The Cup and the Crown

by Diane Stanley

“We’ve kept our city safe from invasion for hundreds of years.”

  “The stone figures?”

  “Yes. That’s just a few examples. There are many others.”

  “Did you do any of those things?”

  He smiled. “No. Those feats were all done long ago by great sorcerers of the past. We still make use of their enchantments—Master Soren continues directing the rainclouds, for example; but he’s just using the same old spells. We’re no longer capable of anything that ambitious, and with each generation we grow weaker. No one knows exactly why.”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “But every now and then someone comes along, quite unexpectedly, who is blessed with the powers of the ancients. That’s what we call the Gift of King Magnus. Your grandfather had it; and when we lost him, it was a terrible blow. Who could tell how many years would pass before we saw his like again?”

  “And you think I . . . ?”

  “Yes. Claus Magnusson has assured the Council that it was so, and Dr. Larsson confirmed it.”

  “By grabbing my hands? And taking my arm?”

  Mikel sighed. “I’m sorry. That was unspeakable. But they felt it was so important, they had to be sure. We’ve been waiting a very long time for someone like you—since William left us, never to be seen again. But he carried with him the seed of his greatness, and it’s found fertile ground in you, lady: the Gift of King Magnus.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I possess no powers at all.”

  “Surely—”

  “They possess me, Mikel. I can’t summon them. I can’t make them go away. And I certainly can’t make stone turn to silver or summon the rain.”

  “That’s because you’re a beginner,” he said. “It’s the same for everyone. But if you’re willing to do the work—and I shall help you—your powers will grow, and you’ll learn how to bend them to your will. Right now they’re carrying you, like a runaway horse or a ship blown off course in a gale. But soon you’ll grab the reins, take the helm—then you will truly possess your great and powerful gift. Don’t you see?”

  She thought back to the previous night, how she’d forced herself to probe the hidden depths of her spirit—not waiting to receive but reaching out her greedy hands to grasp the thing she wanted. She’d called up the shadow of the bold, relentless, swaggering, ignorant, savage little beast she’d once been, back in the days when she’d roamed the streets, slinging insults at her playmates, wrestling in the mud with the boys, laughing when she got the best of them, picking herself up when they got the best of her, always ready for another go: tough, hard, brash, resilient, joyful little Molly—her own true self.

  She had grabbed the reins then, taken the helm of just the smallest fragment of that which pulsed within her, yet to be tamed.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do see.”

  “Good. Then here is what I propose: we will work in the mornings on reading and writing. In the afternoons we’ll do the spirit work: learning to develop your natural gifts. What do you say? Will you give it a try?”

  “On one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Please stop calling me ‘lady.’ I’m Molly to my friends.”

  24

  The Tale of the Prince of Chin

  “JUST AS A MASON BUILDS a wall,” Mikel said, “by piling up stone upon stone, so we make words by putting one letter after the other. But while the mason needs hundreds and hundreds of stones to build the simplest wall, we only need twenty-six letters to write any word in our language.”

  “I already know how to write most of them,” she said. “I copied them out of books up in my room. But I don’t know their names—except W for William and M for Martha.”

  “M is also for Molly, you know. Look.”

  Molly, he wrote. “That’s you.”

  She stared at the word, enchanted.

  “Now you write it—you’ll want to do it several times, till you have it down by heart.”

  Molly, she wrote. Molly Molly Molly Molly

  How often had she said, with defiant pride in her own ignorance, “I can’t even write my own name!”? What a load of horse flop! Why be proud of that?

  Suddenly she understood fully, and for the first time, the power of the written word. It could bridge the gap that separated her from her friends outside the tower. Once she’d learned how to read and write, she could say anything she liked to anyone she wanted, even though they’d locked her up and the others were far away. And they in turn could tell her things: whether they were safe or not, what plans they might be hatching, or simply that they missed her. As long as she had a window—and a raven to carry her letters—Molly would be able to speak to the world.

  She threw herself into her lessons with a passion that astonished her teacher; and by midday, when a servant arrived bringing their meals on a tray, she’d mastered all the letters, and the sounds they commonly made, and had moved on to writing easy words.

  After they’d finished their bread and mutton stew and the trays had been cleared away, Mikel sketched out his plans for the afternoon. “You’ve crammed a lot of new things into your head this morning; now you should give them a chance to settle in. Practice a bit in the evening if you like, and we’ll start again tomorrow. But there is such a thing as overdoing.”

  “I’m not tired. I could work all day.”

  “I have no doubt of that. But if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to show you a few things. I believe they’ll help you see your task from a broader perspective. Our work this morning was like kneeling down and gazing at a single blade of grass. Now let’s stand up and take a look at the whole meadow.” When she seemed reluctant, he added, “It’s interesting, I promise.”

  Mikel went to the bookshelf and came back with a scroll. He stood by her chair and unrolled it in front of her—just as Gerold Larsson had shown her the Pinakes of Callimachus before luring her through that little door into the prison of Harrowsgode Hall.

  “This is a replica of a manuscript that is more than a thousand years old. It was written by a Gracian scholar in an alphabet that’s different from ours. The title of the book is Geometry—that’s a branch of mathematics—and here is how the word looks in ancient Gracian.”

  He took her pen and carefully wrote:

  Γεωμετρι´α

  Molly stared at it, tilting her head this way and that. Most of the letters looked strange, but not all of them did. “I see a t, and a p, and an i.”

  “Yes, very good. Our alphabets are related—distant relatives, you might say.”

  He put the Gracian scroll away and came back with a different one.

  “Now, this comes from the ancient kingdom of Chin,” he said. “And I’m sure you can see that it’s entirely different—not only from the alphabet you learned this morning, but also from the Gracian writing I just showed you. That’s because the Chin don’t use an alphabet at all. They write with pictures, a special character for each word. You read it from top to bottom and from right to left, see?”

  “A picture for every single word—how could anyone learn them all?”

  “Well, it is difficult, but not as hard as you’d think. I hesitate to go into it too deeply for fear I’ll give you false information. You might want to discuss it with Sigrid; she’s an expert on the Chin.”

  Molly shuddered at the thought. “I’d rather not.”

  “Well, all right. Let’s pretend there’s a certain character that means ‘building.’ If you start with that character and add, say, two strokes on top, it becomes ‘palace.’ If you leave off the strokes but put a dot in the middle, it means ‘cottage.’ And so on, for all the different kinds of buildings. Do you see?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, this book is a history—that means it’s a collection of stories about things that really happened. And the title is written—”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Mostly about kings and wars, I believe—though I’ve never
actually read the book, not even in translation. Sigrid has, of course, and she’s told me a few.”

  “Do you remember any of them?”

  “Yes. There’s one about a prince . . .”

  She folded her hands and looked up at him expectantly.

  “Oh, all right,” he said, smiling. “Though I’m no great storyteller, I warn you.

  “There was once a prince of Chin who went to war. He was captured in battle and taken prisoner by his enemies.” Mikel stopped suddenly, his face flushed with embarrassment. He’d only just realized how inappropriate the story was, considering the parallels to Molly’s situation. “Oh!” he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she said, “but I will be if you don’t finish. I’ll pout and be difficult for the rest of the afternoon.”

  He managed a wan smile. “Are you sure? I would never want to cause you any more distress than—”

  “Just tell the story.”

  He closed his eyes, sucked in a lung full of air, and launched back into the shockingly inappropriate tale of the prince of Chin.

  “The prince was confined in a high place, the Tower of the Golden Phoenix”—another deep breath, followed by a wince—“with no possible means of escape. But he came up with a clever plan. He attached himself to a kite, leaped from the tower, and soared away through the air as birds do, out over the city walls and into the countryside, where he landed safely.”

  “Now, see—that was a wonderful story! What’s a kite?”

  “An invention of the Chin people made of sticks and paper, and tethered by a string. You throw it up in the air, and the wind catches it and carries it into the heavens. We have one downstairs, in the Great Hall of Treasures.”

  “I never got to see the treasures. I was supposed to, but Dr. Larsson brought me here instead.”

  There seemed no end to Mikel’s discomfiture.

  “I’m truly sorry,” he said. And then, after an apparent struggle, “There are many among us who feel quite ashamed of . . . the way you were treated. It did not become us. Believe me, that’s not who we are.”

  She almost asked if, that being the case, she was actually free to go; but she already knew the answer, and it wasn’t Mikel’s fault.

  “I’m glad to know that” was all she said. “So what happened next? Is that the end of the story? Or did the prince return to his father, the king, and go on to rule the land of Chin and have more adventures?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was captured again and put to death.”

  “Oh.”

  “Such a story to tell a young girl!” Mikel muttered, shaking his head in dismay. “I beg you to forget it if you can.”

  “I will,” she said. “It’s forgotten already.”

  It wasn’t, of course—not in the least. The tale of the prince and his marvelous escape had lodged itself firmly in her mind. And while she appeared to be listening as Mikel continued with his lesson, she was actually thinking about the kite. If she was going to build one—as she now intended to do—and risk her life on having built it correctly, then she needed to know what they looked like and learn what made them fly. And to do that she’d have to go downstairs to the Hall of Treasures.

  “Mikel?” she said, apparently interrupting him in midsentence, or so she judged by his startled expression. “Could I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “The Hall of Treasures . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “As I said before, I never got to see it. I was supposed to; that’s what I was told. But then I was whisked away instead. So naturally I was very disappointed—”

  “Molly?”

  “What?”

  “Would you like to see the treasures?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Then I will see that you do, this very night. And unlike Dr. Larsson, I shall keep my promise.”

  25

  An Incident in the Celestium

  THE FIVE TOWERS OF Harrowsgode Hall varied in style from the rest of the building. They were more ornate and were covered with fanciful carvings; they rose, level by level, in a series of concentric rings, each smaller than the one below, forming a smoothly tapered dome that came to a point at the top.

  There was a tower at each of the four corners of the building with a fifth, much broader and taller than the others, in the middle. And near the top of this central tower was a large, handsome room: the Celestium.

  On this particular morning, every rook, jackdaw, raven, and crow in Harrowsgode seemed to have gathered there, all of them perched on the very same ring. So it was with some difficulty that Uncle managed to find a place to land, starting a wing-flapping scuffle with a pair of rooks. But they quickly settled down; none of them wanted to miss the show.

  The windows of the Celestium were tall and wide, separated by slender columns of stone. The effect was that of a space entirely walled with glass. In the center of this round room was a round table at which thirteen Magi now sat, dressed in their ceremonial caps and robes, the gold embroidery sparkling in the sunlight. They were deep in heated conversation.

  “And when exactly had you planned to tell us, Soren?” asked a red-faced Magus. Both his question and his anger were directed at a man with silver hair and the face of an aristocrat.

  “As soon as I was able,” the man said. He seemed surprisingly calm, considering the fact that everyone in the room was looking daggers at him. “It was a crisis situation. I had serious matters to deal with, and new information was coming in by the minute. There wasn’t time to convene the Council, let alone hold a meeting.”

  “Then you should have called us into your office, or at the very least told us what was happening.”

  “If I had, Oskar, we’d still be down there talking in circles, and nothing would have gotten done.”

  “Well, that would have been a blessing,” said another Magus, leaning in closer, jutting out her chin. “Because what you did was illegal. You had no authority to issue those warrants—not on your own, not without approval by the Council.”

  There was a hum of agreement from others in the room.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. As Great Seer, I have the authority—indeed the responsibility—to act on my own in times of peril—”

  “Peril?” Oskar laughed. “From five people—two of them women—who came here to shop for a cup? Is that the terrible menace that caused you to throw all law and custom aside and sign, without consulting us, warrants for execution? Unbelievable!” He slapped a meaty hand on the table for emphasis, causing several of the Magi to jump.

  “It was not a decision lightly made,” the Great Seer said, “but I assure you it was the right one. If those foreigners are permitted to leave, they’ll carry tales; and sooner or later we’ll be invaded. So put these two on the balance scale, members of the Council: the lives of four strangers—foreigners who intruded where they did not belong—against the loss of our city and our whole way of life. Which tips the heaviest?”

  “First of all, Soren,” said a plain, big-boned woman, “they aren’t ‘foreigners’—they’re people. And the very foundation of our ‘way of life’—which you’re so eager to protect—is that we never shed human blood. Twice King Magnus walked away from a kingdom he might have ruled—first from his ancestral homeland and then from Budenholme—because he would not fight and kill in order to keep them. What you did yesterday wasn’t just some minor breach of protocol. It was a betrayal of everything we are.”

  The Great Seer leaned back in his chair and cocked his head as though the acrobats had just come in and he expected to be delighted.

  “So. We should just let them go back to Westria, is that it? Though maybe before they leave we ought to ask them to swear an oath—you know, promising never to reveal our location, or our wealth, or the curious fact that we don’t have an army, that sort of thing. Well, here’s a bit of hard truth, Sigrid: people lie. People break their oaths. And I’m no
t willing to risk everything we’ve built, and the lives of all our citizens, on the very slim chance that these particular strangers happen to be paragons of virtue.”

  Sigrid didn’t flinch. “I’m well aware of the frailties of human nature. And no, that is not what I propose. I think we should find another, better way, as we have for hundreds of years.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Enchantment.”

  They were both standing now, staring at each other as though they were the only two people in the room.

  “Got something up your sleeve, Sigrid? Some old charm, long forgotten, just turned up in a dusty corner of the library the other day?”

  “I do, Soren—have something up my sleeve. I’m glad it amuses you.”

  “And what sort of charm would this be?”

  “Forgetfulness. I’ve been studying it for over a year, mostly in texts of the Chin. My purpose was to ease the pain of dark remembrance. But with some slight adjustments—”

  “Ah. Not quite ready yet.”

  “I need a little more time, yes—to be sure that it will work.”

  “What a pity, Sigrid. We don’t have time.”

  “Yes, we do. The three in the village will wait for the others, at least for a while.”

  “And what if they don’t? What if they decide that it’s been too long, that they ought to go for help—while you’re still down in the library tinkering with your little charm?”

  She didn’t reply, and no one spoke. For a long time they just stood there, motionless, their eyes locked in a silent exchange of intense and mutual loathing. Then Soren squinted as an animal does—lip raised, canines revealed—just before lunging at your throat.

  “I challenge you,” Sigrid said.

  Soren laughed, and the tension broke. “But that’s absurd! No one’s done that for a hundred years. Maybe two.”

  “All the same, it’s spelled out quite clearly in the Edicts of the Magi, composed by King Magnus himself.”

  “You have been a busy girl.”

  “Do you accept?”

  “Sigrid, those birds out there are more qualified to be Great Seer than you are. Why, you haven’t been on the Council more than six or seven years.”