meg a wide straw hat, but Dilly was still jumpy. “That's one of the guards! He'll see you!” she told Meg, scooting into the man's line of sight.
“Will you stop
worrying
?”
“Even if someone sees her, they'll think she looks familiar, that's all,” Cam reassured Dilly. Meg stroked her cotton skirt, pleased at how easily she could go from one world to another.
“You're right.” Dilly stared up at the dais where the queen sat, fresh and fragile as a poppy. “You know,” she said to Meg, “your mother would have been just the type to pine romantically in a tower. Or that frilly cousin of yours, Sonilia.”
“She married a duke,” Meg informed Cam.
Cam was watching the princes. “The prime minister went around collecting the entry fees last night,” Cam said.
“Entry fees?” Meg asked, startled.
Cam nodded. “He seemed awfully happy about it.”
A trumpet blared. A baby wailed. Everyone turned their eyes to the dais, cheering as King Stromgard stepped forward. The king proclaimed, “I welcome you all on this historic dayânoble contestants, members of
the royal court, good people of Crown, and other guests. My prime minister will now set forth the rules of the contest.”
Meg felt an odd twinge, standing with the crowd as if her mother and father were strangers. Just then Garald moved to the king's side, bearing a scroll. Meg made a face, distracted from her feelings.
The prime minister's voice sounded thin after the king's rich tones. “Be it known that the one who will be named Champion of Greeve must slay the dragon and bring back its treasure to enrich our kingdom, rid our wood of the most foul witch, and capture the notorious bandit Rodolfo and his men. Lastly,
after
said prince has completed these three tasks”âGarald looked around sternlyâ“if he can carefully bring the Princess Margaret down from her tower, he will win the prize: half the kingdom and the princess's hand in marriage.”
People began to shout, but Garald held up his hands, and they stilled. “Fair play and full proofs required, mind you,” he added.
Then the king stood forth again to bellow, “Let the contest begin!” Everyone applauded and yelled. Dozens of princes ran to mount their horses and charge off. One of them even sounded a hunting horn. The crowd wandered about gossiping, dispersing into the castle and the town.
Meg and Cam and Dilly watched them leave.
“Who do you think will win?” a woman behind them asked someone.
“That Vantor is a goodly fellow,” another woman replied.
“Prince Vain-tor,” Meg whispered to her friends. “Let's go before my mother sees us.”
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Up on the dais, the king trailed after the queen. “Still not speaking, love?” he asked her.
She swished away toward the castle.
“Women don't always understand matters of politics,” the prime minister remarked.
“Hold your tongue, Garald!” the king snarled.
“Sorry, Your Majesty.”
The two men walked after the queen in silence. Finally the king looked at his minister. “You really think this is going to work? Thisâeconomic development thing?”
“As you so brilliantly phrased it, Sire, we'll âclean out the bad and make room for the good.'”
“I said that?”
“Indeed,” Garald answered quickly.
“Room for good gold, that is,” the king muttered.
“The very best gold, Sire.”
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Prince Vantor paced to and fro in his tent, lifting the flap every so often to look out.
At last he caught sight of Horace walking toward him very slowly, half supporting an elderly peasant.
The prince let the tent flap fall and threw himself into an ornate camp chair. “The others will have captured
the witch before we even make a start!” he growled when the two men entered.
Horace shook his head. “No. I've heard some pretty stories about the witch.”
“She be a fair good hand wi' frogs,” the old man said.
“No one asked you to speak,” Vantor told him coldly.
“This is our guide,” Horace explained. “Orl says he can take us right to the dragon's lair.”
“Not right to,” Orl said, shivering with fear or simply age. “Near enough to point at.”
“That will do, won't it?” Horace said.
Vantor frowned. “This man is going to lead us up a mountain? He can hardly walk!”
“I'll get some of the men to carry him,” Horace told his master.
The prince considered. “Very well. I want to leave before noon.”
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“Now,” said Meg, leading her friends away from the field, “we're going after the dragon.”
“Shouldn't we search for the bandits first?” Cam asked uneasily.
“Tomorrow.”
“Are you sure the witch is all right?” Dilly put in. Meg had told them about the witch when they met up that morning.
“She said she didn't need help, but I'm still worried.”
“I can go check up on her,” Dilly said. “Do you two have any idea where to find the dragon?”
A prince on a chestnut charger galloped up behind them, and they all jumped out of the way.
“Tob told me which trail to take,” said Cam. “I asked him the other day, and he said he went dragon-hunting once and got all the hair on the back of his head singed right off.”
“Tob's old,” Dilly objected.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Maybe the dragon has moved its lair.”
“Not far,” Cam said, giving Meg a look. “They like to stay within range of castles.”
“Where the princess-hunting is good?” Meg asked with false politeness.
Dilly smirked. “I'll be off, then. I won't miss you two very much if you're going to squabble.”
“Squabble?” Cam said innocently as Dilly left.
“Just show me the way to the dragon,” Meg told him.
She followed Cam past the visitors' tents. With all of the princes out after the dragon and the witch, the encampment was strangely quiet. A few servants sat playing cards.
“Now, we follow the king's road northwest for about a mile, and we should see a faint trail leading off east up the mountain,” Cam said.
“Isn't there more than one trail?”
“Yes, but this is the first, and it's the right one.”
Meg tugged at her hat. “I'm not wearing this thing all day.”
“Hide it under a bush,” Cam suggested.
“Hmmph,” said Meg, tromping up the hill.
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With a hey and a hi and a ho!
Prince Dagle sang tenor and Prince Dorn sang bass, somehow managing to hike up a mountain at the same time. They had gone along the king's road and up the most promising-looking trail. Any moment now, they might see a plume of evil smoke or a pile of bones, the marks of a dragon's lair.
Instead they saw a lot of rocks and some pine trees, then still more rocks and pine trees, also dirt. An eagle cried, soaring overhead.
“Wait!” Dagle said, and the brothers stopped. “Here, dragon, dragon, dragon!” Dagle called.
Dorn laughed. “He won't answer to that.”
“Why not?”
“It's not his name!”
“How do you know?” Dagle asked.
“Because dragons have great, mythic names like Deathbreath and Snotfire,” Dorn said knowingly.
“Ah. You're right.”
They walked on in silence.
“This is probably the wrong mountain anyway,” Dorn said suddenly.
Dagle looked amazed. “It could very well be the wrong mountain, brother! What shall we do?”
“We need information.”
Dagle began to smile. “I know just where to find it.”
“Where?”
“Why, in an alehouse! There we will find not only
good ale but some sturdy townsman who knows these parts and can tell us where to hunt out the beast!”
Cheered, the brothers turned about and set off down the slope for Crown.
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The witch sat in an overstuffed flowered armchair reading a book with a scarlet cover depicting a golden-haired maiden being rescued by a very brawny young man in armor. Gorba shook her head as she reached page 147. “No, Esmeralda, his love is true!”
A sleepy voice croaked as if to answer her. Then, a great crashing of underbrush could be heard in the distance. A few of the frogs jumped, alarmed, but Gorba was absorbed in her book. One of the more timid frogs crept beneath the sofa.
Outside, Dilly slipped behind a stand of saplings, glad she hadn't worn her brightest dress.
The sound became louder. Someone was muttering in front of the cottage. Just as Gorba frowned, looking up from her novel, a voice was heard without. “Madam witch!” it cried. “Come forth and face your fate!”
Gorba sighed, sliding down a little in her chair. She tried holding the book closer to her nose.
Whoever it was pounded madly on the door. “Ho, witch!”
“Go away!” Gorba yelled.
After a moment's silence, the voice spoke again, even louder. “Come out, witch! Dare to meet the wrath of Prince George the Fourth of Shervelhame!”
Gorba rolled her eyes. The frogs croaked sympathetically. The witch put down the book, stalked to the door, and flung it open.
Her visitor, a little red-haired prince, glowered. Behind him, a dozen other princes jostled for a good view, nearly filling the little clearing.
“In the name of good King Stromgard of Greeve,” the prince proclaimed, “I command you, evil crone, to depart from this place and trouble the kingdom no more!” The other princes stepped closer, sensing victory.
“This is your last warning, you pack of royal idiots,” Gorba said. “If you don't go away, I'll turn the lot of you into frogs!” She plucked Howie from her pocket. “Like this!”