“The first king had never taught his sons how to make such magic,” Rose explained. “But Rionin figured out how to do it at last. There was a temporary gate placed under the dead leaves around that rosebush you found. And a permanent one in Grigori’s hunting lodge. They thought that if you, the youngest, were taken first, it would inspire us all to follow and protect you.”
“And it did,” Pansy said. “We didn’t just come because Grigori threatened Papa and the others.”
“Thank you,” Petunia croaked. “But what now? What can we do? How can we fight this?”
“We will find a way,” Rose said at her most no-nonsense. “We did it before, and that was with only Galen to help us, and none of us able to tell a soul what was happening. We’ll do it again, older and wiser and with more help coming.”
“Unless Grigori killed your husbands after we left,” Jonquil said bleakly.
Hunter
Oliver had been robbing coaches since he was thirteen years old. He knew every inch of the forest along the highway. And yet that journey through the Westfalian Woods was the strangest two days of his life. Oliver found himself riding on a fine horse, dressed in his faded leathers, wolf mask bobbing on his shoulder, in the company of an extremely old woman, a one-legged man, and a heavily armed bishop who rode what looked like a cavalry horse.
Despite the seeming fragility of the old woman—who apparently didn’t have a name and was merely referred to as “good frau” by everyone—she proved to be a skilled rider. Walter Vogel, too, was at ease on a horse even though Oliver would have thought that his peg leg would be a hindrance. And it seemed that Bishop Schelker’s father had been a general and had insisted that all of his sons learn to ride and shoot, no matter that one of them had been called to the Church at a young age.
They set a swift pace, and as they rode, Walter Vogel, who had once been a gardener at the palace but was also a sorcerer or some such improbable thing, explained to Oliver that if the princes Under Stone could come out of their prison through the hothouse, it might be possible to get into the Kingdom Under Stone through that same hothouse.
“Why would we want to do that?” Oliver looked over at the old man in consternation. “Shouldn’t we just scrub away that spell and keep them in there for good?”
“Whoever created a gate in the hothouse will just make another,” Walter said. “The best thing to do is to reseal the prison.”
“Or kill them all,” Oliver said.
They had slowed to a walk to rest their horses before Walter answered Oliver. He brought his horse in close to Oliver’s, his face grave.
“Wolfram von Aue summoned terrible powers from spirits of the dead and other unholy sources,” Walter said in a lecturing tone. “He held all these powers within him, gathering more strength by feeding off the energy of his followers. That power still exists. It needs to be contained. If it gets loose, it could destroy all of Westfalin.”
“Westfalin?” The good frau had brought her horse close along Oliver’s other side. “Don’t coddle the boy! If the powers that Wolfram gathered get loose, Ionia would be a smoking pit in the ground!”
“Galen was lucky,” Walter went on. “Very lucky. He killed Wolfram when his oldest son, the perfect vessel for those powers, happened to be standing right at hand. If Wolfram’s sons had not been there, the powers might have scattered and broken out of the cage we created. Or they could just as easily have gone into Galen, twisting and using him even as Wolfram had twisted and used them.”
“I wonder,” Bishop Schelker said from Walter’s other side, “if Galen would have killed the king so readily, had he known the danger he was in.”
“And young Rose,” said the crone. “If we had had a Queen Under Stone, would that have been any better?” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. Her horse took it as a sign to move back to a canter, so they did.
As they moved steadily down the road into the depths of the forest, Oliver pondered everything that he had now learned. They could not kill the dark king or his brothers, at least not all of them. One of them would need to remain alive to hold the power in check.
“What are we going to do?” Oliver asked all three of his companions as they slowed again. “If we can’t kill them, and they’ve broken the lock on the prison, what do we do?”
“We remake the walls of the prison, stronger than before,” Walter Vogel answered.
“But how?” Oliver looked at his horse’s mane in despair. “According to a book Princess Poppy gave me, most of the wizards who made the prison died working the magic! And those who survived have been dead for centuries now anyway.”
“The young are so sure of themselves, aren’t they?” The good frau sucked her remaining teeth and rolled her faded eyes. “Dead for centuries, bah!”
“Indeed, good frau,” Oliver said, his voice strained as he tried to conceal his frustration. “Wolfram von Aue was imprisoned well over fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Has it really been so long?” Walter studied his own horse’s mane for a moment. “I suppose it has.”
“I don’t worry about such things as age or death.” The old woman sniffed. “I have too much to do yet.”
“Er,” Oliver said.
“He talks even less than the one Lily married,” the crone remarked to Walter. “Though when the mood strikes him, he asks just as many questions as Galen.”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said weakly.
The old woman nodded. “You are forgiven,” she pronounced in queenly tones. Her sharp eyes bored into his. “And that is because once I was a queen.” And with that she spurred her horse to a gallop.
Oliver looked over at Walter, concerned that the woman’s mind was as feeble as her body appeared. But Walter was rubbing at the leg that terminated in a polished wooden peg and gazing after the crone with a wistful expression.
“Long ago we were all something else,” was all Walter said, then he too sent his horse forward, leaving Oliver and the bishop to catch up.
They rode in silence the rest of the way to the estate, but just when they could see the stone fence peeking through the trees, bandits surrounded them. Oliver and his companions brought their horses to a sharp halt on the hard road as men in wolf masks stepped out of the trees on all sides. Oliver looked around, nonplussed. They had to have recognized him: he recognized them even with their masks in place. He was about to call out to Karl, who stood directly in their path, when Karl unmasked and spoke.
“All right there, Oliver?”
“I’m well,” Oliver replied. “Yourself?”
Karl nodded.
“What’s the reason for this?” Bishop Schelker looked around. “Aren’t you Lord Oliver’s men?”
“Indeed we are,” said Johan, taking off his own mask. “And that’s why we’re here. Lady Emily told us that you intend to rescue the princesses. If that’s so, then that is the path you must take.” He pointed to a narrow side road, little more than a deer path, that skirted around the back of the estate wall.
“What’s down there?” Walter peered through the trees.
“That Russakan prince’s hunting lodge,” Karl said with a grunt. “He took them all there, four days ago. Though not all of them made it.” He looked pained.
“What do you mean?” Oliver’s mouth went dry.
“The littlest princess, your Petunia, Oliver,” Karl said. “She disappeared somewhere along the trail.”
“How should you know such a thing, Karl Schmidt?” The good frau narrowed her pale eyes at him.
“How did you know his name?” Johan glared at the old woman.
“I know a lot of things, Johan Mueller, and most of them would turn your gray hairs snow white,” the crone retorted.
“It’s all right,” Karl said, swallowing loudly. “We’ve kept a watch on the princesses, good frau. Lady Emily ordered us to do it.”
The old woman looked at Walter. “Emily? The skinny one with curly hair?”
“Yes,” Walter said.
“She married the Earl of Saxeborg-Rohlstein.”
“And then gave birth to him?” She jerked a thumb at Oliver.
“What do you mean Petunia disappeared?” Oliver demanded, ignoring the good frau. “Tell me exactly what you saw, Karl!”
“They were taking a picnic to the hunting lodge, so far as we can tell, with six of Grigori’s men as escort. We followed, staying in the trees. They were within a few minutes’ ride of the lodge when Petun—Princess Petunia—stopped and got down from her horse. She went into the trees and was cutting some flowers. They were roses, yellow roses in full bloom,” said Karl, his voice taking on a hint of wonder. “The others yelled at her to stop, and she just … disappeared. They searched for her but there was nothing. Then they continued on to the hunting lodge, but we haven’t seen or heard from any of them since.”
“Petunia wouldn’t have been able to resist a rose that bloomed in the wintertime,” Walter said quietly.
“We went to have a look, once the others had gone,” Johan put in. “We found the bush, but it was winter-dead just like everything else. And I will swear to there being yellow roses and green leaves all over it just a moment before.”
“We have to go find her,” Oliver managed. He started to turn his horse.
“No need,” Walter said, his voice kind. “We know precisely where she is. It’s getting her out that’s going to be the difficulty.”
“Where are the others?” Bishop Schelker asked. “Galen? Heinrich? The rest of the princesses?”
“As I said, they’re at the hunting lodge,” Karl said, adding a belated, “Your Grace. Except for the Russakan prince’s men. We were about to step in to help, but quick as a blink, those princesses had drawn pistols on the men, had them off their horses and tied to a tree!” He chuckled. “Now there was a sight!”
“A sight indeed,” Johan said uneasily. “The men disappeared that night, and not a footprint to be seen.”
“Are you sure?” Oliver couldn’t keep the strain from his voice.
“Sure as sure,” Johan said. “We’ve had every man available keeping a watch on the forest, and no one’s seen them or the old lady.”
“You mean the grand duchess?” Bishop Schelker raised his eyebrows. “Did she go with them to the hunting lodge?”
“No, Your Grace,” Johan said. “She stayed behind at the estate, and we’ve had a pair of men watching there as well. But they haven’t so much as glimpsed her passing a window since yesterday. The house has that look about it, you know? As though no one was at home.”
Bishop Schelker looked at Oliver and then Walter. “I say that we make for the hunting lodge with all possible haste.”
“I’m already there,” Oliver said.
He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and sped down the path. He heard the others call out behind him, but he ignored them. He was sure that Karl and Johan and the others would have searched the rosebush and that entire area carefully enough; there was nothing to learn there. But he wanted to get to the hunting lodge, to find Prince Grigori and punch him in the nose for losing Petunia, and then to make certain that her sisters were all right.
And then he would find Petunia, and he would bring her home.
Dancer
My one consolation is that the princes are all very good dancers,” Orchid remarked to Petunia as they entered the ball.
“There is that,” Petunia agreed.
“I think it’s awful, and you’re both awful,” Pansy said shrilly.
Petunia tried to put her arm through Pansy’s, but Pansy shrugged her away and went to Lily’s side. She had always been Lily’s pet when she’d been small, and now that they were back in the Palace Under Stone, Petunia suspected that Pansy was returning a bit to that time in her mind. Pansy had never quite recovered from the Midnight Balls to begin with: she had always been plagued by night terrors, even before the dreams had begun. And Pansy had never liked dancing, so Petunia could hardly fault her for being upset now.
“There you are, my dove,” Kestilan said caressingly as he came to draw Petunia away from her sisters and into the figures of the dance that was just beginning.
Petunia gritted her teeth and took his hand and tried to ignore him as they danced. He refused to be ignored, however, lavishing her with praise and running through an apparently endless list of endearments until Petunia wanted to scream. All around her, the members of the court swirled in the steps of the dance, her sisters mingling among them, their princes by turn sullen or equally flirtatious. Petunia was not sure which was worse, and when Kestilan called her his “sugar lump,” she knew that she had had enough.
She yanked her hands out of Kestilan’s grip and stood still and straight in the middle of the worn marble floor. When the dancers around them had been forced to stop as well, lest they trample Petunia, and she saw even Rionin’s gaze on her from the dais, she raised her voice so that they could all hear her.
“I am not your sugar lump,” she said. “I am not your dove, your flower, your amour, your jewel, your sweetmeat, your pigeon, or your delight. I am here as a prisoner, as are my sisters. I will wear this awful gown and eat your terrible food and sleep in that cold bed, and I will dance when I am bid to dance. But I will not endure this grotesque attempt at seduction. Is that understood?”
“Is there a problem?” Rionin drawled from his throne. Then he summoned both Kestilan and Petunia to the dais with a look and a languid wave of one hand.
Petunia went willingly, but Kestilan scuffed along behind her like a young boy caught in some mischief. Rose abandoned her partner and followed, and so did Lily. Lily was dancing with some gaunt member of the court who looked relieved when she stepped toward the dais, Petunia noticed.
“My queen,” Rionin said with a smile at Lily. “Won’t you sit beside me?”
Another gesture, and a small, crook-legged chair was brought and set beside the tall, angular throne. Lily went to it and sat without comment, but Petunia could see that her sister’s thin hands were clenched in her violet skirts. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she had lost weight in the past weeks. Petunia could hardly fault her for taking the seat, close as it was to the throne.
“Now,” Rionin said with a kindly air that set Petunia’s teeth on edge, “what seems to be the trouble?”
“The trouble,” Petunia said over Kestilan’s protest that there was none, “is that we are here against our will. You know it, we know it, everyone here knows it. For four days I have endured his horrible playacting, calling me little pet names and pretending at courtship, and it is vile beyond even your usual vileness. I will dance all night if that is what is required of me, but I refuse to do so while Kestilan hisses in my ear about my being his kitten.”
The King Under Stone was looking at Petunia as though she had suddenly sprouted a horn from the middle of her forehead. “Who knew that little Petunia would grow up to be such a bold creature?”
“Anyone who ever spoke with her from the time she said her first words,” Rose said crisply. “Now, if you will make your brother promise to stop his awkward flirtations, we will continue to dance.”
“Very well,” the King Under Stone said, looking amused. He raised his voice so that it carried to all the corners of the ballroom. “The princesses have asked that all endearments and flirtations be halted, and we will abide by their wishes,” he said.
There were hoots and catcalls from the court, and several of them called out alternate names that the princesses might enjoy. Petunia was shocked, not just because of the crassness of some of the names, but also because the first King Under Stone would never have allowed such behavior.
She was about to say something, when Rose squeezed her elbow in warning. Petunia glanced up at her oldest sister, who didn’t look at her but continued to gaze at Rionin with vast disapproval.
Had they not been standing on the dais, Petunia would not even have seen it. But under the weight of Rose’s stare, the King Under Stone’s pallid cheek showed the f
aintest hint of a blush. The sight of it gave Petunia a small glow of hope. She reminded herself once more that he was human, at least half-human, and susceptible to human weaknesses and mistakes after all. He’d been trying to taunt the princesses with his announcement, but instead it had only underlined how tenuous his control was.
Rose let go of Petunia’s elbow, and Petunia turned on her heel and stepped off the dais without waiting for permission. She snapped her fingers at Kestilan, who followed her with an expression of deep astonishment. As they rejoined the dance, Petunia wondered if she’d gone mad. Even as a child, when she knew that she had had no real idea of the danger they were in, she never would have dared to argue with or turn her back on the king.
But she was not a child. And Rionin was not the king who had terrified her then.
After the ball, Petunia went back to her room alone. They usually met in Rose’s room once they were sure the princes were abed. She had just closed the door and was thinking of blocking it with a chair, when it swung open and someone walked in. She tensed, but it was only Poppy.
“Want me to help you undress so that you don’t have to have one of those horrid court ladies snatching at you?”
“Oh, yes, please!”
Petunia turned so that her sister could undo the dozens of tiny hooks that held together the bodice of her gown. But instead of feeling Poppy’s deft fingers at her back, Petunia stood alone in the middle of the room until she finally heard her sister’s hushed voice.
“What in the name of all that is holy is that?”
Petunia turned and saw Poppy pointing at something lying on her dressing table. Poppy’s face was twisted with revulsion, and Petunia could hardly blame her. The blackened mass defied recognition, and she wondered if one of the court ladies had put it there as a sort of petty revenge. She sidled closer and poked it with the end of her lace fan.
“Oh,” Petunia said after a moment. “It’s the roses.”
“Roses? It looks like a decomposing weasel,” Poppy said. She put a hand to her nose. “It smells like a decomposing weasel too.”
Princess of the Silver Woods (Twelve Dancing Princesses) Page 17