by Jane Yolen
“I mean, if someone wants you to . . . to . . . come quickly.”
The sib joined them, walking silently, as if its feet did not touch the floor. It said, “We do not come quickly.” But indeed it had.
Aspen tried again. “Well, should I want to introduce you . . .”
“Sometimes,” said the first creature, “the professor calls me You.”
“And sometimes,” the sib said, “he calls me You, Too.”
“And sometimes,” they said together, “he calls us They or Them or Those.”
“And when he is with Maggie Light, he calls us the Trio,” said the sib.
“Though we are not three but two.”
“And the last two of our kind,” added the sib.
“Actually,” Aspen said, smiling up at the tall creature, suddenly sure, “I believe there are three of you. But Maggie Light is not one.”
A sudden hush filled the room, as if eternity had entered, but before either creature could speak further, the hush was broken by a snore. The bowser, so long ignored, had fallen asleep at Aspen’s feet.
The snoring reminded Aspen of how tired he was.
Seeming to recognize that, one of the twins said, “You should rest,” and almost at the same time, the other said, “You have walked a long way, hunted through the night.”
Together they added: “We can talk of this on the morrow.”
That sounded good enough for Aspen. At least someone—someones, he reminded himself—recognized all that he had done through the long night. He did deserve to rest. Not caring whose bed he collapsed onto, he pulled off his boots. Within minutes he was asleep.
But somewhere, in the middle of a dream in which everyone was screaming, he woke up.
SNAIL MEETS A MAN WHO WASN’T THERE
Snail had all but finished putting the box back together. There were three pieces left and none of them seemed to fit where there was room for them. She was wondering idly if she would have to take everything apart again and start anew. Half of her hated the idea, and the other half thought it would be fun. In fact, the most fun she’d had since . . .
Since . . .
Had she ever really had any fun? In the Unseelie castle there had been the occasional dance and tipsy cake and parties with the other apprentices, but for some reason they weren’t as much fun as they should have been. And there had also been beatings and Mistress Softhands’s small magicks that had turned her into various animals as punishment, once even into an actual snail. And there had been Mistress Treetop’s withy wand, which had left many a red mark on Snail’s arms and hands for being sloppy at her work. And the Border Lords, who liked to grab young girls and toss them back and forth for sport. And the dungeons. And the troll dungeon master, who—she had discovered only recently—had very sharp knives and . . .
Fun in the Unseelie world was not for the likes of girls like Snail. Hard work and dodging blows were always more in abundance than pleasure.
She sat with the three metal pieces in her left hand, thinking, But this has been fun. She couldn’t think why.
And then suddenly, it wasn’t fun anymore.
Fun is for toffs, she thought, not for us. What is Odds thinking, anyway? If he knows who Aspen is, then he knows we’re hunted by both kingdoms. He should help us fight or hide or run away.
Then she had a frightening thought. Maybe he’s waiting to turn us in.
She thought about that for a few seconds, then shook her head. He wouldn’t. Or rather, he would have already if he was going to.
She started to slam the three pieces down on Maggie Light’s bedside table, then stopped. She wasn’t quite sure enough to risk breaking them.
Whatever his plans, she thought, he shouldn’t have me playing games and solving puzzles.
Sighing, she put the pieces down carefully and went outside for some air.
It really had been fun.
• • •
IT WAS A full moon outside of the wagon, and one of the dwarf brothers was sitting watch. Snail couldn’t tell which one. He waved pleasantly and patted the seat beside him, but Snail shook her head. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Didn’t feel like even looking at anyone, so she plastered a good-natured grin on her face, returned his wave, and walked to the back of the wagon.
Where I can mope in peace.
There was a soft cooing of doves overhead, and from farther away she could hear the contented sounds of the unicorns as they munched on the occasional thorn bush and the whisper of their hooves as they moved slowly through the grass.
She’d barely had time to sit down on the back runner, hadn’t time to think anymore about the Odds problem, when a thin arm snaked around her waist and something cold and sharp was pressed against her neck.
Snail took a shallow breath and was about to yelp, but the blade pressed farther into her neck and a voice whispered, “Quiet, now, pretty girl, we do not want to rouse your friends, now do we?”
That’s exactly what I want to do, she thought, but gave a very small nod instead.
“Now, stand,” the voice said, the arm around her waist tugging her upward. The voice of her captor was soft, smooth, yet hard, like a rock that had lain long under a rushing river. “And if you are a good girl—as I am sure you will be without any more need of persuasion—I will tell you what happens next.”
“All right,” she said. She wished she were still wearing her midwife’s apron with its pockets filled with knives that were easy to get to. Her entertainer’s outfit didn’t have any pockets at all, and her knife was riding in the small of her back in a sheath sewn right into her skirts.
It’s closer to him than me at the moment. She didn’t know if that was going to change. Or how many more moments I am likely to have.
“You are going to call to Prince Astaeri and have him meet you back here.”
She almost didn’t know who he was talking about till she remembered Aspen’s actual full name and title: Prince Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of . . . something, and Second or Third successor to . . .
Well, almost remembered, she thought. But who calls him that?
She couldn’t look down at the arm around her waist or the hand holding the knife without getting cut, but she bet if she could, she’d see hands that were covered in gaudy rings and expensive bracelets. The way he used words—that stiff, stilted language—and the way he treated her like so much dirt told her everything she needed to know.
Well, almost everything.
“You’re a toff!” she almost shouted it but switched it to a whisper as the blade at her throat stung her, drawing blood.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “It matters not what I am, it only matters that you follow my instructions.”
It matters not, she thought. Definitely a toff.
“You are going to call to the prince. When he arrives, I will trade you for him and we will be gone.”
Trade me? she thought, her head abuzz with questions. Not likely. I’d raise a cry. He’ll kill me. That’s what toffs do to inconvenient underlings. But if he’s a toff, why isn’t there a whole troop of soldiers here? Why only the one man?
Then she had it. “You’re not taking him to Astaeri Palace, are you?”
Snail’s captor chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Sadly for him, it is not in the cards. His fate will be worse at King Obs’s keep, but my reward will be greater.”
Snail knew he was right. The Seelie Court would hang Aspen and be done with it. King Obs would have him tortured in the dungeon for many days before turning him over to the Border Lords, who would do even worse.
“My reward for his capture in this kingdom would be a small promotion and perhaps a mention at court.”
“But King Obs,” she said, “will give you your weight in gold.”
“More, actually. A lieutenant’s pe
nsion or a prince’s ransom? I will live the life I should have had instead of this. Thus it is an easy choice. Good for me. Sad for the prince.”
His hold on her was less tight now, as if he expected her to obey just to win free of him. As if she prized her own freedom over Aspen’s. Which, in a way, of course, she did. But in a way—which was her only advantage—she didn’t.
“Now, call to him.”
Snail knew the man’s plan would work. If she called, Aspen would come out quietly, and when he saw the situation he would naturally do the noble thing. He would give his word and force Snail to promise she wouldn’t follow and he wouldn’t even try to escape after that.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Snail thought. No matter that he’ll be tortured and killed. He’ll do the noble thing. The stupid thing.
Then suddenly, she smiled, thinking, I can be stupid and noble, too.
“No,” she said, quietly but quite firm. “I won’t.”
“What?”
The knife was definitely drawing blood now. Snail could feel a few drops running down her neck and over her chest. She hoped it wouldn’t turn into a river soon, but she wasn’t hopeful.
“I said, no.” She was very afraid and very angry, but she was strangely happy.
Maybe this is why Aspen does the noble thing. To feel like this. She realized she was now actually grinning.
“I won’t call to him,” she went on. “You can kill me, but then you’ll have nothing to bargain with.” It suddenly dawned on her why he was grabbing her and not Aspen himself. “And you don’t want to face him, do you? He’s always armed, and besides, he has his princely magic and you’re just a lowly foot soldier with a great-aunt who married a cousin to a chancellor or some such thing.”
Her captor groaned as if he and not Snail was the one with a knife at his throat.
“Shut up!” he nearly shouted, just barely remembering to keep his voice down. He spun her around and punched her in the stomach. Not too hard. After all, he needed her up and able to call out.
First she was out of breath. And then she was furious. She hated being poked in the stomach. And punched was even worse.
“Don’t do that!” she said, and glared, though even with the moon, he probably couldn’t see it all that well in the dark. But at the same time, she got her first good look at him.
He was dressed in a long cloak. Green and black, she thought, though it was hard to tell. And wearing a ridiculously large floppy hat. He had the half-slanted eyes of the toff clans, and their sharp cheekbones, the thin gash of mouth.
As sharp, she thought, as the knife still in his right hand, still too close to me. Her anger had faded and now she was thinking hard. And fast.
The cloaked man’s body seemed too bulky for his thin, elven face, and Snail suspected he wore armor underneath the robes.
“Listen, now—” he said, the voice still full of authority.
But by facing her, by loosing his hold on her waist, without the knife pressed to her neck, he’d lost the advantage, Snail realized. So she smiled at him, and nodded as if going along with his plan, all the while noticing that, as she expected, though he was dressed for subterfuge and fighting above, he was wearing a pair of expensive, beautiful, and very comfortable boots of the finest thin doeskin.
Very thin doeskin.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, she stomped on his foot with all the anger and fear he’d caused. She felt the foot scrunch beneath hers, ground down hard, thought she heard a bone—make that bones!—crunch.
The man leapt onto his other foot screaming and Snail jumped back, finally able to reach the knife at her back.
“Karl!” she yelled, screaming along with the man. “Help! Help! Help!”
Huh, she thought, I guess I will call to him after all.
ASPEN GETS ALL NOBLE
Aspen rushed outside and around the back of the wagon because that’s where the sounds of shouting were coming from. Rocks and twigs pressed into his bare feet and he immediately regretted not putting on his boots before leaving the wagon.
Regretted it, that is, until he saw Snail. She was struggling with an elf much taller than her who was dressed in a cloak patterned in black and green.
Our silent watcher! The stalker!
The man had a short skinning knife in his right hand, and Snail was holding on to his right arm with two hands, trying desperately to keep him from plunging the blade into her chest.
“Snail!” Aspen roared, forgetting immediately what her new name was supposed to be. He felt a rage come upon him, and he could suddenly feel faery magic swirling around him. He had but to reach into its core and pull out lightning or fire and destroy this creature that dared hurt his only friend.
No! he thought, fighting for control. Use the magic and far worse than this one elf will soon be on our doorstep.
He remembered a quote from a famous Unseelie general that Jaunty had shared with him long ago: It’s easier to keep control while moving forward.
The general had been talking about his armies, known more for their mad, violent charges than their discipline and skillful soldiering. Just like Border Lords.
Aspen was neither Unseelie nor in the army, but he thought that the same principle might very well apply here. Besides, he wasn’t going to be able to formulate a better plan in the few seconds he had before Snail was overpowered. And killed.
So he charged, but silently because he was barefooted. At the last minute, he dropped his shoulder to ram into the cloaked man’s side. It was then he noticed Snail’s knife sticking into the elf’s hip and thought, Good girl, just before they all fell to the ground.
Snail scrabbled away and then everything devolved into a scrambling mess of fists and elbows.
Aspen had no experience in this kind of fighting. But the stalker is already injured so perhaps I have an advantage.
At the same time, he thought, I have very little experience in any kind of fighting at all, come to that. As a Seelie prince, he would have been expected to lead men into battle eventually, but as the hostage prince, he had only been expected to stay put and keep the peace.
And look how I failed at that, he thought, anger and misery binding together.
Still, guessing that this type of fight would be won by the combatant who kept most active, he flailed around with fists and elbows and knees in the fervent hope that the watcher’s knife had been knocked aside and was now lost in the darkness.
Something caught him a glancing blow to his chin and he lashed out in the direction it had come from. His fist connected with something hard and he heard a satisfying grunt as his knuckles exploded with pain. He was not expecting it to hurt and for a moment he was stunned by how much it did.
Then he and the cloaked man were in tight and grappling, and Aspen tried to find the man’s neck so he could squeeze. But his opponent had the same idea and found Aspen first, though Aspen ducked quick enough that only his chin was under pressure.
Finally certain where his opponent was—if still not entirely sure which way was up—Aspen launched elbows at a location sure to hold a stomach or some kind of vital organ, but oddly the arm suddenly disappeared from around his neck and his elbows found only air.
High ground! he thought, remembering that as a key component in warfare. It was one of the random things he remembered from the few lessons his father had given him in warfare before shipping him off to the Unseelie Court. He wasn’t certain what the high ground did for you, or how it applied here, but he decided that in this case it meant that he should stand up.
He pushed himself to his feet, swinging around to where the silent watcher should be, and realized that the elf had also taken the opportunity to get to his feet.
Unfortunately, he’d also drawn a long rapier from a sheath at his hip.
Before Aspen could do anything but gasp, the watcher stepped forward in a be
autiful lunge and pierced Aspen’s left arm straight through. There was weakness but no pain as the arm went slack, and Aspen found himself back on the ground, looking up at the elf, who was poised to pierce his heart as well.
One part of Aspen wanted to close his eyes to his own death, but the other part—the noble part—forced him to keep his eyes open.
The Seelie motto on the royal banners was Look death in the eye, though he suddenly remembered his mother telling him before he was taken off to be the hostage prince, Look life in the eye, too.
Fine words, he thought, but there was little hope for life now when a sword was about to end it.
Be brave, be brave he told himself over and over. It will be but a pinprick, and if I am lucky, will hurt but a second.
In the middle of his prayer a truly odd thing happened. Sword drawn and pointing at Aspen’s chest, the cloaked man suddenly had a very surprised look on his face and flew straight up and away, his cloak billowing around him like a giant bat’s wings.
He can fly? Aspen thought. That hardly seems fair. He tried to remember anything about flying Seelie elves and failed.
Then the pain in his arm hit him, and the only sensible thing to do seemed to be to black out completely.
SNAIL AND THE HUNGRY TROLL
It all happened so fast, Snail thought. One minute she was going to die and the next minute it was Aspen who was dead, or so she thought until she saw his hand fluttering.
Somewhere overhead she heard the cloaked man sputtering and pleading, starting to scream. Somewhere overhead she heard the troll droning, “Hungry! Hungry! Juicy man.”
But Snail ignored all the screams and scuttled over to Aspen, whose eyes had just been fluttering open.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
She looked at the wound in his arm, just above the elbow. It was hardly bleeding. “Not even a little.”
“Good,” he said. “It was not a very noble fight.”
“The intent was noble.”
He smiled and it was the sweetest smile he’d given her since they’d met.