by PAMELA DEAN
That was ironic, thought Ted. He remembered Edward, in that shadowy realm of forgetful ghosts, saying to him, “Avenge our foul and most unnatural murder.” As the game predicted, he would want vengeance for his father’s too. In the kindly warmth of the Dragon Hall, Ted shivered, and Laura looked at him.
“Since you speak of duty,” said Celia, “have you fulfilled your own, and read on what I did give you?”
“Yes,” said everybody, overlapping.
“How sorteth it with your imagining?”
“Pretty well,” said Patrick. “Ellie’s the history expert.”
“Well?” said Celia, looking across the table at Ellen.
Ellen stopped making little pillars of the carrot slices she had picked out of her beef pie, and said, “There was a lot more to the story of Shan. We didn’t know about his animals, and we didn’t know he lived for hundreds of years, or about his killing the unicorn. We didn’t know Melanie lived for hundreds of years, either. And we knew that Melanie lived at High Castle when she was little; but we certainly didn’t know that she got long life from a unicorn her brothers killed by treachery.”
“We didn’t want to know it, either,” said Laura, feelingly.
“How so?” said Celia. “Melanie is no friend of thine?”
“No, she’s been dead too long; nobody ever played her. But,” said Laura, “it’s a much nastier story than ours.” This remark gave Ted some obscure comfort.
“And that,” said Celia, standing up, “no doubt explaineth how it hath prevailed, for all thy sorcery.”
“We don’t have any sorcery,” said Ruth; she had said it so often recently that she had ceased to say it with any heat.
“You know none,” said Celia, picking up the skirts of her blue gown and stepping neatly over the bench. “You may have’t nonetheless.”
“It is the little rift within the lute,” said Patrick, catching Celia’s eye across the cluttered table with a look that made Ted nervous, “that by and by will make the music mute.”
Celia’s hands tightened on the folds of her skirt. She said, “ ‘And ever widening slowly silence all.’ ”
“Who said that?” Patrick asked her.
“Melanie,” said Celia.
“Tennyson,” said Ruth to Patrick.
Celia opened her hands and made a violent gesture, like somebody telling a rambunctious class of third-graders to sit down now. “Another play-maker?” she said. “With how many of this pestilent breed is your country cursed?”
“Thousands,” said Ruth, “but we don’t count it a curse. And I don’t think Tennyson wrote plays; just poetry.” Her gaze shifted over Ted’s shoulder, and fixed. She looked appalled.
“Give you good even,” said a sharp, clear voice behind Ted.
Ted dropped his spoon in his lap and felt it slide to the floor. He turned his head slowly. Yes, it was Andrew, tidy and amused. What the hell did he want?
“You also,” said Celia, in a pleasant tone that was nevertheless not normal. She might speak just so to a child who was trying to lie by omission. She sat down again where she had been, between Ruth and Ellen.
“Hello,” said Ellen, alertly.
Patrick and Laura mumbled something at about the same moment.
“Good den,” said Ruth, in the flat voice of despair.
“Won’t you join us?” said Ted, crazily.
Andrew smiled and sat on the empty stool between Ted and Laura. Laura leaned away from him, and almost fell off her stool. Luckily, Andrew was looking at Ted.
“By your gracious leave,” Andrew said. Ted suddenly felt as if he had invited a fairy over his threshold, and was about to be visited with untold disasters. Andrew said to Celia, “What dost thou with this motley brood?”
He had said something similar about them once, to Fence and Randolph. He had said, “Strange company,” to which Randolph had replied, “’Tis strange to thee,” leaving the honors, Ted supposed, about even. It had been clear, by the way Andrew spoke, that he disliked both Fence and Randolph. It was not at all clear that he disliked Celia; he sounded more as if he were commiserating with her for having to put up with their company. Did Andrew ever do anything except bait people?
Celia said, “Their other mentors are engaged, save Agatha. For that she’ll have the care of mine own brood when I am gone, I’d thought to give them some days in one another’s company. Thereby they may discover their grossest points of grievance while I am by to mend them.”
Ted saw that Andrew was not interested in this account, and that Celia knew he was not. He hoped she was enjoying herself. Her neat-boned face with its scarred forehead and uninformative eyes was as bland as custard.
“Yours do stay, then?” said Andrew.
“Of a certainty,” said Celia. “Wherefore should they go?”
“Wherefore should these?” said Andrew.
Celia looked at Ted in mild inquiry, as if Andrew had asked her what the flowers were in the jug in the middle of the table, and she thought Ted ought to know.
“I,” said Ted, clearing his throat, “am the King, and it’s my duty to go. Not much of a King, you may say,” he added as Andrew opened his mouth, “but the best you’re going to get.”
This last remark seemed to him, on reflection, to be ill-advised; but it appeared to take Andrew aback. “A King with teeth,” Andrew said, without any sarcasm that Ted could detect. “Mean you, my prince, to close them upon me?”
Ted had no idea what he meant. “Not,” he said, more or less at random, “if you stay outwith my range.”
“I am within it,” said Andrew, still as if he spoke to an adult whom he took seriously, “by blood, by circumstance, and by appointment.”
Ted felt outmaneuvered, and thought before he spoke again. “Therefore,” he said, “the range wherein I’ll snap at you is lessened. It is your deeds, my lord, and not your coign of vantage, that will determine if I snap at you.”
“I am well warned,” said Andrew. He stood up. “Celia,” he said, “have a care. Being children yet, they shall do damage though they will it not. Farewell.” He looked thoughtfully into Celia’s steady eyes, bowed generally to all of them, and left.
“Ted!” said Ellen. “What did he mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Ted. “I don’t even know what I meant.”
“No, about doing damage.”
Laura said, “He knows the Crystal of Earth got broken. I saw him looking at the pieces, on our way home from the battle.”
“But does he know we did it?” said Ted.
“What did you mean, Ted?” said Laura.
Ted took a deep breath, leaned an elbow on the crumby table, and looked at his sister. She had lost her left-hand hair ribbon; the right-hand one, a yellow silk with black and scarlet flowers embroidered on it, had been retied by somebody with great vigor and little grace; probably Ellen. She had pastry crumbs on her forehead. She looked intent and a little worried, as she would when she made a mistake in a coloring book.
“Okay,” said Ted. “When I told Andrew I was the best King he was going to get, I think he took it as a threat. So I tried to tell him how much of a threat I was.”
“Or how little?” said Celia.
“Do you think,” said Ruth, “that he knows you know he’s a spy of the Dragon King?”
“I want a word with Fence, touching these matters,” said Celia. “Can you refrain from mischief these few hours?”
“Don’t you think,” said Patrick, looking up from his plate, “that you’d better let us make mischief now so we can be good when we’re traveling with you?”
“No,” said Celia, standing up again. “Meseemeth rather, an thou practiseth not thy goodness now, thou’lt have no skill at it when most thou needst it. Good even.” She went out briskly in a billow of blue.
“Touché, Patrick,” said Ruth.
“Listen, all of you,” said Ted, very quietly. “Andrew thought it was a threat because he thinks I helped Randolph kill the King. If
anybody finds out for sure Randolph did it, they’ll have to deal with him; and we need Randolph. And Edward will need him, if we restore Edward.”
“Do you think we will?” said Patrick.
“I don’t know,” said Ted.
“We have to,” said Ellen.
“Have to’s harrow no fields,” said Patrick, in excellent imitation of Benjamin.
“Don’t they?” said Ruth.
CHAPTER 12
LAURA knew she was dreaming. She had been here before. She trudged through knee-deep waves of crackling leaves, throwing up the scents of cinnamon and dust and dampness. It smelled like Halloween. The trees were huge, the light the color of clouds. She was looking for something. The last time she had dreamt so, she had spoken aloud to herself and woken up. She tried to do this again, but she could not make her voice work.
She was going uphill, and the path under all these leaves was rocky. As she gained the top of the rise, a little sunlight sifted down between the great smooth trunks. Not far ahead of her the wood grew up against tall gray rocks spotted with moss and lichen, the lichen delicate as lace, the moss as green as beryls in the dull air. There was a cleft in the rocks. Laura walked forward among the wet leaves and looked through it. It was wide enough for three or four people to walk abreast, and not very long. A bar of sunlight sharp and vivid as a piece of yellow silk fell halfway along its stone floor from the opening at the other end.
Laura went quickly through the cleft and out the other side, onto a little lawn of short grass and goldenrod. Beyond this, the slope dropped very swiftly, and through ribbons of mist she saw a winding water laid out before her like a sleeping snake, striped with water-weed and bordered by tall, frondy plants with long purple flowers and whole clouds of goldenrod.
There was a house on the other side of the water. Tile for red roof tile, window for leaded window, graceful front and awkward wing and gray stone and white and yellow, it was a copy of the house at One Trumpet Street, Claudia’s house, the house that Laura and Ted had done their best to burn to the ground.
“We know who the copyist was, all right,” said Laura. And as she had both hoped and half feared, her own voice woke her.
Laura sat up. Agatha had lit a lamp in the corner. Ellen, in her long white ruffled nightgown that could have passed for a fancy dress at home, was folding clothes and handing them to Agatha. The black cat sat at the end of the bed, upright like an Egyptian statue. It was chilly. A thin light came through the window, and a clean, wet smell, and the sound of rain.
They were going to leave today. It would rain.
“Hi,” said Ellen over her shoulder.
“It’s raining,” said Laura.
“Do you think Claudia did it?”
Laura made shushing gestures. Agatha turned around, plucked the half-folded shirt from Ellen’s hands, and said, “Faugh!”
“Why shouldn’t it be Claudia?” said Ellen. “Nobody knows where she is.”
Laura thought of her dream. But where was the twisty lake set about with goldenrod? She looked blankly at Ellen, who added, “And Fence agrees she made it cold and rainy last summer.”
“Those were unnatural rains,” said Agatha. “That she called them I doubt not. But this is a September storm after a spell of fine weather, as we see more years than not.” She put the pile of folded clothes into a leather bag that looked like a suitcase, except that you had to strap it up with strips of leather. “Drink your chocolate,” said Agatha, beginning this strapping. “And dress yourselves. Fence will not stay for you.”
When they were packed and dressed to Agatha’s satisfaction, the three of them went down to the Dragon Hall, where they found gathered all the members of both expeditions, eating voraciously and complaining about the weather. Benjamin was standing by the fireplace with Fence and Celia. Agatha made for them at once. Laura and Ellen slipped quietly along the wall to the sideboard furthest from Benjamin. They had not had to talk to him yet. Perhaps they could leave without having to, and when they returned everything would be fixed, and they would be heroes, not villains.
They served themselves haphazardly and went to sit with Ted, Ruth, and Celia at their out-of-the-way table. Ted was dressed much as usual, but with a thick vest-like garment of dark blue wool over everything else. Celia was dressed like Ted; the men’s clothing made her look taller and much thinner. Ruth was actually wearing something other than a white dress. She had put on several of her large shirts, and over them a black serape-like thing and a black wool skirt of generous dimensions. Lady Ruth must have been fatter than her counterpart.
“You think Claudia made it rain?” said Ellen, sitting down next to Ruth.
“I know where she is,” said Laura, “but it doesn’t help.” She told them about it. Then she told them about her first dream. They found that more intriguing.
“Be sure and tell Fence,” said Ted. He thumped his mug down on the table. “Hell! I wish we knew what all this meant.”
“Well,” said Ruth, “there are mountains in the south, where we’re going. And there are evergreen forests in the north, where the rest of them are going. And I wouldn’t advise anybody to sing ‘James James Morrison Morrison,’ unless you’ve lost your flint and tinder.”
“I think,” said Laura, “that it was the flute.”
“Well, don’t play it on the flute, then. You’re supposed to use that flute to communicate with, not to fool around.” Both this speech and the tone in which it was uttered were abnormally cross for Ruth. Laura’s feelings were hurt. It seemed unfair to be taken to task for something you had done in a dream. She applied herself to her oatmeal.
“The flute’s to be played,” said Celia, mildly.
“Sorry,” said Ruth. “I am not looking forward to this trip. Sorry, Laura.”
Laura felt better, but by the time she had swallowed her oatmeal and could say so, Patrick sat himself down at the end of the table and attacked his pile of food. He was dressed exactly as he had been when they first saw him in Australia, including the green pack, and the stocking-cap falling out of his jacket pocket. Now that, thought Laura, was stupid. They were supposed to be playing their parts, and Prince Patrick would never have worn any such garments.
“Wilt thou find that warm enough?” said Celia.
“I’ve got a cloak too,” said Patrick. He grinned at his older sister. “Any last-minute lectures?”
Ruth sat up straight and glowered at him; Celia looked ready to intervene to prevent violence; and Ted said, “Yes.”
Patrick looked at him with interest, and with neither fear nor affront that Laura could see. Ted went on. “Patrick, you are pushing things right to the edge. Fence is going to hate that outfit. You can get what you deserve, as far as I’m concerned. But I bid you remember that you are the oldest of us in your party. I make you responsible for the well-being of your little sister and my little sister. And you’ll answer to the King of the Hidden Land, not to your cousin, if anything happens to either of them that you could have prevented.”
This speech aroused more indignation in Ellen than in Patrick. Laura, when Ellen caught her eye with an exasperated face, shook her head hard and pointed her spoon at Patrick. Ellen should realize that Ted’s purpose was to prevent Patrick’s doing what Patrick did best. Asking Patrick to take care of Laura and Ellen was not an insult to them.
Patrick seemed less than pleased, and then he grinned. “You’ve really got it down pat, haven’t you?” he said. “Your Majesty.” He said that with an inclination of his head just short of sarcastic.
“It’s easy when you know how,” said Ted, peaceably. This line had been a joke between the two of them for an entire summer. Laura had never figured it out, but it could still make Patrick laugh. He did laugh. Laura stopped worrying about what trouble he might get into, and began wondering what it would be like to be under his merciless supervision. Well, at least she wouldn’t drown. She might not even fall off her horse.
Celia got up abruptly. “Say your far
ewells,” she said. “We’ll leave anon.”
The five of them sat and looked at one another. Laura was no longer worried, but she felt depressed. They had always been together in the Secret Country. The Hidden Land was separating them.
“Laura,” said Ted, “don’t kill yourself, and don’t forget to tell Fence all your visions. Ellen, don’t you get yourself killed pretending you can do anything.”
“Ruth,” said Ellen, “don’t forget to practice your flute.”
“And don’t get all mushy,” said Patrick to Ruth. “No misadventured piteous overthrows.”
“Fear me not,” said Ruth, with the utmost seriousness. “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow.” Patrick stared at her, and she grinned. “It’ll come to you,” she said.
Laura gave them a moment to explain themselves, and then said to Ted, “Don’t kill Lord Randolph.”
“I don’t intend to,” said Ted. He stood up. “Have we delivered our instructions all around? Let’s go, then.”
Andrew’s party, the embassy to the Dragon King, was leaving from the main door of High Castle. Fence’s party, which was smaller and burdened with less baggage, would be departing from a little postern that gave onto Stillman’s Wood. High Castle was fond of ceremonies of leave-taking, and of conducting matters in their proper order; the greater embassy was seen off first. Everybody in Andrew’s party, everybody in Fence’s, and a great many who were staying home, jostled through High Castle’s three sets of gates: across the paved yard shining with rain; through the gardens, with their drooping roses and their bare, muddy patches where the beans had been pulled up; over the moat all pocked and dimpled with raindrops; across the drenched grass, where Andrew’s party stopped to collect its horses; through the roofless, pink-paved tunnel to the last gate, and outside.
It was pouring. Ted came up to Laura where she crouched against the wall with Ellen. “Stand under the archway of the gate,” he said, rather irritably. He pulled Ellen’s hair, gave Laura a very hard hug that almost undid her, and disappeared into the surging crowd.