Thornspell (18 page)

“And now we’ve won,” said Sigismund, and felt joy break inside him, like a bubble. “I’ve undone the spell, and the Margravine has lost.” He shivered, thinking that it seemed too easy after so long and bitter a contest. He could not help wondering how long it would be before the Margravine tried to seize another strongpoint, and if he and Rue would ever truly be safe. Then he frowned, remembering Flor and the blue ring.

“They still have your friend,” he said, “the young woman who slept on the bed in your place. Flor knocked me out as soon as I woke her, and then put that cursed ring on her finger.” Sigismund threaded his fingers through Rue’s, watching the sun dapples on her skin. “We must do something, make him let her go.”

To his surprise, Rue smiled and shook her head. “She’s not real, Sigismund. Do you think I would allow anyone to run such a risk, knowing Farisie’s malevolence? The princess you woke is a simulacrum, woven of sunspells and daydreams and the roses that are the symbol of my House. She will dissipate before the rest of the castle wakes.” Her fingers tightened around his. “The only connection between us was that once you woke her, I too began to wake.”

But she spoke to me, Sigismund thought, amazed at the intricacy of Syrica’s working. “So when did the last knot unravel?” he asked. “Was it when I found my way here?”

Rue nodded, but her face clouded, the happiness of only a few moments before draining away. She turned to study the dreaming palace, a crease between her brows.

“But—” She pressed her fingertips against her lips, and Sigismund saw the slow dawn of fear in her expression. “That
wasn’t
the last knot. It will still be some time before the others wake, just as it took longer for them to fall asleep when the spell took hold. Until they do…” She stopped, shaking her head.

“The magic won’t be fully undone.” Sigismund spoke slowly, every word falling like a weight. “So we haven’t won yet.”

“No,” said Rue. “But the Margravine will still have to move fast.” She looked around, her expression intent. “This hill is at the heart of the power that fills the Wood—that is why I was placed here when the sleep took hold. To win, Farisie will have to seize it before the last of the magic dissipates.”

A wind had sprung up, cold off the surface of the lake, and the day was growing dark. Sigismund shivered, feeling the wind’s chill. “Surely Syrica must have foreseen this,” he said. “She must have had some kind of plan.”

Rue’s smile was a little crooked. “We are her plan, Sigismund, the hope on which she based her counterspell. She foresaw that the blood of the Wood and the blood of the dragon, brought together and drawing on the strongpoint here, could thwart even Farisie’s power.”

“The blood of the dragon,” whispered Sigismund, wondering if that was simply a figurative way of referring to his House or meant a great deal more. But clouds were beginning to pile up above the towers of the palace so he forced himself to focus on more immediate concerns. “I suppose she’s still bound by the law of the faie, but that didn’t help you last time round.”

Rue nodded. She was frowning too as she continued to watch the sky. “But things are different now,” she replied, low-voiced. “Last time she still had her strongpoint at Highthorn, but you destroyed that with the sword.” Her fingers found his and squeezed briefly. “And there’s no time for her to try and gain control of the West Castle node, not with all the wards that guard it. So she will have to cross fully over to this side if she wishes to move against us, either that or use an agent that is part of the mortal plane.”

The look that Sigismund slanted at her belonged to Balisan. He could feel the familiar lift of his brows as the first lightning crackled across the sky. “Do you really think we can withstand her?”

“An excellent question,” drawled Flor’s voice, out of the air, “although I’m surprised you have the wit to ask it.”

Quickthorn

L
ightning seared again, and when the dazzle cleared Flor was standing outside the belvedere, a sword held ready in his hand. Gold light swam along its blade, turning to indigo flame at the edges, and blue fire blazed on his gloved hand. The ring again, thought Sigismund, unsurprised, as he stepped into the entrance.

Flor smiled, his blue eyes bright. “You have outlived your usefulness, Prince Sigismund,” he said. “So now I have the pleasurable task of killing you.”

Sigismund watched him carefully, making no move to draw Quickthorn. “Only you?” he inquired. “Do you think that will be enough?”

Flor shrugged, still smiling. “If not—” he said, and let the words hang as ten black-clad forms unfolded out of the trees, floating down behind him. Their faces were bleached bone in the lurid light, their pupil-less eyes elongated and black. Two of them held nets, Sigismund saw, while another bore a long narrow pipe on his back.

“But I think,” Flor continued, “that I should be more than a match for you, Prince Sigismund. What are you, after all? Little more than a bumpkin, raised by a provincial steward.”

“There was also Balisan,” Sigismund pointed out quietly. “Be careful,” he added over his shoulder to Rue. “This is probably a distraction of some kind.”

“No,” said Flor, “it isn’t. My grandmother has instructed me to kill you, and as I’ve already assured you, and her, it’s going to be a pleasure. As for your Balisan, you yourself told me that he was not one of the paladins, wherever he may come from. And I, after all, was taught my swordsmanship by the faie.” He made a few cuts with his sword, making it whine against the wind. “Now are you going to continue to hide in there, or come out and fight me like a man?”

Sigismund did not allow his expression to change, knowing what Flor was trying to do. “We don’t have to fight,” he said calmly. “This is the Margravine’s battle, not yours. And since we both seem to be related to her, that must make us cousins of some sort, which is another reason not to fight.”

Flor laughed on a wild mocking note, his eyes brighter than ever. He thinks I’m afraid of him, Sigismund realized, and that excites him. He believes he’s the cat, playing with a mouse.

“Florizal
zu
Malvolin,” the golden youth said, with a flourish. “At your service,” he added, with a sneer that gave the lie to his words. “And second cousins, as it happens—but with no reason at all not to fight, or for me to hold back from the kill once I have you at my mercy.”

“If,” Rue said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was clear and very cold.

Flor turned his smile on her, his tone all silk. “My grandmother will deal with you afterward. You’ll sing a different tune once you wear this jewel on your finger.” He held up the blue ring, then tugged the glove from his other hand, hurling it to Sigismund’s feet.

“I challenge you to meet me in single combat, Prince Sigismund, to answer for the wrongs your family has done to my grandmother and the
zu
Malvolin family. Meet me,” he cried, his voice rising, “or be named a coward as well as a fool.”

“Don’t!” whispered Rue, standing at Sigismund’s shoulder. “Farisie just wants him to draw you out and kill you.”

Sigismund shook his head. “I must,” he said gently. “There is no knight or prince sworn to the code of chivalry who could refuse such a challenge. You know that, and so does Flor.”

Rue looked from Flor to the faie with their nets. Her lips were compressed, her eyes bleak. “Just don’t let them get you away from the entrance to the belvedere,” she whispered, “or they will use those nets to trap you. And you need to be able to retreat in here if
she
comes.”

Sigismund glanced at the faie. “I imagine they’ll only use those if Flor can’t best me outright. He wants the pleasure of the kill.”

Flor too was looking around the half circle of faie behind him, a sneer twisting his golden face. “This prince is a coward. He won’t even pick up my glove.” He turned back to Sigismund, the sneer becoming a jeer. “Shall I help you, Prince Sigismund? If knightly honor is not enough, what about family feeling? Don’t you want to avenge yourself on the person who poisoned your mother?”

For Sigismund, it was as though the day had grown very still again, despite the gathering storm. He felt his heart begin to pound as he stooped and picked up the glove. “What had you to do with my mother’s death?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet.

Flor threw back his head, his laugh a crack of satisfaction. “My father and your mother were cousins, so of course my mother visited yours in the Southern Palace. She was always closely watched, but who pays attention to a child playing, or whining around his mother’s chair? No one was even looking when I worked the poisoned thorn into your mother’s glove.”

Sigismund shut his mouth hard on the rage that surged through him. Beneath and above it he could hear Balisan’s voice, reminding him that there was no room for emotion when facing an opponent: frustration, fury, fear—all would kill him more surely than any enemy.

In his mind Sigismund stood again on the West Castle tower at midwinter, counting the numberless stars. He breathed in the snow-chilled air and felt it curl into his stomach; he released the cloud of his anger and watched it dissipate against the frosty black of the sky. Only then did he toss the glove back to Flor, smiling faintly as their eyes met. He drew Quickthorn from the dragon scabbard and walked down the belvedere steps.

Now, thought Sigismund, we shall see.

He never took his eyes off Flor for a moment. Nor did he allow himself to consider the handicap of an already injured shoulder, or the limitations imposed by having to defend the entrance to the belvedere. Instead he slipped into the familiar oneness with the red and white blade and felt its energy course into his hands. There was no light, no sound, just that fiery ripple up and through his body as he shifted on the balls of his feet and watched Flor.

He shifted again as Flor took a first step forward, feinting a thrust and trying to draw him out. Sigismund parried but refused to be drawn, watching Flor’s eyes for the tiny flicker that presaged a second attack—and then red and white fire crackled, crossing blue-edged gold. The clang of the blades followed a split second later and then the fight was on in earnest, sword hammering on sword as both combatants strove for the advantage.

The first flurry of blows seemed even in skill and strength. Flor was good, very good even, but this was not fencing and Sigismund had been trained by Balisan, who was a master. He remembered Flor’s temperament too, from their lessons together, his desire to finish quickly and his love of flashy moves. Sigismund’s main weakness was his injury, especially since his inability to move away from the belvedere meant close-in work, slugging it out toe to toe.

Flor’s faie companions were hanging back for the moment, waiting to see if their champion would prevail, but Sigismund had no doubt that they would use their nets if things went badly. They were here to serve the Margravine’s interests, not play by chivalrous rules. He parried as Flor pressed in again, locking Sigismund’s blade against his own and trying to push through by sheer brute force. The blue eyes snarled into Sigismund’s but there was strain there too, and the first flicker of doubt as Sigismund hurled him back.

Flor hesitated, but only for a moment, before blazing in again, raining a fury of blows against Sigismund’s defense and forcing him to retreat into the shadow of the belvedere. The black-clad faie rolled forward a step, then retreated as Sigismund countered, pressing Flor back in his turn—but once again, he could not advance too far and leave the access to the belvedere unprotected.

Flor smirked as he withdrew, knowing what constrained Sigismund. Sigismund registered the expression, but from a distance, parrying any attendant emotion like a blow. He settled into a grim defensive pattern, fuelling Flor’s impatience and luring him into doing something rash. In the end it worked more quickly than he expected. Sigismund could almost feel the moment when Flor’s patience snapped and he came charging in with a wild flurry of blows, only to cry out and reel back as Quickthorn slipped through, opening his right side from shoulder to hip.

Flor staggered further back and out of Sigismund’s range, dropping his swordpoint and clutching at his wounded side. Blood streamed red through his gloved fingers and his face twisted, something ugly and dangerous snarling out of it as he turned on his followers: “Don’t just stand there, fools! Rush him!”

The faie warriors, however, seemed to have their own ideas about the best approach. They spread out in a loose half circle, with both sides closing on Sigismund in a pincer movement. The two with the weighted nets shook them out as they stepped forward, and Sigismund took a step back. He could not hold off ten, and these faie looked like they knew their business. There were no wasted moves or breath; they advanced steadily and in silence, black shadows reaching out for him across the grass.

He had no choice, Sigismund thought, except to retreat into the belvedere or be entangled. He guessed that they would leave killing him to Flor, who was crouched over his wound at a safe distance, watching with a fixed, glittering stare. Sigismund moved back again and placed his rear foot on the lowest step of the belvedere. He could feel the sweat, hot on his face and body, but he realized now that the day had grown even colder while they fought, and the clouds had spread out to cover the sky.

The faie warriors paused, and now the one with the long narrow pipe unslung it and lifted it to his lips. Quickthorn thrummed, fierce in Sigismund’s hand, and behind him Rue uttered a whispered cry: “’Ware the dart! They dip them in a venom that freezes their victims.”

The trees on the hill were tossing and bending now, the way they had when Sigismund confronted the Margravine in another belvedere. His eyes remained intent on the pipe as he retreated again, uncertain whether even Quickthorn could parry a blown dart. A half second later a horse crashed out of the trees and bore down on them at a gallop.

It was his bay horse, Sigismund saw, startled, the one he had thought killed by the faie hunt. Its saddle was empty, the whites of its eyes showing, and the faie warriors scattered before its wild rush. Even so, the bay veered away from the closest warrior at the last moment, turning back into the trees on the other side of the belvedere. The black-clad warriors were already regrouping when two more horses, both with riders on their backs this time, burst from the trees and thundered toward them. The riders wore breastplates and helmets, but Sigismund caught a glimpse of red hair as one of the horsemen lifted a bow and shot from the saddle.

Sigismund would have called it an impossible shot, except that the faie warrior with the blowpipe crumpled to the ground while the others ran for cover, dragging Flor with them. Sigismund stared in disbelief, recognizing Fulk and Rafe, then leapt aside himself as Fulk’s horse slid to a halt in front of him. “How—” he demanded, and for a fleeting moment he was sure that a knot in a nearby tree had twisted into Auld Hazel’s face, and that she winked at him.

“What—” Sigismund began again, recovering his balance. Rue reached out from behind and dragged him fully into the belvedere as Fulk and Rafe struggled to stay on their horses, which were rearing and bucking as though they had suddenly gone mad.

“There’s no time,” Rue said, her voice tight. Her eyes were darker than the clouded sky. “She’s here.”

“A meeting long overdue,” said a voice Sigismund remembered from that other belvedere. It beat around them like a great wind and darkness pressed in thickly from every side. Fulk’s and Rafe’s horses bolted, their ears pressed back flat against their skulls and their riders clinging on desperately as they were borne away toward the palace in the distance.

Sigismund looked up and saw the Margravine floating in the air above them, her hair streaming out like a banner and billowing into the growing storm. Shadow flared on either side of her like the batwings he remembered, and the clouds rolled close, dark as nightfall with lightning at their heart. The Margravine’s hair was bone-white against their darkness, and her eyes had narrowed and lengthened into feline slits; her gaze was indigo fire. The wind gusted down, whipping at Rue’s hair and skirts and tearing their breath away.

“You will not keep me from what is mine,” the soughing voice said, cold in their heads.

“It is not yours,” Rue said clearly, projecting her voice above the howl of the wind. “You have no right or claim here, Farisie. Leave now, while you still can.”

“Or you will do—what?” mocked the Margravine. “You are powerless to stand in my way.”

“Not so,” Rue said to Sigismund, but quietly, never taking her eyes off the hovering faie. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be exchanging these pleasantries.” The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face.

The Margravine floated higher into the sky, the clouds boiling and lightning flickering all around her. “She can’t have many choices left,” Rue whispered, but she sounded far from certain. “Not now that Flor has failed her. And surely she won’t dare come against us herself?”

Sigismund glanced toward the place where Flor had found shelter, just inside the first line of trees. The blue ring had begun to pulse, and magic and the storm broke around them at the same time. Lightning leapt down and hail drove in through the open sides of the belvedere as the Margravine floated closer. The bone-white hair had fanned out around her head, wildfire crackling along every strand. Fissures appeared in the mask of her face, flickering like the lightning as her eyes widened, deepening into twin pits that opened onto a void. The wind howled back toward her, filled with dirt, leaves, and branches, as well as wooden tiles from the belvedere.

“I will not be denied!” It was hard to tell where the storm’s voice ended and the faie’s began. “I will have what is mine, or destroy it all!”

“We can’t hold—against this—for long!” Rue shouted into the devouring wind. The faie warriors had disappeared, abandoning Flor, who was flattened into the ground at the base of a large oak, his fingers trying to dig into its roots as the tree streamed into the wind’s vortex. Not much further away, a sapling was wrenched up and sucked toward the abyss that was the Margravine
zu
Malvolin.