He ignored her. She raised her voice. “Please? Milord?
Please, good sir?”
Nothing.
Now, at this point, he could have stopped, offered her something, and asked for directions. She would have given 218
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them to him. She would not have told him the keys to the puzzles that the Sorcerer was going to set him, but at least he would have gotten to the Glass Mountain.
He did neither; he rode on as if she was of no more importance than a beetle.
Fine, she thought, and touched her staff to the path again as he rode out of sight under the trees.
“Twist me and turn me, and bring me to grief.
Muddle my pathway and give no relief.
Send me to wander a month and a day,
Give me no guidance and keep me astray.
Then when a month and a day will have sped, If I am kinder and my pride’s been shed, Then send me on homeward.
But if I’m too high
Then keep me astray till a year has gone by.”
There, that would take care of him. He’d stumble along in Phaelin’s Wood—and possibly several others, if Karelina decided to invoke the “All Forests Are One” spell against him when she got back—and he’d do so while his provisions ran out, spring thunderstorms deluged him, and every possible minor disaster that could would arise to plague him. After a month and a day of this, if he’d learned his lesson, he’d finally come out of the Wood right where he went in. If he was smart, he would go home again. If he wasn’t—well, Karelina would have to decide what to do with him. Hopefully, he would come out a humbler and wiser man than he’d been when he went in The Fairy Godmother
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a mere month, because otherwise he’d be stumbling around for the next year.
Smiling to herself, she touched her staff to the path again, on the knot representing the tanglefoot spell. “Alexander,”
she told it, and the spark of power leaped from the wand and raced down the tangled skein of the spell.
It was not more than an hour later that she heard hoofbeats on the road, and saw her quarry approaching. And she had to give him a few points for preparation, anyway. Unlike his brother, he not only was fully armed but he had a packhorse laden with armor and apparently quite a bit of other luggage as well. From the look of things, he had not been spending his last two nights huddled next to a pathetic little fire. She hid behind her sapling screen and waited to get a good look at him before he could see her.
Elena parted the branches of the birches and peered through them as the sound of hooves on the path stopped.
And there he was, framed by two of the saplings, looking exactly as he had when she’d seen him in the book. He had stopped at the edge of the clearing that held the crossroads, frowning.
Truth to tell, she hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his appearance, other than to make sure she wouldn’t mistake him for some other Prince-errant, or one of his two brothers. Now, as he paused staring at the crossroads, his frown turning into a scowl as he tried to make up his mind which way to go, she studied him.
And she didn’t much care for what she saw. Not that he wasn’t handsome enough; he was all of that. His wavy brown hair, thick and shining, fell down past his shoulders, 220
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giving him a very romantic appearance, especially combined with the rakish tilt of his cap, and the fact that he was much better groomed than his older brother. Of course, part of that was due to the fact that he hadn’t been sleeping in the open, but still….
Vain, she thought to herself, cynically. I’ve never yet seen a long-haired man who wasn’t a popinjay. And clean-shaven, too. He must spend as much time in his valet’s hands as any primping girl.
As for his face—square chin, chiseled cheekbones, broad brow—well, it was shapely enough, even if his nose was entirely too aquiline to suit her.
He could plow a field with that nose.
But the regular features were spoiled entirely by the unpleasant frown, and the furrowed brow, and the air of unbending rigidity about him that, together with a tunic that managed to suggest a military uniform without actually being one, made her think that this was a man for whom there was, always and for everything, One Right Way from which he would never deviate. Even when it was wrong.
Well, this isn’t going to be much fun, she thought with resignation. And with a sigh, steeling herself for unpleasantness, she stepped out onto the path. If The Tradition held true to form, the first Prince had been merely rude and haughty—this one would be haughty and rude and arrogant and aggressive.
His frown deepened the moment he saw her, if that was possible. What was more, he added suspicion to the emotions of irritation and arrogance on his face.
Suspicion! What could he possibly suspect her of?
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“Have ye a crust of bread to spare, good milord?” she quavered, holding empty hands out towards him.
“They’ve—”
“I have nought to spare,” he interrupted. “Get from my path, old hag.”
Well! Not that she’d expected politeness, but that really was more than a bit much. Still, she kept hold of her temper, reminding herself that she was the Tester here, and she could make sure he got sent down an even longer path to wander than his brother. “But, milord,” she whined pathetically. “They’ve turned me off as too old to work, and I’m—”
“Then find work or die,” he said, now turning his frown away from her and looking about, as if trying to find something that might be hidden. “Those who cannot work, will not be fed. We’ll have no beggars here.”
You wretched little— Once again she caught hold of her temper. But something like this could not go unpunished, and wandering around for a month or even a year was not going to teach this arrogant lad what he needed to learn.
No, this was something that needed a more imaginative punishment.
Still, she would give him one more chance. But if he failed this time, she was going to take his lessoning into her own hands. “But can you—”
He ignored her, as his brother had. Instead he touched the spur to his horse’s flank, and rode straight at her at a canter, so she had to scramble out of his way or be run down.
Now she was angry. What if she had been a poor old 222
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woman? She could have been hurt, or even killed! What right had he to run people over as if they were nothing?
Oh, that tore it. As he passed, she whirled, and took her staff in both hands. “You!” she cried out in her own voice, pointing it at him.
Startled by the change in her voice, he pulled up his horse and turned in his saddle to stare at her.
She did not bother with a rhyme this time; the force of her anger was more than enough to shape the power. She aimed her staff at him, like an accusation. “You are as ill-mannered, as stubborn, and as stupid as an ass!” she shouted,
“So BE one!”
The power exploded out of her, coursed down her arm, and shot from her staff in a stream of red-gold light. If he’d had eyes to see it, he’d have been terrified. It hit him full on, covered him, enveloped him in a single moment, hiding him from sight inside a great globe of light that held him and the horse he was riding on.
He cried out in fear, though, as he felt it take him. And in the next moment, the cries changed, deepened, and hoarsened. The globe pulsed; once, twice, and on the third time, there was another flash of light.
There were three beasts on the path now, not two. A great bewildered warhorse, the packhorse tied to its saddle, and—
—and a donkey, standing petrified, all four hooves splayed, still trying to wheeze out a terrified bray.
“Hah,” she said, looking at him with satisfaction. “I need a donkey. You’ll do.”
He was clearly in a great deal of shock, too much so to The Fairy Godmother
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; move—though likely if he had tried, he’d have fallen to the ground, for he was not used to moving on four feet instead of two. She had plenty of time to rummage through his packs, find the rope she was sure was in there, and fashion a crude nose-pinch halter and choke-rope, and get it on him before he even began to react to his much-changed situation.
And by the time he did, she had him right where she wanted him. If he tried to rear, she could choke him at the neck. If he tried to bite, she could pinch off his nose and choke his breathing from that end.
He tried both, not once, but several times, until she finally picked up her staff and pointed it at him again.
He froze.
“You will behave,” she told him, “Or I’ll take your horse instead of you, and turn you into a frog.”
At that, his ears flattened against his head, but it was clear he didn’t doubt either her ability or her willingness to do so.
Instead he allowed her to lead him, stumbling, into the cover of some bushes and tether him there, the horses beside him.
She wasn’t going to take any chances, though; she used more of the rope for hobbles, and tethered all four feet.
She waited until she was back on the road before she took a deep breath, paused, and steadied herself. She was still angry with him, and that was no mood to be in to Test the last of the Princes. She counted to ten twice, took another deep breath, and let the anger run out of her. When she was sure she was steady again, she shook herself all over, and took her staff in hand.
Besides, this would be the easy one.
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“Right,” she said aloud, to the empty air, and touched the staff to the knot of the tanglefoot spell. “Julian.”
And for the third time, the spark of light sped away.
Alexander suspected that the appearance of the old woman was some sort of trick; how had she gotten out here, anyway? She didn’t look as if she could travel six feet, much less limp her way into the middle of the wood! She might be the bait for a trap, or something in disguise, and if he stopped for her, the trap would be sprung. All he could think of was that if he charged her, she’d get out of his way, and whatever magic the Sorcerer had been hexing him with might be broken. Then she’d shouted “You!” and he’d been stupid enough to stop and turn to look back at her. Then he knew, the moment that he saw the old hag pointing a stick at him, that he had been right. Someone had been working magic against him—but it had been her, not some Sorcerer working for King Stancia! But he didn’t even have a chance 226
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to duck, much less do anything about her, before she shouted out something else.
Something about being as arrogant and rude as an ass—
And in the next moment, he was engulfed in more pain than he had ever felt in his entire life put together. It felt as if his bones were melting and his insides turning to water; he tried to cry out, but his very voice changed, and he felt himself falling off his horse and hitting the ground on all fours, and—
Well, he really didn’t know what it felt like then, for there were no words to describe how it seemed as if he was made of warm wax, and a pair of giant hands was remolding him.
Remolding even his head. His eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of their sockets, his mouth like something had hold of his teeth and lips and was stretching his face, and his ears—well, they burned and hurt past all reason. Then as if that wasn’t enough, he began to itch.
Finally, as quickly as it had come upon him, the pain left him. But it left him dazed and very confused, because now, although he could see exceedingly well to either side, and somehow actually see behind his head, he couldn’t see much of anything that was straight ahead of him. And when he tried to stand up—he couldn’t.
And when he looked down at his feet, he saw four hooves.
Four hooves?
The old hag! What she’d said! “You are as stubborn as an ass! So BE one!”
He blinked. He stared. The sight did not change. Four The Fairy Godmother
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hooves—and if he craned his head around, he saw a round, barrel-shaped body covered with grey hair, and a tufted tail.
If his legs hadn’t been locked at the knees, he’d have fallen to the ground. If his throat hadn’t been choked with despair, he’d have howled.
She’d done more than confuse his path. She’d turned him into an animal.
He scarcely noticed that the old hag had come up to him, until it was too late, and she had some sort of fiendish torture device made of his own rope around his neck and nose. Too late, he tried to fight her, and finally, when after the third time she choked off his breathing until he began to black out, he gave up.
He allowed her to drag him into the shelter of some bushes, and watched with even greater despair as she hobbled him so he couldn’t move. Then she went back to the crossroads.
So this is what happened to Octavian? he thought, dully.
He could not imagine why; what enemy had managed to set a Witch on his family? Had the business with Stancia and the Glass Mountain all been a ruse to lure them into this cursed forest and her clutches? I wonder what she turned Octavian into….
Oh, bloody hell! What if she’d turned him into a bug, or a frog! What if he’d trampled his own brother? He tried to fight the hobbles, and all he did was nearly fall over; his horses stared at him down their long noses with astonishment, as if they couldn’t imagine what he was doing or why he was there. He tried to fight the ropes around his neck, but the Witch had tied them cunningly; if he fought them, 228
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they choked him and only when he hung his head in resignation did they relax and let him breathe.
I have to warn Julian— That was his thought, but it came too late, for Julian rode into the clearing on his handsome black palfrey just as he realized the danger, and Alexander couldn’t get the breath even to bray a warning.
“Kind sir?” whined the old hag, both hands outstretched.
“They’ve turned me out as too old to work, kind sir, and—”
And Julian, soft, foolish Julian, was out of his saddle in a moment, helping the old witch to her rock, fussing over her as if she was his own grandmother. He ran to get water for her, then rummaged through his saddlebags.
She’s going to kill him! Or worse than kill him! He tried and tried, but he couldn’t get free, his balance wasn’t right and he kept falling to his knees—he kept blacking out from lack of air!
“Here, old mother,” Julian said, gently putting half a loaf of bread in her hands and closing her hands around it. “It’s all I have—I wish I had more, but if you’ll bide just a bit, I’ll see what I can hunt for you—”
“Ah, nay, good sir—you’re too kind, too kind—” the old woman said, sounding absolutely delighted, and of course, she would, she’d just gotten all of Julian’s provisions off him, and he was a terrible hunter—
Oh, Julian, Julian! he thought in despair, waiting for that stick to come out, for Julian to be turned into something horrid. It was a plot, that was what it was. It was all a plot by Stancia or that Sorcerer or both, to strip Kohlstania of The Fairy Godmother
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its heirs and send their father into despair. There probably wasn’t a Quest—there never had been a Quest—
“Now, then, old mother, just you wait,” Julian was saying, with that good-natured grin on his face that drove his father mad. “You’ll have a good meal, and I’ll put you up on Morgana here, and we’ll all go on into Fleurberg together.”
Now he froze, eyes bulging with fear, but unable to understand what was going on. She hadn’t done anything to him. Why hadn’t she turned him into something? Nothing was happening as he’d thought! He stared at them through the underbrush, feeling his upside-down world flipping for a second time.
The old hag was hiding her face in her hands, and for a moment, Alexander hoped again. Was her conscience overcoming her? Was sh
e going to let Julian go?
But then something—odd—happened. She seemed to shimmer all over, as if she was caught in a heat-haze, and then—
Then she changed.
Her clothing was what he saw first; it— un-aged. Somehow, all in a moment, it got newer. The fading, the frayed bits, they all went away, and as her clothing changed, she began to stand straighter, that old-lady hump on her back vanished, her hair went from straggling and grey to golden and curling and her face—
Well, she certainly wasn’t an old hag anymore!
Julian stared, too, gape-mouthed, as the handsome young woman lifted her head and looked him over boldly with a twinkle in her eye. “You are certainly an improvement over your brothers,” she said.
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She lifted the stick and made a tiny gesture, and the peasant’s clothing she was wearing transformed again, this time into something pink and satiny and shining, a gown his own mother would not have been ashamed to wear, and there were diamonds at her throat and wrists and ears, and the stick in her hand was now a long, slender, ivory-white wand.
Alexander stared and stared, blinking in disbelief. So, too, did Julian.
What’s going on here?
There was something about the way the woman looked—it tickled the back of his mind, something he remembered from a long time ago. From a distant part of his memory, he heard a voice he’d thought he’d forgotten, a woman’s voice, speaking softly. “Once upon a time, there was a lovely princess who was guarded by her Fairy Godmother….”
Julian, poor fool, stood there with his mouth dropping open. Not that Alexander was in much better case.
She’s got to be an Elven Queen. But why ambush us? Why go through all of this to intercept us?
Finally— “Are you—one of the—” Julian stumbled over the words, not surprisingly, as they didn’t come readily to one from Kohlstania “—one of the Fair Folk?”
She laughed; there she did not resemble a fine lady of a lofty court at all. It was a hearty laugh, and rang around the clearing; it didn’t tinkle like a tiny silver bell, nor did she hide her mouth behind her hand when she laughed.
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