by Deva Fagan
I had seen no sign of Ubaldo since the previous afternoon, but when we neared the walls I caught sight of a familiar spotted horse ahead. I thought for a dreadful moment that he was going to join us, despite the prince’s command. But as we drew near, I saw that the horseman was Coso. Ubaldo stood beside him and was handing the other man a long leather tube, of the sort used to hold scrolls. Coso nodded. Then Ubaldo slapped the horse, sending Coso off down the street toward the main gate.
I thought perhaps Ubaldo was sending Coso along with us, but as our procession passed from the city, I saw the spotted horse heading off down the western road, the way we ourselves had first come. My prophecy had said we would find the weapon to defeat the witch in a village three days to the east. What message did Coso bring west? What was Ubaldo up to? If I was in truth a seer, I might have known. But I had no way to find out.
I could not afford to worry about that, however. I had a fortune to make come true, and it would take all my wits to do it. Somewhere to the east, three days from here, was a village (I hoped), and somewhere in that village I would have to find a weapon that could slay a witch that didn’t exist. I had a lot to think about.
CHAPTER
7
THE SUN HUNG LOW and red behind us on the third day, and I was beginning to get nervous. A grassy meadow rolled out before us, bounded north and south by darker forest. No candle or hearthfire twinkled within those empty slopes. We had passed the last farmer’s house at noon. I’d been tempted to stop there, but I did not think even the prince, who wanted to believe, could be convinced that such a hovel might be considered a village. Other than that, we had seen no travelers.
We had spent the previous two nights at the mercy of what hospitality we could find. Perhaps hospitality wasn’t the right word, as we were still within the demesne of Doma, and the people were obligated by fealty to serve their prince. But they seemed happy enough to offer Prince Leonato every comfort their simple homes could afford. We had left our escort behind as we passed out of sight of Doma, so it was only the prince, Captain Ribisi, and I who needed lodging. The captain slept rolled in his cloak, close by the prince. I found a soft nest in whatever hayloft was at hand.
“We must be almost there,” Prince Leonato said, gazing toward the last curve of gold on the horizon. “The s-s-s— Curse it!” He slapped his thigh in frustration. “The s-s-s—”
“The sun’s nearly set?” I prompted.
He groaned. “Why hasn’t the magic lasted, Prophetess?” I quailed beneath his entreating gaze. Because it wasn’t magic, I wanted to say.
He sighed. “I know, I know, it was only in the s-s-s-scroll. If only I could read from a magic s-s—parchment all the time, I’d be a proper prince.”
“You seem a proper prince to me already, Your Highness.”
He smiled without enthusiasm. “Not yet. But at least your prophecy gives me a hope of becoming one.”
His high regard should have given me a thrill of excitement, but instead it shriveled me like a cold winter wind. Stop this, I told myself. It’s no use feeling guilty. Remember, Father’s life is at stake.
“I’ll be glad to reach this village,” said Prince Leonato. “I hope they have a proper inn. It was kind of that sh-sh-shepherd to give me his own pallet last night, but it was cursed uncomfortable.”
Prince Leonato might doubt himself, but his zeal for my prophecy ran strong as a river in spring. “I’ll go ahead; it’s probably just over the next hill.” He jogged Snowdrop’s white flanks, and the large horse set off up the road at a pace remarkable in such an old beast.
I plodded onward, aware that Captain Ribisi was staring fixedly at me from atop his own brown mare. “What do you think he’ll find?” Ribisi asked.
“The village, of course. As my fortune told.”
“I don’t believe in fortunes and prophecies.”
“My prophecy got us this far. You yourself told me the others never even made it out of the city gates.”
Captain Ribisi grunted. “I believe in what luck a person makes for himself. Or herself.” He shot me a suspicious look.
My heart quailed. He had suspected from the start that I was a fake. But I couldn’t show him my fear. “The prince believes in my fortune,” I said. “Aren’t you happy he made that proclamation without faltering?”
“Prince Leonato wants to be a hero. He’s the mettle for it too. But he doesn’t need some sham fortune to do it. Magic.” He spat on the ground between us. “I gave up on that long ago.”
“You did believe once, though,” I extrapolated. “Something happened.”
“It’s no concern of yours,” he said, staring furiously ahead. “Where’s the prince got to now? Foolishness, fortunes, and prophecy. Bah.”
“The fortune will come true,” I said. I nudged Franca’s sides, hoping to achieve a pace faster than her current plodding gait. Sweat slicked my palms. Try as I might, I couldn’t make a village appear out of thin air. Then I heard shouting ahead.
Prince Leonato appeared over the crest of the hill, waving energetically. “The village, I’ve found it. Just as you s-s-said!”
Relief washed over me. I raised my chin and looked sideways at Ribisi. “See?”
MY SPIRITS ROSE as we approached the village. It was large; I could even make out the spire of a church against the darkening sky. Though less than a quarter of the size of Doma, it had a thick sturdy wall encircling the cluster of houses and buildings. Oddly, there were no buildings outside this wall, though we passed rich fields of barley and rye. Where did the farmers of those fields dwell?
The heavy wooden gates were already closed. In the last glimmer of sunlight, I made out a device carved over the gates. It looked like a sword plunged into a stone. That was promising. As we approached, a small square of wood midway up the door was pushed open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. “Travelers?” the man said. The eyes flicked over Prince Leonato and Captain Ribisi, widening at the sight of the swords strapped to both their horses. “Warriors, at that. What business brings you to Saint Federica’s Rest?”
In the face of proclaiming himself to a stranger, Prince Leonato wilted visibly. The enthusiasm that had carried him thus far vanished. He gulped, then started to speak. “Good eve, s-s-s-sir. We are here to s-s-search—”
“What? What’s that? Speak up, boy! I can’t make out a word you’re saying.”
Prince Leonato snapped his mouth closed, shoulders sagging. Saints’ shadows! That was enough of that. “Give praise to the Saints, good man, for they have graced your city,” I proclaimed in my most stirring theatrical voice. “Here stands before you Prince Leonato, upon a grand and noble quest for the glory of all Doma!”
The eyes blinked. “Prince, are you? And on a quest? Well, then, of course you are welcome within.” The window banged shut, and shortly the wooden door swung open, revealing a beefy man with a full head of wiry black hair.
Prince Leonato prodded Snowdrop to start through the gate, but the porter stepped forward, blocking the way. “Your pardon, Prince Leonato, but you’ll need to be leaving those blades with me ’fore you enter. Our village lies under the protection of Saint Federica. No weapons within these walls. That’s our law.”
Saint Federica, I remembered belatedly, was called “the peaceful.” One of the stained-glass windows of the Valenzian cathedral had shown her being struck by the sword of evil King Rudolpho. Federica had been so pure the king’s blade shattered as it touched her. Saint Federica had ever after been the patron of peacemakers.
“No weapons?” Prince Leonato repeated. “But I’ve come here to find a weapon to s-s-smite the Witch of the Black Wood. There must be a s-s-sword within.”
“Oh, aye, there’s one, and only one. The blade of the blessed Saint herself. You see, this was where she had her epiphany. She was a swordmaiden, ’fore she became a Saint. She fought a great battle here, long ago, and when she saw all the blood staining the land, the blood of her friends and companions who’d died, she swore n
ever to touch a weapon again. She struck her sword then and there into a boulder. In time our people built up this village here. And since that day, there’s never been any weapon save that one here in Saint Federica’s Rest.” The porter puffed up with pride as he told his tale. “’Twas my own great-great-great-grandsire who set the cornerstone of our church. We built it up over the very boulder itself, so’s the sword would be in the center of the hall for all to see.”
“Then that must be the weapon we s-s-seek,” said the prince, turning to me. “Prophetess?”
“Yes,” I said. What else was there to say? If the sword of Saint Federica was the only blade in this village, it would have to do.
“Saint Federica herself wills it so,” I continued on. “Upon the morrow, you shall go to the church and take up her blade, with her blessing.”
“Here, now,” said the porter. “Prince or no, you can’t just come in and take a holy relic.”
“It is the will of the Saint,” I said.
“And you know the will of the Saint?” said the porter. “A little bit of a serving girl?”
“You’re s-s-speaking to the great prophetess Fortunata the All-Knowing,” Prince Leonato said, “and if sh-she s-says it is the will of the S-s-saint, then it is.” I felt a glow of pride at the prince’s words, until I remembered it was bought with lies.
“You can say what you like,” countered the porter, “but it will be for Father Giotto to decide. He’s the priest here.”
“We will seek him out in the morning, then,” said Captain Ribisi. “For now, Your Highness, we’d best find a place to sleep. You will need your strength for the morrow.”
Prince Leonato nodded. Leaving their weapons with the porter, the prince and Captain Ribisi continued on into the village. I followed after them, barely noticing the trim white houses with their thatched roofs, and the curious faces peeking out the lighted windows. If Prince Leonato was to have his sword, if my fortune was to come true, somehow I needed to convince the people of Saint Federica’s Rest that their patron wished it so. And if the porter was any example, that would be a difficult task indeed.
THE INNKEEPER GAVE Prince Leonato her best suite of rooms. I even had a small alcove of my own, off the main sitting room, complete with a straw pallet and a tiny window that looked out over the courtyard behind the inn. I retired there as soon as I could, ostensibly to sleep. In actual fact, I doubted I would get any rest. There was too much to do before morning.
I nibbled at the cheese dumplings a serving girl had brought up and sipped my watered wine. The prince and Captain Ribisi were talking in the other room. I tried to sneak past their open door, but the captain had the ears of a hound, and I had to pretend I was merely fetching a drink of water. Captain Ribisi watched me like a hawk as I filled my cup and returned to my room, and I knew there was little chance of my getting out unnoticed while he was awake.
I sat curled up on my pallet, trying not to fall asleep. Through my window I heard a girl singing softly, accompanied by the soft creak of rope and wood and the splash of water. A serving girl fetching water from a well. Then a scent of smoke, and some deeper voices rumbling good-naturedly. Someone out for an evening pipe. Then they too fell silent. At last quiet swept over the inn like a quilted coverlet, until all was dim and peaceful, but for the creakings of the shutters and the skitterings of the mice.
I waited another long while, then cautiously made my way out into the main sitting room. I peered through the door to Prince Leonato and Captain Ribisi’s room, and saw no sign of movement. Breathing a sigh of relief, I started toward the door. A floorboard creaked under my foot. I heard a snorting intake of breath from somewhere in the sitting room and froze. I peered through the gloom. To my distress, Captain Ribisi was seated at the writing desk. In the dim silvery light of the moon, I saw that he was slumped forward, asleep, judging by the sounds he made. A sheet of parchment lay before him, the quill hanging from his limp fingers. A burned-out candle sat nearby; the scent of its smoke lingered in the air. What was he writing at this hour of the night?
I crept closer, trying to peer over his shoulder. I could make out only the very top lines of the letter. My beloved, though your royal station remains far above my own, know that I remain your loyal servant in this matter as in all things. Prince Leonato continues to—. His arm obscured the rest. My mind struggled to fill in the blanks. Was Captain Ribisi the secret paramour of Princess Donata? Was he sending her reports on the prince? I suppressed an urge to tweak the paper out from under his elbow. He would surely wake, and I had other more pressing business.
I stepped carefully to the door, avoiding the creaky board, and exited the room. Out in the street, I breathed deeply at last as I took a moment to get my bearings. I could see the spire of the church, sharp against the starry sky. The first thing I’d do would be to get a look at this fabled sword of Saint Federica.
A few lamps burned yet, casting flickering golden light from their windows out across the cobbled street. I crouched for a moment behind a bin of flour outside the baker’s shop, smelling the rich, sweet scent of nut cakes, already in the oven for the morning’s market. I kept to the shadows and moved with as much stealth as I could manage, though my threadbare white gown was not the best costume for skullduggery. My fortune-telling costume would have been more appropriate, but I had left that packed away with my things at the inn.
I evaded a particularly brilliant lantern, hung up from the lintel of one of the houses, and slipped around the corner to confront the church. It was not so grand as a true cathedral, but it was still larger than any of the other buildings in the village. Lights flared within, but that didn’t surprise me. The sacred candles were kept burning throughout the night. There might even be a cleric on hand to tend to them, but he’d probably be asleep at this hour.
I entered the vestibule, then peered through the arched doorway into the worship hall. I could see no one. A smattering of flames danced among the bank of small candles arrayed at the front, before the icons of the Saints. From this distance I could not distinguish one icon from the next. There were so many Saints, and one looked much like the next, if you could not see the distinctive trappings. I could tell the large statue at the far right was Saint Bartolommeo the generous, with his great sack of toys and sweets rising like a hunch on his burly shoulder. And the woman with the vast carved wings must be Saint Angelica, who watched over children and kept them from harm. There were a dozen more, and in the very center, under the great roseate window, gleamed a glint of metal amid the gray and white of granite and marble. The blade of Saint Federica, just as the porter had described, plunged deep into a boulder. Above the rough bulk of the rock rose a hand span of glittering blade and graceful crossguard.
I was about to step forward into the hall when a noise stopped me short. I was not alone. A man sat in the front pew, sprawled against the carved wooden back. By the long purple robes and white mantle I knew it must be the priest himself, though his garments hung all askew and his gold sash was tossed haphazardly over a nearby pedestal holding jars of ceremonial oils.
The priest raised his hand, and the candlelight glittered on what he held. A goblet. He raised it, as if toasting the statues of the Saints, then tossed back its contents. He staggered to his feet and lurched a few steps up to the other pedestal, which held the jar of sacred wine. With an unsteady hand, he sloshed a great quantity into his cup, then swallowed that down as well. He hiccuped, and poured out another measure.
I watched this spectacle in amazement. I suppose, given my own sinful activities, I wasn’t in any position to judge the priest. But really! Drinking the sacred wine!
None of this helped my situation, however. At least, not as far as I could see. I chewed on my lower lip, considering my options. What was I to do? I had to persuade this priest to allow Prince Leonato to take the sword. Must I conjure forth a sign from the heavens? Call down the Saint herself to speak her will?
Hmmm. There was a thought. I had summoned up s
pirits before. How different would a Saint be? And this priest was wine-addled enough that he just might believe it. All I needed were a few supplies. I didn’t have the white paint and gauzy robe; those were back in the blue wagon, in Doma. But I thought I could find something to suit, with a bit of pilfering about the village.
A short time later, I had what I needed. I scouted around the back of the church and found a convenient window partway up the rear wall, beside the larger roseate stained glass. A bit more rummaging, and I had procured a rickety ladder from the nearby stables. I wished there were a mirror, so I could check the effect of my costume, but I had to make do with the surface of the water in the watering trough.
A ghostly figure stared back at me. My white gown didn’t trail in long gauzy folds like the spirit veil, but it would do well enough. The handful of flour I’d nipped out of the baker’s barrel had turned my hair and skin pasty white. I did give off small puffs of powder with every move, but I rather thought they added to the impression of ethereality.
Teetering at the top of the ladder, I set the bright lantern from the house around the corner down on a narrow ledge below the window. That would backlight me nicely, with an aura suitable for a Saint. I could see the priest down in the hall below. He had moved on to taking mouthfuls directly from the wine bottle. I cleared my throat, and began.
“Priest of the Saints. . . .” I pitched my voice low, so that it filled the church with a sibilant echo.
The priest started. He turned this way and that, looking for the source of the words.
“I, Saint Federica, come now before you.”
He saw me. Hastily, he pushed the bottle of wine back onto the pedestal, then retreated unsteadily, tripping over his purple robes. “Oh, Saint Federica, forgive me!” he wailed. “I did not mean to drink the sacred wine. Please don’t punish me, oh, blessed lady!” He remained where he had fallen upon the stone floor, knocking his head against it in genuflection.