Thornspell (15 page)

This is my true home, Sigismund thought, as he sank onto a sun-warmed bench. There was only the faintest breath of wind, riffling the lilacs, and he closed his eyes, reflecting that it was Syrica’s home as well. She had dwelt at the heart of the West Castle for nearly a century now, maintaining the spells that made it a place where he could grow up in safety.

“I have doubted you in my heart,” he whispered, “ever since Thorn forest. Wondered about what the Margravine said to me in the belvedere and whether you weren’t the same as her in essence. Just another faie using human kingdoms and players as pawns on some greater board.”

“Like a spider, sitting at the heart of my web.” The whisper might have been nothing but the wind, stirring leaf and flower.

Sigismund nodded, still with his eyes closed, thinking about that. The Margravine had been so plausible, retelling the tale so that she was the wronged party, the sleeping princess’s friend, rather than her enemy. Even afterward, when she sent Flor and the earth serpent after him, it had been difficult not to question whether the Margravine’s ill intentions made Syrica’s motives any better. Yet there was a mellow peace in the lilac garden, a kindliness that seemed part of the sunshine and warmth, that was entirely different from the mixture of wealth and shadow in the Margravine’s hill.

“I do weave spells too, you know that.” The breeze again, a lover’s murmur in his ear.

“I know.” But Sigismund was remembering the spiders’ webs in the hedgerows, on the morning he left the capital for Thorn forest. He had marveled then at the delicacy of their beauty, the glitter and sparkle of the dew beading that would have outshone a queen’s ransom in jewels.

“So you don’t fear being trapped in my threads?”

It was important, Sigismund thought, to be honest. “I have wondered about your true motivation and that of your allies—Auld Hazel and Rue and even Balisan sometimes. But if you are a spider then you are trapped in your own web, since you are bound to this one place.”

He thought for a moment that he might have offended her, for there was complete silence along the lilac walk; the sounds from the castle seemed unnaturally loud.

“I am.” The silver voice was soft. “As are we all, until the larger magic unravels to its end—even the Margravine, although she would deny it.” The silver shimmer could have been laughter, or a wind chime in some hidden corner. “As for allies, I crossed alone from Faerie to try and undo the Margravine’s evil. But I have been fortunate in finding willing friends here, if only because many fear what will come if my opponent prevails. Auld Hazel is one such friend, and your great-grandparents also agreed to help, planting this garden and placing the interdict on the Wood.”

Sigismund had opened his eyes by now and was frowning at the lilacs, but without taking in any detail of tree or blossom. “And Balisan?” he asked, finding that his throat was dry.

“Balisan’s purposes are his own, in this as in all things.” She paused, then added softly, “Although I seem to remember him saying that he was here for you.”

Sigismund was silent for some time after that, reflecting on everything he knew of the master-at-arms. When he spoke again, to ask what she knew about Rue, there was no reply except the wind, which quickened into a little gust before fading away.

It was possible, Sigismund supposed, that Syrica didn’t know who Rue was. Balisan had not known her either, or had not admitted it if he did. Rue, it seemed, was as great a mystery as the master-at-arms. Sigismund puzzled over her identity for much of the day and even spent some time in the library, looking through the older books there. But he could find no hint of any entity or power resembling Rue. The only thing of interest was a passage in a book titled
Dreams & Their Powers
that discussed the danger of shadows or sendings controlled by those who kept their identities and purposes secret.

Could Rue be a sending, Sigismund wondered, and if so, who is sending her? But she had proved his friend in the Faerie hill and he found it hard to believe that she could be someone else’s tool. Despite his memory of Flor’s betrayal, he still wanted to keep faith with her, even if it was unwise to be too trusting.

He was surprised, when he sent for Fulk and Rafe the next day to thank them, to find that they had no intention of leaving. They had, it seemed, decided to attach themselves to his service. Seeing the main chance and grasping it? Sigismund wondered. It was difficult to believe that these two were motivated by altruism or loyal fervor, although Fulk muttered something about service and the Young Dragon. But despite Sir Andreas’s barely suppressed amusement, Sigismund could not bring himself to repudiate them. Instead, seized by inspiration, he sent them out to search for the bay horse along the forest fringe, in the faint hope that it might have survived the faie hunt—and to get them out of his way before he returned to the Wood.

He still felt that this was the right course of action, despite Syrica’s belief that he had been rash. I need to talk to her about the magic being two-way, Sigismund thought that afternoon, as he cleaned and sharpened Quickthorn with careful precision. The Margravine is almost certainly aware of me now that I have been in the Wood, but she may not know exactly what happened there or how much damage the fall has done me—if she knows even that much. But I need to make my next move soon, before she tries something herself.

Which she will, he added to himself, turning Quickthorn to watch the dragons ripple and flow along either side of the blade. For the first time since he had returned from the Faerie hill, Sigismund felt the answering stir of its magic, like a tiny shiver up his arm. It seemed like confirmation, however slight, of his determination to act.

Yet resolve alone did not make a plan. Despite considerable thought, Sigismund could not see any alternative to riding into the Wood again and hoping for the best. As a strategy, it did not inspire him with confidence, and he remembered Rue’s headshake when he first woke and the way she had drawn her hand across her throat. A fairly clear response to the charging headlong strategy, but she had been trying to tell him something else as well, perhaps suggest some alternative—but what?

Sigismund shook his head, thrusting the sword back into its scabbard with a small definite click. He wished again that he knew who Rue was and what hand she was playing in this game. I need to see her, he thought, and work out whatever it is that she’s trying to tell me.

He plucked a sprig of rue in the garden that evening, rubbing it between his fingers as soon as he returned to his room. A shadow moved by the window and for a moment his breath caught, but then he saw the candelight touch a coronal of flowers. “Oh,” said Sigismund, and pushed the rue into his pocket. “It’s you.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” asked Syrica, her dark brows crooked as she watched him.

Sigismund shook his head, not wanting to raise the subject of Rue again, and Syrica drifted across the room. She paused by the bed and ran a hand down the old brocade of the curtains, as though her fingers could unravel any secrets hidden in the weave. Her frown was replaced by a slight smile. “Ah. I had forgotten these.”

“Forgotten?” Sigismund echoed, and her smile deepened.

“Yes,” she murmured, “forgotten. It has been a long time, after all, even for me. The spell of sleep did not take hold at once, you see. It came on the rest of the palace gradually. Some amongst the princess’s attendants, who came running when she first fell, were adamant that she must be taken to a safe place and made comfortable. But they were distraught, panicked, and tore down the curtains from the princess’s bed, laying one across the pallet they lifted her onto and covering her with another.”

Her hand stroked the faded fabric again. “These two they thrust at me, thinking I was just another attendant, a bystander. Afterward I came straight here to speak with your great-grandparents, still with these curtains in my arms. It seemed right that something from that palace should carry on outside the Wood, but I never asked what your great-grandparents did with them.”

“So these came from the enchanted palace,” Sigismund said, touching the fabric himself. He was glad he had never let Annie arrange to have them replaced, and wondered if their presence might explain the clarity of his early dreams of the Wood.

Syrica gave herself a little shake, as though sloughing off memory. “It’s why they smell of roses.” But her voice was sad now and full of regret.

Sigismund studied her, his expression intent. “There’s something,” he said slowly, “that I’ve never really understood. I know the palace in the Wood is built on a node of great power, but why does a faie as powerful as the Margravine need it? Can’t she just come and go and wreak her havoc wherever she pleases?”

Syrica went back to the window and looked out at the moon’s slender crescent, rising above the castle wall. “It is the Margravine’s nature to desire dominion,” she replied quietly. “She longs to be free of the laws that trammel her here, especially those that prevent her from ruling openly or killing mortals who stand in her way. But to be free of these constraints she will have to be strong enough to withstand the Powers that govern Faerie. The Margravine believes that controlling the strongpoint in the Wood will give her the strength she needs, but unfortunately there is more to it than that.”

She half turned to look at him again, and her voice deepened. “The worlds are changing, Sigismund, and have been for some time. The planes are drifting apart and the paths between this world and Faerie are becoming stretched, more difficult to follow; some of the weaker nodes have already begun to fragment. It may be that the worlds will come together again in some distant future, but no one knows, and the Powers have determined that it is best to minimize traffic between our two planes.”

“But the Margravine won’t accept that?” Sigismund asked, beginning to understand.

“Refuses to accept it,” Syrica said, shaking her head. “She believes that if she can control the Wood, joining its power to hers, then she can hold the realms together. This would give her dominion here
and
continued access to the source of her power in Faerie, but—” Syrica paused, shaking her head again.

There’s always a “but” to these schemes, thought Sigismund, always—and it’s never good.

“What we fear,” Syrica continued, “is that if the worlds are held together artificially, then the strain of the separating planes, concentrated through the node, may result in much wider damage. It is even possible that the ripple effects may become uncontrollable, destroying both this world and Faerie, and others we know nothing of.”

“So why don’t your Powers intervene?” Sigismund demanded. “Why don’t they stop her?”

He thought Syrica smiled, but could not be sure in the shadowed light. “They sent me,” she said softly. “But even the Powers are bound in terms of how they may intervene on other planes, or in our magic once it has been set in play. The Margravine has exploited this to full advantage.”

Sigismund was silent, thinking about that. The scent of lilacs had grown stronger, dizzying rather than elusive, as though he stood in the middle of the lilac walk. “So I have to stop her,” he said after a moment. “That’s it, isn’t it, part of how the spell is working itself out?”

Syrica bowed her head. “None of our magic, once cast, is ever entirely certain. And in this case there are two spells at work. My counterspell is bound into the Margravine’s original working, turning it to another end, but the two magics have continued to act and interact within the one binding, increasing the element of uncertainty.”

“And I’m part of the spell too,” Sigismund said, coming to stand beside her at the window. “If Balisan is right and the magic is two-way, then that should give me some ability to shape it to my will and away from the Margravine’s.” He realized that he was frowning again and eased the expression out.

“So that is why you went into the Wood,” said Syrica. “I did wonder.”

“It wasn’t exactly my choice, this first time,” Sigismund said, and explained about the storm and how it had brought him to the hedge of thorns. It was encouraging, he supposed, that he had got that far, since it suggested that he was right—he did have influence over the spell.

“But what I don’t understand,” he said, “is how that faie hunt got in there if the Margravine can’t? And despite what both you and Balisan have said about the law of the faie, they showed every sign of intending to kill me.”

The moon was higher now, pale gold fading to bone as it climbed away from the earth. It reminded Sigismund of Balisan’s first night at the West Castle and another moon rising, half full above the garden wall. They had been waiting in the lilac walk, and soon Syrica had appeared to speak to them of the Margravine and a hundred-year spell. But it also reminded him of another conversation, earlier that same evening.

“You can’t wall out what’s already in,” he said, before Syrica could speak. “The hunt must have been in the Wood when the spell took effect, and all this time it’s kept them trapped.”

Syrica nodded. “And unlike Auld Hazel, they do not belong there. From what she tells me, they are not the only ones caught in the Wood, a little like insects in magic’s amber. They may not be the most dangerous either. But this particular hunt is known for its wildness, and now they are very angry.” She paused, her expression troubled. “They may also be afraid of what will happen if the magic goes awry and the spell is not lifted at the end of the hundred years.”

“Could that happen?” Sigismund asked, startled. “What would that mean?”

“If the chosen prince does not come, or if he fails—” Syrica sighed. “I’m not sure. The Margravine’s original spell could take over. Or my spell could begin another hundred-year cycle. The hunt will fear that, and the possibility of being trapped on the mortal plane forever. Given this, I suspect they are beyond caring about the law, especially if killing a human might persuade our Powers to intervene—for at least then they would be free of the Wood.”

Despite the terror of that wild chase through the forest, Sigismund could understand how the faie hunt felt. He shook his head, frowning. “So the chances are I’ll meet the hunt again, or something worse, when I go back into the Wood?”