Sigil herself had not only refused to come forward and be made a proper fuss over; she faded to a vague colourless presence at the queen’s elbow no one was absolutely sure, a moment later, that they had seen at all. But the other courtiers, grand and strange, poured into the Gig, complaining about the roads, speaking with the accent of the royal city; and with them they brought exquisite gifts, for the Prendergasts, and for the princess.
The king and queen and their three sons had set out for the Gig as soon as possible after the announcement of the princess’ whereabouts was made—an announcement that had flown on spell-wings from the Gig to the royal city—but they were taking a long passage through their country, meeting their people, letting them see from the joy in their faces that the news was true, and assuring them that they would take an even longer passage back to the royal city, and introduce everyone who wanted to meet her to the princess, who would be imprisoned no more.
There was no mention of the fact that Sigil had told the king and queen that they must not arrive at Woodwold before the very day of the ball.
There were people all over the country saying, Woodwold! How very extraordinary! We never thought of Woodwold! And others who said, Lord Prendergast is a deep one, keeping to himself as he does; and yet the Prendergasts have always been like that, staying away from court to bury themselves in their own lands, notoriously loyal when they might have been kings and queens themselves, almost as if fate were laying something up for the future.
The entire country felt as if it were on holiday, as if all the feast days of the year—of the last one-and-twenty years—were being rolled together to make one immense, joyous, irresistible celebration. Because the princess’ ball was Pernicia’s final rout—this too was explicit in the story Ikor was telling. Pernicia had failed. She had had her twenty-one years, and she had failed. They had kept their princess safe. On her twenty-first birthday they would not be looking anxiously over their shoulders for black and purple shadows where no honest shadows could lie; they would be celebrating the end of darkness.
For this was a part of the great magic Sigil and Ikor and Aunt and Katriona had created. This was a part of their last, desperate throw against the fate that had caged the princess on her name-day: that the people should believe that Pernicia had already lost, and that the princess’ birthday was a time of rejoicing; that they might freely love their restored princess so much that the love itself was protection and defence—and that behind that defence other, secret defences could be devised.
People forgot; it was in the nature of people to forget, to blur boundaries, to retell stories to come out the way they wanted them to come out, to remember things as how they ought to be instead of how they were. And Aunt and Katriona and Ikor and Sigil had arranged to help the people forget, to remember just a little—just a crucially little—awry.
Pernicia could not be defeated by any of the usual means of straightforward feats of magic and of arms. And so they had had to come up with an alternative.
It was a deceiving magic so vast that the four fairies walked half in the spell-world all their waking hours, and their dreams were troubled by it even when they slept, which was little enough, and restlessly. Katriona felt as if she and Aunt and Ikor and Sigil had unravelled themselves from their human shapes and reknitted the thread into a world-shape: the shape of a world where Pernicia had lost, and the one-and-twentieth birthday of the once-cursed princess was a joyful and carefree occasion, where the only concern would be that you didn’t miss anything particularly good to eat, and that you shouted loudly enough when the princess’ health was drunk. She knew Aunt and Ikor felt the same by the expressions on their faces: the faces of people whose bodies could barely hold their clothes out in the right dimensions of height, width and depth, because there was so little of them left, beyond the magic they maintained and endured.
She wondered, now that she felt a tattered, shambling thing herself, if the tattered, shambling, persistent searching spell had once been a human being. She and Aunt had not seen it again since Ikor had arrived in Foggy Bottom. She did not know if it had disintegrated, or gone home, or . . .
The conspirators all wondered why Pernicia remained silent. Ikor had won their second-to-last throw—he had found the princess before she did; but the news of the princess’ discovery was not only no secret; it had caused a tremendous thunderclap in all the ethereal layers, from the darkest underground chambers of the gnomes and earth-sprites and rock-witches to the high cold realms of the cloudswallowers and the star-dancers. Pernicia knew. Pernicia also must know that some enchantment was making the people of the country she planned to destroy believe that her design had already foundered. But she was biding her time, as the last days ran out before the princess’ one-and-twentieth birthday—when Pernicia would be at her strongest. The birthday, and their final contest. And Katriona found herself grotesquely grateful for her enemy’s silence, for she did not think the conspirators’ precarious delusion could have held against even so much as one gust of Pernicia’s laughter, the demon laughter that had pulled the banners down on the princess’ name-day.
Katriona often thought she could not have done it at all without Sigil. It was not just a matter of four of them instead of three; it was the clear patient lines of the magic Sigil worked, which never sagged nor snarled and were never overwhelmed or confused. She never saw Sigil’s face, although when she heard her voice, she sounded as nearby as if she stood next to her, with her arm round her waist again, and Katriona holding a baby princess. None of the three of them in Foggy Bottom knew where Sigil was, not even Ikor; she had not remained in the royal city, nor had she gone on the royal progress with the king and the queen and the princes. But the three other fairy conspirators often heard her voice, and constantly felt her presence, and her strength, and her love for the princess she had not seen in more than twenty years.
Rosie rested her chin on her hands, listening to the waiting silence. This is the only way, she told herself. We went over it and over it and over it—Kat and Aunt both said Ikor was right, it is the only way, and it gives us hope when there was none: because Pernicia had not been baffled or defeated, and all there really was to set against her, here at the final confrontation, was Rosie herself. Which was all there had been twenty-one years ago; all that Katriona and Aunt and Sigil and Ikor had been able to do was give her time to grow up.
It had been Ikor’s idea, of course. It took an outsider to see it, to suggest it; Ikor, who had been chosen by Sigil not only because he had been the twenty-first godparent and the bestower of the amulet, but also because he was the sort of person who saw what there was to see and the sort of fairy to shape it best to his purpose. Yet he had almost been undone by the knowledge of Rosie’s beast-speech; “It cannot be,” he said, over and over. “It cannot be.” This was the only time during that long night that Katriona laughed. “But it is,” she said. “Don’t you think—I have often thought—it is one of the things that has saved her this long? She has been as safe as ordinariness could make her: ordinariness, and that she talks to animals like a fairy. Better than a fairy.”
These had also been the only moments during that long night that Ikor had lost his ascendancy over them, as he repeated, “It cannot be.” They were, for another little while, a family, united against an invader. But Rosie could not hold to that memory, not sitting in a tower room in Woodwold the night before the princess’ birthday. What she remembered was the look on Kat’s face when she agreed to Ikor’s plan.
Often in the last three months Rosie recalled the voice she had heard the night of Ikor’s arrival: I have found you at last! Found! That she had not heard it again gave her no comfort; for she knew the truth behind the conspiracy. And tomorrow was the princess’ birthday.
Rosie remembered the look on Peony’s face as she stood in the doorway on that evening, the fox cub in her arms, contemplating them all—the animals wrapped round and flowing from the figure on the chair, the figure of Katriona’s cousi
n and Aunt’s niece and Peony’s best friend, who had just found out that she was a princess, a princess with a curse on her.
Everyone had fallen silent, and looked at the newcomer, framed by the wet twilight; there was a peevish mutter of wind. The firelight touched her worried face with gold, and set fire to her bright hair and the fox cub’s fur.
“I—I saw—from my window, and I came down. . . . He just—just jumped,” said Peony. The fox cub had turned over on his back, the better to bat at one of Peony’s long ringlets, fallen gracefully over her shoulder, with his forepaws, and looked perfectly content and at ease. “I—I thought he must have mistaken me for you, somehow, so I then had the excuse of bringing him to you. Rosie, are you all right? You look strange. Why are so many of your friends here? Is something wrong?”
“Mistaken you for her?” said Ikor. “Mistaken you for her . . .”
Peony turned to look at him, astonished. “I am Ikor,” he said, and bowed. He had not bowed before; he had spoken to the others directly, and had knelt to his princess. But to Peony he bowed, a beautiful bow, no less graceful for the swing of the curved blade at his side. That will be how courtiers bow, thought Rosie, and, as Peony gave him a bemused little curtsy in return, she thought, and Peony curtsies like a lady, even if she’s the niece of the wainwright.
And then Ikor had said, gesturing with the hand that did not rest on his sword hilt, “And this is Casta Albinia Allegra Dove Minerva Fidelia Aletta Blythe Domnia Delicia Aurelia Grace Isabel Griselda Gwyneth Pearl Ruby Coral Lily Iris Briar-Rose . . . your princess.”
Peony had gone pink and then white, and Rosie, both at the time and later in memory, had never understood why there had never been the least flicker of disbelief in her face. Peony heard and believed, and with a tiny “oh” she made her way through the seethe of animals and dropped down at Rosie’s side; but poor Rosie slid off her chair and sat on the floor, her free hand clutching at Peony’s free hand—the fox cub and Ralf showed signs of disagreeing with each other, and had to be held back—saying, “Don’t kneel! Kind fates, Peony, Peony, please don’t kneel!”
There was a clatter of hoofs outside, a heavy, purposeful clatter of ridden horses, and voices. Rosie knew one of the voices, one of the grooms from Woodwold. “They’ve come for Gorse and Fast,” she said, and Ikor nodded, and the owl that had been sitting on a shelf over his head stepped off it onto his shoulder. Rosie could feel Ikor asking for volunteers among the other birds—he didn’t exactly have beast-speech, but he was getting his point across—and there was a general rustle of reluctance among the smaller birds, and they were all smaller than the owl. Fwab, you go, said Rosie. I’ll watch out for you.
Watch what out for me? said Fwab. From where you’re standing you can just about watch my tail feathers disappearing down someone’s gullet. But he gave his wings a flap, sat down again long enough to peck her scalp sharply for old time’s sake, and flew to Ikor’s shoulder, stuffing himself as well as he could under Ikor’s ear.
Truce, said Rosie to the owl.
Truce, said the owl, amused. I would not have come here were I looking for breakfast.
There was an inaudible mutter from Fwab, but he poked his head a little farther out from under Ikor’s ear, so he could get a good view of whatever was going to happen next.
The owl swivelled his head, and looked straight at Rosie with his wild yellow eyes. I stay to do you honour, princess. I sit on this man’s shoulder because he says this will help you. You have a terrible enemy, princess. We feel her with this man, though he comes for good.
“Forgive me, small one,” said Ikor, “but an owl is so impressive,” and between his thumb and forefinger appeared a small seed, which Fwab, after giving it a dubious look with his left eye and a brighter one with his right, plucked up delicately and swallowed. He was just swallowing his second seed when the groom Rosie knew appeared at the doorway, shaking a dripping hat.
“His lordship’s compliments, but two of his lordship’s horses have seen fit to bolt off here—Rosie, what on earth’s up?” the groom added, gawping at the multitude; and then Ikor moved so as to catch his eye. The owl was very impressive, towering over him from its perch on his shoulder, the crown of its head brushing the ceiling; its pale tawny-grey colouring seemed meant to complement Ikor’s own. “Forgive me,” said Ikor. “I fear it is my fault.” He said nothing more, but the groom looked at the owl, and watched Fwab accepting several more seeds from Ikor’s fingers, and assumed—what Ikor meant him to assume.
Most of the rest of the mice had crawled up Rosie’s trouser legs, and two or three down her waistcoat, now that she was so conveniently sitting on the floor (and she had her arm so firmly round Ralf’s neck). Flinx was still purring, now pressed against Rosie’s side (having quelled Ralf with one look), but there was another owl, two kestrels and a merlin, and other cats; and mice were always happiest in the dark, with a low ceiling. Rosie had to stifle a growing compulsion to laugh, mostly at the terrifying absurdity of her situation, but as if the small scritchiness of mouse feet and whiskers were the last straw; and she clung to Peony’s hand (Peony, too, seemed to be having trouble with her breathing) and gulped at the bubbles of laughter.
“Indeed I was on my way to—hmm—ask an audience of his lordship when I was—hmm—when I chose to come here first. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give him a message that I will wait upon his convenience tomorrow morning?”
The groom had slapped his wet hat on his head again to answer this imposing stranger politely. A raindrop fell off the brim and ran down his nose; he sniffed involuntarily. “What name shall I say?”
“Ikor, Queen’s Messenger.”
Queen’s Messenger. The animals murmured among themselves, and Rosie felt it against her skin like a draught, raising gooseflesh. She swallowed another bubble of frightened laughter, and hiccupped instead.
The groom’s glance brightened at once, and he gave a crisp bow. “Sir,” he said, and then the other groom appeared at his elbow and said aggrievedly, “They won’t budge. I’ve got their bridles on and everything and they just clamp their jaws and stand there.”
Rosie said hastily, Go on, my friends. I’ll see you tomorrow. I think.
But the horses did not move; Rosie heard the groom muttering and wheedling. Gorse said, There is something very wrong, Rosie, princess. We have tasted it on the air, long time past, we have smelt it coming closer, looking, looking for something, like a bully his lost whip, like a wolf his dinner, not just looking but desiring, craving, must-having. Long before this short now, when this strange man comes, and says that it is you it looks for, because of this thing you are, and it will become the whip in the hand of the bully when it touches you. We all fear this hand. We fear this man, who brings the smell, and the desiring, with him, although it is not in him; he carries it, like harness, and that which laid the harness on him is not far behind him.
But you are ours, princess, you have been our friend, you have been our friend since before you learnt to speak to us, and—we may not like it, but we need human friends, because we have human enemies whether we will or nay. Now we hear what this man says as his words strike you like blows from a whip. You are the thing that brings the bully, the wickedness, here, but so also are you the thing that will drive this wickedness from our land. We understand this now, beyond his human words, for we have our own legends and our own losses. This man, with his fear and his wounds where the harness has rubbed him, cannot save you alone. We will not give you up to him, to humans. That is why we are here—why so many of us are here. We came before we heard what this man told you; we heard a thing coming—a big thing and a strong thing. And more of us come now that we hear the tale he is telling. Do you not understand?
Rosie said bemusedly, Perhaps you understand better than I do. Humans talk so much. We do not see or hear or taste or feel or touch nearly so much as we talk. I am deaf and blind and dull with it, I think.
The bigger the herd the safer, said Gorse. We do n
ot wish to go. Sip and Mally—those who carried the grooms here—will join us if we ask them. I can call every horse from my lord’s lands, if you ask. There is not just one owl or one hawk in your big room—and they hunt alone—and there are mice and rabbits and small birds, in spite of them, who come also to you.
No, said Rosie. Go home. In this case the big herd only makes us visible, and we do not want to be visible. Go home. Please.
Gorse tossed his head in irritation, and Fast bit a piece off the warped shutter and chewed it, clanking his bit and throwing splintery foam. There was a yelp of protest from one of the grooms. After a moment Gorse said, You are the princess. We know what this means. You should have the biggest herd of all.
Rosie said, I don’t want to be the princess, and she could feel laughter and more tears both struggling to get out, and she hiccupped again.
Gorse said gently, I did not want to be my lord’s best stallion, to be led in front of men with cold eyes, to waste my time indoors so that I do not ruin the gloss of my coat, to be put to mares who do not know me nor I them. Fast did not wish to be able to run so that madmen would ask him to do it again and again and again. We are what we are. Some day I will no longer be able to mount the mares, and then I will have a little green paddock of my own with a few of my old mares who will no longer have foals, and I will stand in the sun till every hair of my coat is burnt dull dun. Some day Fast will no longer be able to run. We are what we are, princess.
Rosie said at random, because she did not want to listen to what he was telling her, Horses do not speak as you are speaking to me. You sound like the merrel.
Spindle's End Page 22