The Last Changeling

by Jane Yolen

  A part of him hoped he would run into Maggie Light.

  Moving quietly, he got to the door, where he listened intently but heard nothing. The racket from outside had ceased.

  Pushing the door open just a crack, he peeked through. When he saw what was on the other side, he gasped and involuntarily pushed it fully open.

  The dwarfs’ room was just gone. As was Maggie Light’s. Or rather, their left walls were gone, and the beds and sparse furnishings were just now being hidden behind a lowering tan curtain. What was left of the rooms were now open to a field of long grasses where several groups of fey children tumbled and played while a small knot of mothers—mostly brownies and low-caste elves—looked on.

  A walkway extended from the wagon ten paces into the field, and the ceiling canted up and away. The wall between the rooms was disappearing as well, being lifted up by what at first appeared to be a gigantic silver spider that groaned and creaked as it worked.

  He shuddered. He had never liked spiders and this one was almost as large as the wagon. Only then did he realize with a start that the spider was not alive but was instead some kind of made being, its legs of cold iron, which meant that no one of Faerie but dwarfs could have had a hand in the making of it. Cold iron burned any other fey straight through to the bone.

  As he watched further, the spider drew a deep blue curtain across the more ordinary curtain to make a back wall.

  Now he understood what had happened. The central part of the wagon had been turned into a stage. The wonder was that it had taken him so long to figure it out.

  For just a moment, Aspen thought that a giant stood at the front of this new stage until he realized that it was really the three dwarfs standing on one another’s shoulders. Annar was on top, fastening the last of a dozen screened lanterns along the outer edge of the now-slanted ceiling. That done, he began tying the screens to a complicated system of ropes that led to the side of the wagon, ropes that snaked down the wall and into the professor’s room.

  “Oh!” Aspen said aloud.

  Hearing Aspen’s gasp, Dagmarra—who was on the bottom, holding up her brothers—turned, ignoring Annar’s squeals of protest. Thridi in the middle just looked pained.

  “Hauld yer whist!” she admonished. “Are ye daft? Get yerself inside. And don’t come back out until yer dressed a proper princess!”

  She seemed angry enough to let both her brothers fall so that she could come and punch Aspen, so he hurriedly shut the door and shuffled back into the twins’ room. He thought briefly about leaving now while everyone was busy.

  I could just walk out the back door and disappear and no one would know I was gone until Maggie Light came to dress me.

  But it would mean leaving without Snail. And somehow that was not possible.

  Might as well get ready for the play, then.

  • • •

  BY THE TIME Maggie Light came to help him into his costume, Aspen was already in the dress, but it was pulled over his traveling clothes, which made him look like a rather hefty and lumpy princess. He thought he could use his dagger to cut the dress away in a matter of moments when they were ready to make their escape.

  And I must admit, I am quite looking forward to cutting this dreadful garment to bits.

  Still, he could not help feeling warm when Maggie Light oohed and aahed over how he looked and told him how well he’d done in buttoning, lacing, tying, and cinching the dress up.

  He admitted it had not been easy. “Truly, it is a wonder a woman ever leaves the house with the preparation it takes.”

  Maggie Light nodded in agreement. “And we’re not half done, either.”

  “What?”

  “There’s the makeup and the wig and the shoes, still.”

  “Oh,” he said, staring down at his stockinged feet. He had not considered those things at all.

  I remember when I used to like getting dressed up. In men’s clothes, of course, but still . . .

  With all that he had experienced lately, the blood, the death, the betrayal—and the friendship, bravery, and sacrifice he reminded himself, thinking of Snail—he was certain he could never again enjoy the frivolous pastimes of his youth. Then he smiled. Pretty deep thoughts for a prince in a dress.

  “You seem happy about the play,” Maggie Light said. “That’s good!”

  He swallowed the sigh he felt rising, and let Maggie Light pin his hair up and start applying some kind of noxious powder to his face. All the while, he worked hard at making no complaints at all.

  • • •

  SOME TIME PASSED before he was completely transformed into Princess Eal. Maggie Light held a mirror in front of his face. Reflected in the glass was a garish trollop, with the emphasis on the troll.

  “Um,” he said, trying to think of something positive to say and failing utterly.

  “Stage makeup,” Maggie Light said by way of explanation. “It will look much better from far away.”

  Aspen stared at his reflection critically. “Will they be watching from Trollholm?” That was the kingdom of the creatures, sung of in ballads, though no one, Aspen mused, had ever returned to tell the truth of it.

  Maggie Light gave her bell-like laugh. “That might not be far enough.”

  Aspen stood unsteadily in the princess’s high shoes. “Well, I guess I can play it strictly for laughs.”

  “That’s how we like it played,” Maggie Light said, “and you’ll be playing it soon.”

  “Is it time?”

  “Peek through the door.” She opened it a crack.

  Aspen peeked through and saw that it was already early evening. His stomach began to growl. He had no idea when he had last eaten. But his stomach was also roiling with fear. And then the fear filled his mouth like a foul liquid. He knew it was not fear of the soldiers. He had hardly given them a thought. It was fear of going out onto the stage and playing to that huge crowd.

  Screened lanterns had been lit, and the giant spider, with its metal legs, was pulling on the ropes, shifting the screens back and forth. Streams of colored light in blues and reds and greens, and colors Aspen did not even know the names of, spilled from the lanterns onto the stage to fight with the amber light from the setting sun. The meadow grass had been trampled into a flat expanse by the rollicking children, and dozens of audience members already stood on the cleared ground. Some were watching the stage lights, others just gossiping or telling jokes.

  Maggie put two fingers into her mouth and gave out an enormous whistle. The spider folded itself down into a box about the size of a valise, the metal legs on the inside. As soon as it was done, Maggie Light strode out onto the stage to huge applause. She waved to the crowd, then picked up the box and, seemingly without struggling with the weight of it, glided back behind the curtain.

  Her performance not only pleased the crowd, it startled Aspen so much, he was lost for comment. But as he looked through the door, he could see even more folk walking up from the cook tents a short distance away. At that rate, the field in front of the stage would be full soon.

  “Were we expecting this . . .” Aspen found himself gulping. “This big crowd?”

  “Oh, yes,” Maggie Light said happily. “And it will soon be bigger. You’re not frightened, are you?”

  He wanted to say no, but suddenly realized that he was more frightened now than when he had been facing execution in his father’s court. For some reason he could not lie to her.

  “Terrified.”

  She nodded. “It will fade.”

  “When?”

  Maggie Light smiled with a warmth that belied the cruelty of her next words. “I’ve never heard an actor complaining of it past their hundredth performance. Now remember to speak high, in falsetto, so you sound like a girl.”

  She patted him on the shoulder and left him with his stage fright, his dress, and his now
seemingly useless plans for escape.

  SNAIL LEARNS SOME BRUTAL TRUTHS

  When Snail and Odds had settled in his room, he’d gestured her to a small chair. She sat and started to protest, but he waved a hand to silence her. Then he reached out to a kind of bellpull by the side of his desk and gave it a yank, which seemed to start a bunch of creaks and groans in motion.

  Alarmed, Snail asked, “What’s that?”

  “Setting the stage,” Odds said mysteriously. “Stage craft and craftiness. All in a night’s work.”

  She nodded as if she understood what he meant, but as the creaks and shouts and groans went on, she actually figured it out. She’d seen such a thing before, though never on such a grand scale. The wagon would be turned into the players’ stage.

  “You said I have a role, sir . . .” she began.

  He sat down in his big chair, which made him tower over her. “You do, indeed.” He smiled at her and there was no comfort in it.

  Snail waited for him to speak, then waited some more. At last she said, “Is it a secret?”

  “It’s not, though you seemed unaware of it. However, it’s nothing to beware of. It’s who you are.”

  Now she was confused. “I’m Snail, a midwife’s apprentice of the Unseelie Court.” She stopped. “Or at least I was a few days ago. Now I seem to be an actual midwife in the Seelie lands, running from two armies and . . .”

  Odds held up a hand. “And yet none of what you just said is the truth.”

  “Well, of course it is,” she told him, thinking that in fact it was the first time since meeting Odds she had told the truth. That he should say otherwise made her furious. She started to glare at him as she stood up.

  “Have you never wondered why you were different from the other apprentices? Why your eyes are . . .”

  “Two different colors, you mean?”

  “Not just that. They aren’t the pure blue of the fey folk.” He looked at her. “Your hair . . . ?”

  “Red.”

  “No fey has red hair. Your parentage?”

  “I was brought up by Mistress Softhands, the midwife and . . .”

  He leaned forward, “Not just brought up. In fact, you were adopted as a child, yes? And you’re more awkward than your friends, with less magical ability, yet you did that puzzle I set you quickly, which I can assure you none of them could have done.”

  “I didn’t finish it,” she admitted, blushing, remembering how she’d put it aside. Almost slammed it down in frustration, actually.

  “I saw how quickly you got it undone. With a bit more time . . .” His grey eyes seemed to glitter.

  “You were spying on me!” Now she really glared.

  “Of course,” he said, less an admission than a boast.

  “But . . .” She sat down heavily in the chair again.

  “But me no buts, and butter me no bread,” he said. “I’ll not give you an oily answer but a plain one. Have you looked at your fingers?”

  She sighed. “Even when you say you’re going to speak plainly, you riddle, Professor Odds.”

  “Look at your fingers,” he repeated. “Your middle finger is longer than the rest. Yet a fey has hands where all the fingers except the thumb are the same height.”

  She bit her lip. She knew that was true but had thought it only strange, not something that defined her.

  “You’re skarm drema, child. A human girl, stolen by the fey to do their bidding and to be used eventually as a tithe to their dark gods.”

  She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She was fey, she knew she was. Why, she could even do a few small spells. But, oddly she couldn’t argue with him, because—as if a burning torch had just illuminated her life—everything suddenly made a kind of sense.

  Only not entirely.

  “A human child?” she breathed, not quite believing it.

  He nodded.

  She leaned forward and said shortly, “Then who are my parents?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know they’re human?”

  “Because you clearly are.”

  “Can I find them?”

  “No. It’s not possible.”

  “Why not?” This time when she stood up, she began to pace in front of him. “If the fey brought humans here, surely there is a door back into the human world? A gate? A crossing place?”

  Odds didn’t answer, but she could see the answer in his eyes.

  “There is, isn’t there?” she said, almost begging.

  This time he nodded.

  “Show it to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Entering from this side will age you beyond your years before you even land in the human plane.” He shook his head. “And it’s not always open. Only on the blue moon.”

  Now she knew he was lying, had been lying all along. But why? But instead of tasking him with it, she sneered. “The blue moon? I’ve never heard of a blue moon. Or seen one. Moons are yellow or gold or, once in a while, orange.”

  “That’s because they’re not actually blue and only occur as the third full moon in a month of four.”

  “Then why call it blue?”

  “A human conceit,” he admitted. “And being human, not always understandable.”

  She remembered the other word he’d used. “Month? What is a month?” She was totally at sea now.

  “It’s the human way of counting days in a season,” he said. “They have four seasons: spring, summer, winter, autumn.”

  “Only four of them?”

  “Only four.”

  Snail thought four a paltry number. The fey seasons were nine in all: Springtide, River Spate, Rosebay, Trout Rise, Berrybreak, Leafmeal, Hailstone, Snowfall, each ending in a Solstice celebration. And of course the moveable season of Change, which came and went in a rhythm only wizards fully understood. How could there be only four seasons? It made human life a small, stunted thing. She didn’t want to be human. She was fey. She’d always been fey.

  She said so, and Odds laughed.

  “Humans are smart, cunning, inventive,” he said. “They’re the storytellers and clock makers, playwrights and poets. Without them, the universe would be a less interesting place.”

  She had no idea what a universe was, but remembered what she’d been taught by her mentor, Mistress Softhands, and told Odds. “Humans are useless, puling, short-lived, ugly, a rough copy of the fey,” she said angrily. “They live hard, die young. I’d know if I were human!”

  He stood up all at once, looking very tall, very powerful. Like a wizard, she thought suddenly, fear a heavy stone in her belly.

  “I am human, child,” he said, his voice suddenly soft. “And you are, too, whether you fully comprehend that or not. What I’m about—what you need to be about—is saving all those human children who over the years have been stolen, used, abused, kept in slavery by the wicked fey. What skarm drema truly means is ‘freedom for the slaves.’”

  Snail burst into tears; she wasn’t sure why.

  He waited until she was done sobbing and only snuffling up the last of the nose drips. Then he said, “This is your part to play this evening. You’ll go through the crowd and whisper the words skarm drema. To those who answer drema skarm, you will hand one of these special tickets.” He gave her a packet of greenish cards. “Only a human will be able to make out the writing, which is a map to our meeting six days hence. And there, we will lay our plans to finally become free.”

  “But . . .”

  “But me no buts. You owe it to the other humans, to your human parents, to yourself.”

  The cards felt cold in her hand. They felt like a ticket to a foreign place. To a world in which the seasons were four and the people, though walking about, were dead. She had no more connection to that world than to the Unseelie kingdom, which had played her false and
was now trying to find and kill her. Nor did she owe any allegiance to the Seelie kingdom, which was doing the very same thing. She’d thought she’d found a home with the professor and his players, but that, too, had turned out to be false.

  Still, she had to make the professor think she’d accepted this new role until she could figure out her way through all that he’d just told her and plan her escape.

  “Now, take this cloak and wrap it about you. Then go out into the audience. Keep your focus on the people who look a bit odd, a bit out of place, not the brownies or the hobs, not the trolls or the little people. You’ll know the human folk. They’ll be the oddest of all. More importantly, they’ll know you.”

  “I thought you said that the changelings were all slaves.”

  “These are the brave ones who’ve made their way out of the Unseelie lands, along the night paths to freedom. Or bought their way across the water to the freer lands of the Seelie folk, where they have used their gifts to make themselves a better life.”

  Odds said this as if it were a speech he’d given before. But it was all new to Snail, and she had many more questions to put to him.

  “But professor . . . ”

  He put up a hand to stop her. “No more time for talk.”

  She stood, put on the cloak, let him push her out of the door. Anything to get away from him and the geas he’d laid on her, that magical proscription, the skarm drema spell.

  Walking outside into the waiting crowd, she whispered to herself, “I’m not human. I won’t be human. I can’t be human.”

  The people in the audience ignored her mutterings. They only had eyes for the stage. Mouths agape like frogs, they stared straight ahead.

  Snail couldn’t help herself. She turned and watched the stage as well, just as Aspen came out, looking as miserable as she felt.

  When he opened his mouth to say his first words, he seemed to freeze. She knew the opening speech, could have shouted it out to him.

  I am and am not the Princess Eal.

  And none of you knows how I feel.

  For I’ve been stolen for to slave

  Inside a dragon’s dark, jeweled cave . . .